We Interrupt This Broadcast

by K. K. Beck

  After tapping away on her calculator, she announced that the advertising would cost fourteen hundred dollars. “That’s our economy package with ads rotating in all day parts except Teresa, Queen of the Night,” she explained, pleased with herself for having familiarized herself sufficiently with the rate card.

  “Oh, I only want to pay if the advertising pulls,” said the man pleasantly. “We’ll give you a hundred bucks for every warm body you can deliver.”

  “But that’s not how it works,” said Alice, trying not to sound desperate. “Maybe you’d like a smaller schedule.” She was horrified to hear herself cranking down the size of the contract, but what else could she do? God, if she didn’t get these people on the air, what would Judy say? “A smaller schedule to start with,” she added hastily. “I’m sure when you start getting results—”

  “Results are all I care about. We’ll give you a hundred bucks per inquiry. Take it or leave it.”

  “I’ll check with my boss,” she said, trying to keep her voice from quavering, “and get back to you.”

  “Okay,” said the man cheerfully. “If it works out, maybe we can advertise again in the fall. We’re doing a Mexican cruise with heart-healthy, low-sodium, high-fiber cuisine and low-stress water aerobics in the pool.”

  “Sounds like a lot of fun,” said Alice.

  As soon as she hung up and found Franklin’s number, Judy’s voice drifted over the side of the cubicle from the reception area. “Well?” she demanded. “Did you sign them up? I hope you got them to sponsor This Date.”

  Tempted to shout “Back off!” Alice quickly began jabbing telephone buttons. “Sorry, I’m on another call,” she said brusquely.

  Franklin answered with his usual impatient tone. “Hello, Alice. What is it?”

  “That box of papers has arrived,” she said. “The one you said we should go through together.”

  “I’m afraid I’m too busy right now,” he said. “Why don’t you see for yourself if there’s anything valuable in there?”

  “All right,” she said, feeling rejected. “Oh, there’s another thing. I’ve got someone who wants to buy ads but only if they work. They want to pay us a bounty on everyone who responds.”

  “I think we do some stuff on a per inquiry basis with no guaranteed times. Like those ads for adjustable beds. God, it’s all so pathetic. Why don’t you check with Caroline? She’s supposed to be in charge.”

  Alice was puzzled. Franklin had seemed so eager to help her, and now he sounded as if she was bothering him. Was it because he had taken a personal dislike to her? Was it something she had done? Already beaten down by rejection from the advertisers, she felt especially vulnerable right now.

  She told herself to calm down and consider the source. Franklin Payne was a strange man, always frazzled and irritable and rude. Now he just sounded depressed. The whole staff apparently hated him, and his own sister didn’t seem to like him much, either.

  * * *

  As Daphne sauntered into the record library to pick up the CDs for her shift, Carl Weeb waved a sheet of creamy paper at her. “Teresa got another mash note,” he said.

  “Oh, really,” said Daphne. “Is it smutty? If she weren’t such a slut, I would feel bad that she gets more fan mail than I do.”

  Carl tactfully refrained from pointing out that Daphne never got any fan mail at all. “Hardly smutty,” said Carl. “This guy’s got it bad, but he sounds like a real gentleman.”

  Daphne perched on the edge of Carl’s desk and read the letter:

  Dear Teresa.

  I’ve never written a fan letter before, but as a lifelong insomniac, I must tell you what an important part you play in my life. Your intelligent but playful and—dare I say it?—sexy, yes, sexy voice makes me feel I’m not alone in the long, lonely hours before the dawn.

  Lately I’ve found myself becoming more and more fascinated by you. Although I feel I know the real essence of you, I wish I knew more about your life.

  Are you unattached? You never refer to any life’s companion. I too am alone, though not, I feel, because of any inherent inability to make a special place in my life for a special woman.

  As a career officer in the United States Marine Corps, recently retired in my late forties (though I am considered very fit for my age), I became used to the fellowship of other men, but was never fortunate enough to meet the right girl with whom to share my life. Now, every night, your voice gives me some inkling of the kind of happiness that has eluded me.

  Would it be presumptuous of me to ask you a little about yourself? What do you look like? What do you like to do when you aren’t on the air? What are your hopes and dreams? What books do you love? Are you fond of animals?

  If this desire to know you better seems impertinent, please accept my apologies and ignore this letter. But be assured, Teresa, that my feelings of admiration for you are sincere and deeply felt. Count me as one of the most loyal subjects of the Queen of the Night.

  With all good wishes,

  Stanton P. Edgecombe, USMC Ret.

  “Oh, isn’t that sweet?” said Daphne.

  “Yeah, there’s something kinda quaint about him,” said Carl. “I think he deserves a nice reply.” He scrabbled in his desk drawer. “I can’t find my Teresa pen. Oh. Here it is.” He produced a fountain pen and unscrewed the cap thoughtfully.

  Carl’s job description included answering all listener mail, most of which asked about musical selections people had heard on the station, or complained about programming choices or pronunciation errors by the announcers. Some of it, however, consisted of fan mail for Teresa. Carl always hand-wrote the replies in florid penmanship with purple ink.

  “Be nice to him,” said Daphne. “Don’t be a rotten little tease.”

  Carl giggled and began to write:

  Dear Stanton,

  Thank you for your kind letter. I really was very touched. I would be glad to let you know a little about me. It’s charming that you care enough to ask. I am five-seven, with thick black hair to my shoulders and almond-shaped gray eyes. Many people say my mouth is my best feature.

  Daphne was looking over Carl’s shoulder as he laboriously formed the fat, loopy letters. “She sounds conceited,” she said.

  “Oh. Okay.” Carl added the words, “That’s what they say, but I don’t see it myself.”

  He looked up at Daphne. “Do you think she likes animals?”

  “Beats me. I guess I can imagine her having a cheetah on a leash or something.”

  “Maybe a dovecote,” said Carl. “Or some small dog with silky fur. I think a cheetah might scare him.”

  * * *

  Franklin was sitting in a restaurant waiting with all the suspense he might have felt if he were meeting a blind date. He checked his watch every few minutes and wondered if he’d been stood up, smoothed his hair down, touched the knot of his tie, chewed nervously on breadsticks, brushed the resulting crumbs off the tablecloth, thought about ordering a glass of wine, decided against it, checked his watch again.

  Two days ago he’d received a phone call from a lawyer he’d never heard of, named Ron Ott. Ott said he represented Ed Costello’s mystery buyer. “My client is very interested in your discretion,” the guy had said dramatically. “He asks that you don’t discuss this meeting with anyone, in or out of your organization.”

  “No problem,” said Franklin. “Can you tell me a little more about him?”

  “Not over the phone,” Ott said in a stage whisper. “My client is very concerned about security.”

  “Fine,” said Franklin, who thought this all sounded a little pompous. “Where would you like to meet?”

  “We’ll call you the day of the meeting with the place.”

  “Okay,” said Franklin, wondering just why the buyer was so shy. Nobody in Seattle, with the possible exception of Bill Gates, was so famous that they needed to sneak around like this.

  The next day, Ott called back and suggested a restaurant well off the beaten track
in West Seattle. Franklin had been immediately put off by the sign on the door: No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service. Inside, he was confronted with warped fake wood paneling, grubby red-and-white checked tablecloths, and a yeasty food smell that brought back his old junior high school cafeteria.

  A repulsive oil painting of a gondola plying a lurid canal, a garland of plastic garlic next to the cash register, and dusty Chianti bottles with dripping candles on the tables indicated the cuisine was supposed to be Italian.

  Franklin was the only customer in the place, but a haze of cigarette smoke and the sound of a blaring TV came from a dark doorway leading to what a carved wood and gilt sign indicated was the Grand Canal Room. This dump was clearly in the booze business, and the restaurant existed only to comply with state laws that forbade selling distilled beverages without also selling food. He sighed and sat down at a corner table.

  A narrow-faced man of about fifty arrived, looking decidedly pathetic. Franklin took in his bad haircut made worse by some kind of greasy hair oil, his cheap suit, his plastic briefcase. He introduced himself as Ron Ott and sat down across from Franklin.

  Franklin reflected that if he’d had decent taste, Mr. Ott could have bought a better haircut, suit and briefcase with the money he’d spent on the large diamond pinkie ring he wore.

  “My client’s running a little late,” he said. “He’s a busy guy.”

  “I see,” said Franklin. “Who is he? Ed mentioned he’d worked with him in the past.”

  Ron Ott leaned over conspiratorially, in spite of the fact that there were no customers or staff in sight. “His name,” he hissed, “is Charles W. Gilmore.” He leaned back, as if this should have some effect. “Not many people know he started out as a radio engineer at KZZ.”

  Franklin looked blank, and Ott said, “You’ve heard of Mr. Gilmore, I presume?”

  “The name sounds vaguely familiar,” lied Franklin. Maybe he was some kind of radio preacher. Franklin hoped so. A guy like that would probably have access to a lot of money.

  A bored-looking waitress emerged from the Grand Canal Room and offered them plastic menus dappled with crusty tomato-sauce spatters. Franklin glanced over the uninspired selection of allegedly Italian dishes and resisted the urge to ask if Chef Boyardee was working today, in which case he’d like the SpaghettiOs.

  Ron Ott looked hurt that Franklin had never heard of Charles Gilmore. “He was involved in an important trial last year. Groundbreaking constitutional issues. I was pleased to represent him.”

  “I see,” said Franklin, not seeing at all. He ordered a bowl of minestrone and a Caesar salad.

  “I believe in freedom of speech for everyone, not just for people I agree with,” explained Ott carefully, as if retailing a concept new to Franklin. “I will defend to the death any American’s right to say things that I myself, personally speaking—”

  Just then a short, chubby middle-aged man with a red face and a gray crew cut that made his round head look like a hedgehog walked into the restaurant. He was dressed in combat boots and complete camouflage gear. He approached the table.

  “Here he is now,” said Mr. Ott, introducing the two men with a flourish. “Franklin Payne. Charles Gilmore.”

  “Call me Chip,” said Mr. Gilmore, in the voice Franklin recognized from the loony recorded message about one-world government and threats to the Anglo-Saxon way of life.

  Gilmore leaned over the table to shake hands, and dog tags clanked against the Chianti bottle candleholder. Franklin waved a greeting rather than shake Chip Gilmore’s hand, but Gilmore didn’t seem to notice the insult. Scanning the restaurant with hooded eyes, he selected a chair with its back to the wall. He sat down heavily and said to Franklin, “Ed said you were a straight-up guy. Before we talk about KLEG, I’d like to say I think there may be a government cover-up going on in the matter of Ed Costello’s death. There are elements of society who will do whatever it takes to throttle the battle cries of freedom. In fact, do you know your own secretary received a message from me? I assume she destroyed it before you got it, as you didn’t return the call.”

  “I’ll look into it,” said Franklin.

  “That’s why I use Ron here as kind of a front man,” Gilmore said, narrowing his eyes. “No need to let the enemy know what I’m up to. I’d like to get on the air and tell the world a few home truths about this country and what kind of siege we’re under here, before the enemy catches on.”

  Franklin nodded and said, “I see.” He wondered if this lunkhead actually had any money. If he did, Franklin wanted it all up front. A nice clean deal.

  “They tried to stop me before,” said Gilmore through clenched teeth. “They threw me off the public airwaves.”

  Now Franklin remembered the case. A local cable outlet had decided it didn’t want to run rantings from Chip Gilmore on its community access channel. Apparently he had been trying to solicit contributions and was also hawking his cranky audiotapes on the air. Some of Gilmore’s goons had threatened station personnel, and the company got a restraining order keeping them away.

  “We’re appealing,” said Ott, looking up from the menu with a statesmanlike air that didn’t quite jibe with the powerful drugstore cologne he wore.

  This was promising. Presumably Ott was collecting legal fees. There must be some money around. Maybe old Chip got it from robbing banks. But Franklin reflected sadly that even if Gilmore could come up with the money to buy KLEG, he’d have a hard time selling Caroline on the idea of turning Mom’s Music Box over to neo-Nazis.

  “Before we go any further,” said Franklin, “I think you should know I figure the station’s worth at least a million dollars.” Franklin had just made up this figure to discourage them. These people didn’t look like they could come up with the scratch to buy a used weed whacker at a yard sale.

  Chip just nodded. Franklin went on, “And I’m not interested in any terms. I want strictly a cash deal. Can you line up the financing or not?”

  Ott and Gilmore exchanged glances, and Gilmore said, “I don’t want to tell you too much. It wouldn’t be safe. I’d just like to say that Ed Costello was working on that. It’s one more reason I think there may have been involvement from the enemy in his murder. Did you know the United Nations maintains a hit squad of elite killers? Gurkhas and stuff.”

  “Are you saying that Ed Costello was working on the financing?” said Franklin, deciding not to touch the Gurkhas as a topic of discussion and to leave as soon as possible. He hailed the waitress and canceled the soup and salad. “I’m feeling nauseous,” he explained. Neither of his companions expressed any sympathy.

  “Ed had come into some important knowledge which would have made it all possible,” said Chip Gilmore dramatically. “There’s some money owed to me from my past, and Ed was going to help me collect.”

  “Someone owed you a million bucks?” said Franklin. These people were complete losers. He glanced at his watch. “Listen, I don’t think there’s much point—”

  “I can’t tell you more now,” said Gilmore tersely.

  “I’ll be pursuing this funding source myself,” said Ott.

  “Discreetly, of course,” said Gilmore. “One man has already given up his life for this.” Could he be referring to Ed?

  Ott nodded but seemed willing to take his chances with the elite Gurkha units from the UN. “Yeah, well, it would be helpful if we could go over Mr. Costello’s papers and see if there’s any clue to how his own researches were proceeding.”

  “Just what the hell are you guys talking about?” said Franklin. He pointed to Gilmore. “Who owes him a million bucks?”

  The lawyer cleared his throat. “Sorry, but that’s confidential. That information could be used to discredit Mr. Gilmore’s movement,” said Ott solemnly.

  “By people who just don’t get it,” added Gilmore.

  Franklin felt that Gilmore could discredit his movement all by himself without any help from anyone else. “Come up with a million dollars in cash and we’ll
talk,” said Franklin pleasantly.

  “What about access to Mr. Costello’s papers?” Ott began. “That would make it easier for me to pursue—”

  “The police have all that,” lied Franklin. There was no way he was going to have any further dealings with these two.

  Gilmore sucked his teeth. “That’s bad,” he said. “Real bad. That must be how they found me.” He leaned over to Franklin. “The cops called and asked me if Ed had any enemies. I played dumb.”

  Tempted to suggest that in playing dumb Gilmore was hardly playing against type, Franklin said, “I’m curious. Was Ed involved in your, er, movement in any way?” Had KLEG been harboring a Nazi nutcase as well as a pimp?

  “No,” said Gilmore. “Ed wasn’t ideologically motivated, but he was open to my ideas. He was a businessman. He was going to help me put together this deal to buy the station. For a finder’s fee.” Gilmore looked a little sentimental. “He was always like that. Way back twenty years ago when we worked at KZZ, he was always setting people up one way or another. A real middleman.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Franklin. “Poor old Ed. Look, this isn’t getting us anywhere, and I have a meeting I just remembered.”

  “We’ll be in touch,” said Ott, as Franklin scraped back his chair and hustled out of the restaurant.

  As he got into his car, Franklin noticed two undernourished young men leaning on an old Pontiac in the parking lot. They had crew cuts and ferrety, hardscrabble faces, partially obscured by sunglasses, and they wore, like Gilmore himself, camouflage gear and combat boots. Their arms were folded belligerently across caved-in chests. Presumably they were there to make sure Gurkhas didn’t storm the restaurant and slit the throat of their leader. Avoiding eye contact with these wraithlike figures, Franklin got behind the wheel of his Mercedes and sped away as fast as he could.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Lukowski went over to Teresa Hoffman’s apartment determined to speak to her. She hadn’t called him, which, he felt, was pretty nervy. If he couldn’t get to her himself, he’d ask the patrol guys to flush her out.