Mystery Dance: Three Novels

by Scott Nicholson

  During dessert, the old bastard had said to Jacob, “Joshua always had better taste in women. Too bad he went balls-up over a taco.”

  “Who’s Joshua?” Renee, pale and anxious, reached for her wine and knocked over the glass.

  Jacob dabbed at the spill. “An old friend from high school.”

  Old Man Wells almost spewed his custard in laughter. “Don’t tell me you’re not over that yet?”

  “I’m way over it.” He took Renee by the arm and ushered her from the table. “I’ll pay you back for the tab,” he said to the old man.

  “Damned right you will. In blood.”

  As they left, Renee saw the picture in the foyer. Warren Wells and wife, with two Jacobs. “Twins,” she said. “Which one are you?”

  It took Jacob a moment to pick out himself in the photo.

  “So Joshua’s your brother?”

  “I don’t want to ever talk about him.”

  In the car on the way back to the hotel, Renee said, “You’ll talk about it. Your father seemed a little harsh. I can’t imagine being raised under his roof.”

  “Bringing you here was a mistake. I don’t know what I thought I’d prove. Maybe I was hoping to impress him for once.”

  “By using me as your bauble?”

  “Sorry. It was unfair.”

  She reached over and squeezed his thigh. “I don’t mind being used by you.”

  He grinned and tried a bad Humphrey Bogart accent. “Come to my room, then, sweetheart. I think we can arrange something.”

  The summer passed in a sweat. Jacob worked as a clerk in a sporting goods store and she waited tables in a nice Italian restaurant. They spent almost every night together. Sometimes after making love she would tell about her past, the summer church camps she attended, her time on the high school swim team, the family’s car trip to Alaska when Renee had a terrible toothache that got worse in the cold.

  Jacob stayed silent during those moments of sharing, in that wee hour of the night when secrets were thin and souls laid bare. He offered nothing, instead turning the conversation back to Renee. She accused him once of being frigid, but he tickled her into submission to prove that he was as sensitive as the next guy. Another time she said he was too mysterious to be trustworthy, and he ended that line of probing by kissing her until her lust was rekindled. She tried to question him about Joshua or his mother, but that turned him surly so she gave up.

  The nights spilled into days and passed in a blur, as delightful and dizzying as a child’s merry-go-round. He would think, “So this is what being alive feels like.”

  Somehow, he expected more, but he had no frame of reference, nothing with which to compare this experience. Certainly not his own past, having been raised in that large home that was as loveless as a mausoleum. He couldn’t name or even recognize what was missing, couldn’t identify the holes in his heart. He just knew he loved Renee and he felt greedy for admitting there was anything worthwhile beyond that.

  If he focused all his attention on Renee, he could forget about Joshua and all the things Joshua had. Jacob found himself in the Izods and Dockers more and more often, with Renee’s encouragement and praise. The clothes fit him like a costume, and when the new semester started, he registered for more business classes, as if his father’s constant imploring had finally broken through the thick skull Jacob had always been accused of having. He slowed down on the drinking, too, and sometimes wondered who this new person was who had taken over his body.

  They made a Labor Day visit to Myrtle Beach, a break from the rigors of senior year. Renee’s father made the suggestion that anyone thinking of settling down should have some form of long-term prospects.

  “Settling down,” Renee said as they walked the beach that night. “Is that what we’re doing?”

  He took her hand and stopped her, kissed the salt from her forehead. “I think we are.”

  “Not this way, then. Down on your knees, boy.”

  He knelt in the cool sand and held her hand and looked up into the second-loveliest face he had ever seen. The moon was full but was shamed by the brightness of her eyes, despite the thickness of her lenses. The surf whispered a thousand pieces of advice. “Will you marry me?

  “You didn’t even need to ask.”

  “You made me.”

  “I’m still a woman, and don’t you ever forget it.”

  He hadn’t. The wedding was held the June after their graduation. They spent the summer in Raleigh in his small apartment. Renee’s passion for cleanliness quickly put the place in order. Jacob was promoted to assistant manager in the sporting goods store and Renee was hostess at the Italian restaurant. For her, it was better money and she didn’t smell as intensely of garlic and oregano. For him, it meant a discount on golf clubs, the sport of future wheeler dealers. The summer passed like a dream, a perfect couple with the whole future waiting ahead, and they spent most of their free time together.

  Except for one night in August.

  Table of Contents

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  DEAD AIR

  (A short story from the mystery collection Curtains, which you read about at Haunted Computer. Eleven tales of murder and mayhem, with bonus tales from J.A. Konrath and Simon Wood. View it for Kindle at Amazon)

  I leaned back in my swivel chair, my headphones vice-gripping my neck. The VU meters were pinned in the red, and Aerosmith had the monitor speakers throbbing. I turned down the studio sound level and pressed the phone to my ear, not believing what I’d heard.

  “I’ve just killed a man,” she repeated, her voice harsh and breathless.

  “Come again, sister?” I said, pulling my feet off the console. My brain was a little slow in catching on. I was two hours into the graveyard shift, and the before-work beers were crashing into my third cup of cold coffee like Amtrak trains.

  “I’ve just killed a man,” she said for a third time. She was a little calmer now. “I just wanted to share that with you. Because I’ve always felt like I could trust you. You have an honest voice.”

  I potted up the telephone interface and broadcast her live to my loyal listeners. All three of them, I chuckled to myself. In five years at WKIK, The Kick, I’d come to accept my humble place in the universe. The only people tuned in at this hour were hepped-up truckers and vampire wannabes, the unwashed who shied from the light of day. I’d long ago decided that I might as well keep myself amused. And now I had a nutter on the line.

  I flipped my mike key and the red “ON AIR” sign blinked over the door.

  “Yo, this is Mickey Nixon with ya in the wee hours,” I said, in the slightly-false bass I’d cultivated over the course of my career. “I’ve got a talker on the line, she’s there to share. Go on, honey.”

  “I just want everybody to know that I killed someone. This man I’ve been dating got a little bit too aggressive, so I blew his damned brains out. And it felt good,” she said, her words pouring out over the monitors through the warm Kansas air.

  My finger was poised over the mute button in case I needed to censor her. By station rules, I was supposed to send all live call-ins through the loop delay. But since I got so few callers, I usually took my chances. Plus I liked the razor edge of spontaneity.

  “I want to tell you that the steam off his blood is still rising. He’s lying here on his apartment floor with his pants around his knees and his brains soaking into the shag carpet. If any of you guys out there think date rape is a laughing matter, I’m sharing this little story so you’ll think twice.”

  I gulped. This was really wacky stuff. I couldn’t have written it in a million years. I’d paid friends before to call with outrageous stories, but they always sounded a little too rehearsed. Now here was some dynamite, and it was exploding at no charge.

  “Wait a minute, woman,” I said, playing the straight man. “You mean to tell us you’re standing over a warm body right now with a phone in your hand, confessing murder?”

  “It’s not murder, it’s self-defense. I may b
e a woman, but I’ve got my rights. Nobody touches me unless I let them. Besides, I’ve done this before, I’ve just never felt like talking about it until now.”

  “So maybe it’s what you would call a ‘justifiable’ homicide. Have you called the police?”

  I was starting to get a little nervous now. If this girl was acting, she was too good to be stuck in a Midwestern cow town like Topeka . She was starting to sound too weird, even for me. Her voice was as sharp and cold as an icicle, but with a touch of sexiness all the same.

  “That’s why I called you, Mickey. I’ve listened to your show for a long time, and I just knew you’d understand. You think the boys in blue would believe me?”

  I was almost flattered, but a reality check rose like stomach acid. Sure, years ago I was a morning star in Los Angeles drive-time, but a little FCC controversy knocked me down faster than a Mike Tyson punch. I’d bounced around a few AM stations and tried my hand at ad sales, but now I was just riding the board until the years of chemical abuse caught up with me.

  “Honey, I’m here for you,” I said, getting back in the game. “We love you here at the Kick, and Mickey Nixon is not one to judge other people. Live and let live, I always say...to coin a phrase.”

  Now I could see a row of green lights blinking on the telephone board. Four callers were waiting to be punched in. I’d never had more than two, and that was when Lefty from Promotions had fingered me a couple of White Zombie tickets to give away. This girl, whoever she was, had the audience stirring.

  “Mickey, men have always disappointed me. They talk sweet and walk straight until they get what they want. Then they treat you like a rag doll or worse. Well, I’m fed up. Now, I’m the one on the prowl for easy meat. Just ask Chuck here...”

  There were a couple of seconds of dead air.

  “Oh, sorry. Chucky can’t come to the phone right now. He’s got other things on his mind, and they’re called my feet. Well, Mickey. I’ve got to go. It’s been real, and I’ll be in touch.”

  I could hear sirens in the background just before she hung up.

  “If you’re still out there, remember that you can talk to me. I’ll never do you wrong,” I broadcast to the sleepy world. I punched up caller number two, trying to keep some momentum.

  “Hey, Mickey, that tart’s gone out of her mind. Did you pay a friend of yours to call in or something?” a drunken voice slurred.

  “Yeah, just like I did with you, upchuck breath.” I cut him off and punched up the next caller.

  “I just killed a beer myself, and I want you to know your show rocks, man.”

  It sounded like a college student who had seen “ Wayne ‘s World” too many times. But I wasn’t choosy and I doubted I’d be lucky enough to get anyone as interesting as my death-dealing diva as an on-air guest. What was I expecting, Howard Stern or the ghost of Orson Welles?

  “That chick was really wild, man,” the caller continued, adding a couple of “uhs” into the mix. This show was billed as the “Talk-n-Toonage Marathon ,” but the talk never seemed to keep rolling.

  “Thanks for the input, ‘dude.’ Gotta go.” I sighed, stabbed the button on the cart machine, and AC/DC started ringing “Hell’s Bells.”

  The next afternoon, I rolled out of bed and belched stale coffee. I stumbled through the dirty clothes and back issues of Rolling Stone that served as the carpet in my one-room bachelor’s paradise and elbowed open the bathroom door. I showered and even screwed up my resolve enough to shave. I felt displaced and alienated, as if I’d just come back from a long drug trip. At first, I couldn’t figure out what was different. Then it hit me. I actually felt rejuvenated, as if last night’s caller had given me something to look forward to.

  I drove my ragged Honda down to the station and parked at the far end of the lot. All the other jocks had personal spaces. I guess the station GM figured one day I’d just disappear and she didn’t want me around badly enough to invest ten bucks in a lousy plywood sign. Well, no love lost.

  I went inside and checked the shift schedule, then headed for the staff lounge. I was just about to scarf a couple of donuts when I saw the newspaper open on the table. I picked it up and searched the front page. No headlines screaming bloody murder.

  I was turning to the crime section when Pudge, WKIK’s answer to Benito Mussolini as well as Program Director, walked in. His eyes glared from under the caterpillars of his brows. He didn’t bother saying hello. He had a marketing report in his hand and he waved it like an ax.

  “Your numbers are down, Mick. You know the only reason we stay on during the graveyard shift is because it’s cheaper than locking up and paying security for a few hours. But I want to lead in every time slot, and you’re not up to speed.”

  Pudge was on a mission to inflate his own ego until his head could no longer fit through doorways. He gobbled up credit like it was free pizza, but when it was time to dish out the blame, he had a list as long as his belt, and his name was on the last notch. College communications courses taught me that radio was a personal medium, but Pudge must have skipped those. At every staff meeting, he argued for total automation of WKIK.

  I rubbed my cheek and felt the first blossom of stubble in the weedbeds of my cheeks.

  “Well, Pu–um, Andrew, if you’d give my slot a little promotion, it might do something. Besides, I’ve got a loyal audience.”

  “Well, your audience’s demographic doesn’t coincide with the one our advertisers want to reach. Even at your low wage, this ‘Talk-n-Toonage Marathon ‘ is barely breaking even. I’m tempted to change your slot to a satellite feed.”

  I was barely listening because I was transfixed by the flapping of his plump lips. He bored me faster than a dinner date with Andre. I muttered something appropriately offensive and incoherent and left with the newspaper and a pair of chocolate donuts. The Honda whined a little before starting, but I coaxed it home so that I could rest before the night’s shift.

  As I gnawed a three-day-old slice of anchovy pizza, I thumbed through the paper. On page two of the local news section, I found my item.

  MAN FOUND DEAD IN APPARENT HOMICIDE

  Charles Shroeder, age 29, of 417 Skylark Place , was found shot in his home last night. Police responded after a neighbor reported hearing a gunshot. A medical examiner ruled that Shroeder died from a single bullet wound to the head at approximately 2:00 AM. There are no suspects at this time, according to Lt. C.L. Hubble of the Topeka Police Detective Division.

  So my mystery caller was the real thing after all. I wondered if I should call the police. I didn’t have any solid evidence, if you didn’t count a phone conversation, and I didn’t. I decided to wait until she called again. I wanted to hear her voice, the one of blood and smoke. I only hoped she wouldn’t have to kill again, if indeed she had killed at all, to be motivated enough to give me a ring.

  Four long, lonely nights crawled by. “Wayne “ called once and requested some Beastie Boys, and a handful of callers asked about the “murder woman,” but other than that, the phone set in its cradle like a cement slipper. I slid into my regular routine, ignoring the playlist and forgetting to air the paid ads according to the traffic schedule. My cynicism began to consume me again, a snake swallowing its tail. Then, on Thursday, she called.

  I knew it was her the moment I saw the light on the switchboard. I snapped the phone to my ear. “Mickey Nixon at the Kick.”

  “Hi, Mickey. It’s me again.” Her voice rushed through the miles of cable like a May breeze, warm and fresh.

  “You have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.”

  “That would sort of be like kissing and telling, wouldn’t it? You already know so much about me. But just call me ‘Night Owl.’“

  I eyed the digits counting down on the Denon player and cued the next CD. So she’d given herself a pseudonym. Not exactly a sign of emotional stability. But, hell, my real name was Michel D’artagne.

  “Well, do you want to tell our audience what you’ve been doin
g with yourself lately?”

  “Anything for a thrill, Mickey. Have you missed me?”

  “Sure. It’s a lonely life, surrounded by these cold machines. The music helps, but it’s the people that make it matter. I’m sending you out live now.” I potted up the interface before beginning my introduction.

  “Yo, shake out of those dreams, my friend, Mickey’s got the Night Owl here, the one that’s to die for, and you want to twist that dial right on up.”

  Deejaying was one of the few occupations where you could get away with referring to yourself in the third person, along with politics and professional sports. She picked up on my enthusiasm and jumped right in.

  “Hey, out there in radio-land. This is Night Owl with more good news for the human race. There’s one less piece of dirtbaggage in the world tonight. I just took down number three. Johnny picked me up in a bar and wanted a double-handful of hot romance. He got an earful of hot metal instead. Just because he bought me a drink, he thought he was buying the whole package.”

  I could see the switchboard lighting up like a Christmas tree. WKIK’s phone system could handle eight lines, and every one had a caller on the end. Apparently, word had trickled out like electricity. I’d been searching my whole career for something to strike the audience’s nerves, and it seemed death did the trick.

  “Night Owl, some of our audience would like to talk to you. Go ahead, caller one...” I potted up our auxiliary phone link so we could have a three-way conversation.

  “Thank you for bringing joy to my life,” a woman’s cigarette-scorched voice came over the monitors. “I’ve been married to a slob for eighteen years, and suddenly he’s turned into Mr. Clean, minus the earring. He heard about you down at the Pump-And-Pay, and he figured he’d better get his act together, because you never know who’s going to turn into a copycat killer. Keep up the good work, girl.”