We Interrupt This Broadcast

by K. K. Beck

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Back in his office in the Public Safety building, Lukowski was startled to hear from MacNab that Teresa had called and arranged to be questioned.

  “That was fast,” said Lukowski. “Maybe that Weeb dweeb knows more than he lets on. When’s she coming in?”

  “Well, actually,” said MacNab, looking slightly embarrassed, “she insisted we meet for a drink. Just her and me. She said Carl said you were pretty aggressive and she felt I would be more sympathetic.”

  “What? And you went for that?”

  “Well, seeing as she’s so shy and all—”

  “Oh, come on! Don’t tell me you’re buying into that Greta Garbo routine! I suppose it was that fuck-me voice of hers.”

  “Maybe it was,” said MacNab with a thoughtful look.

  “Have you heard her on the radio? She’s some kind of a nymphomaniac. Just the kind of sicko who’d file sexual harassment charges or something. I wouldn’t talk to her without a witness.”

  “We’re meeting at the Retro Room at five.”

  “What did I tell you? That little cock tease chose the darkest bar in town,” sneered Lukowski.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” said MacNab. “You better come along. There’s definitely something weird about her.”

  “If you ask me,” said Lukowski, “all those people at KLEG are one taco short of a combination plate.” He mentally made an exception for Alice Jordan. Too bad a nice woman like that had to work in a place like KLEG.

  * * *

  Normally, Franklin would have avoided meeting his sister’s new lover for as long as possible, but he was so eager to get her out of the picture that he’d agreed to give Caroline and Jeffrey Fleming a ride to the airport. He was going to pick them up at KLEG, and he planned to begin terrorizing the staff immediately.

  When he arrived, Caroline seemed to be having some sort of flap with Phil Bernard. They were snapping at each other in her office. A man he presumed was Jeffrey Fleming was reading a magazine in the waiting area. Judy scowled at Franklin from the reception desk, and Alice Jordan seemed to be doing something at a filing cabinet across the room, pretending not to hear the raised voices of Phil and Caroline through the glass door.

  Phil trailing her, Caroline rushed out to the waiting area and introduced Franklin to Jeffrey. She beamed at them both. “I hope you’ll be good friends,” she gushed. “I’m so fond of you both.” Franklin never understood why Caroline always got a big surge of family feeling when she had a new man in her life. Franklin had always been very careful to protect any woman he cared about from his relatives for as long as possible.

  Jeffrey gave Franklin a big, eager smile, and Franklin gave Jeffrey a frostier, smaller one in return. Caroline was running true to form: Fleming looked dissipated, shifty and impoverished.

  Phil, hovering at Caroline’s elbow, said peevishly, “I’m afraid I must stand my ground here.”

  “What’s going on?” demanded Franklin.

  “Phil doesn’t want to run an interview with Jeffrey right now,” said Caroline. “He says we have to stick by the program guide.”

  Franklin turned to Phil. “Why don’t you tape it for broadcast later?” he said. He turned to his sister. “Have you told the staff?”

  “Told us what?” said Judy shrilly from her desk. Alice Jordan looked up from the filing cabinet.

  “Get everyone in here,” said Franklin sternly. “We’ll make an official announcement.” He savored the idea that for the few moments it took to round them all up, they’d be suffering from feelings of impending doom.

  When Caroline had managed to collect them all—Carl, Phil, Daphne, Alice and Judy were present and accounted for—Franklin said, “Caroline will be gone for a while on a much deserved month-long vacation in Arizona. I will be acting station manager in her absence. You can expect to see me around here quite a bit, making sure things are operating smoothly. I’m really looking forward to the opportunity to have some input here.” He reached into his inside pocket, came up with his collection of insulting staff memos and flung them at Judy. “Type these up and circulate them,” he said. Then he glanced around the offices. “You know, this place could use a good cleaning. Maybe you can get some kind of a work party together and put your backs into it while I run my sister and her new friend to the airport.”

  “We should wait until the lab boys have been here and gone,” said Alice eagerly. “There will probably be fingerprint powder all over everything.”

  * * *

  The two detectives groped their way through a sea of small, round chrome-legged tables, guided only by a few tiny candles in red glass containers. “Jesus,” muttered Lukowski, who had once acted in a high school production of The Pajama Game, “this place is a regular Hernando’s Hideaway.” The Retro Room was riding a wave of nostalgia for the fabulous fifties. Perry Como crooned from the speakers, large trapezoidal ashtrays indicated that smoking was encouraged, and martinis were the specialty of the house.

  “That far corner table,” said MacNab, pointing. “That’s where she said to meet her.”

  Lukowski nodded. “Okay. She might bolt if she sees two of us. I’ll wait at the bar. As soon as she sits down, I’ll come over and we can corner her. All I can say is, after this buildup she better have something interesting to say.”

  “I wonder what she looks like,” said MacNab rather wistfully. “Think you can tell much from a voice?”

  “If she had a face and body to match that voice,” said Lukowski, “she wouldn’t be hiding out all the time.” He went over to the bar and ordered a pint of a microbrew on tap.

  A few minutes later a young woman came into the bar. From what Lukowski could see in the dark, she wore a short black dress with sheer black seamed stockings and high heels. She had a mane of dark hair about shoulder length, which she flipped over her shoulder as she made her way languorously toward MacNab. In keeping with the general tone of the Retro Room, she also wore a small black satin pillbox cocktail hat with a half-veil.

  A trio of businessmen huddled over a small table looked up as she passed. She had a confident, slow, sexy stride that seemed to be screaming, “Eat your heart out.” Lukowski watched her favor the men with a knowing smile as she passed. Conversation at the table ceased and they all craned around to check out her fabulous legs.

  Lukowski waited until she sat down across from MacNab, took a cigarette out of a small handbag, handed a lighter to MacNab so that he’d light her cigarette, leaned into the flame as he held it up for her, then settled back against the red leather banquette, shooting a plume of silver smoke through her veil up to the ceiling. Lukowski grabbed his beer and went over to the corner table.

  “This is my partner, Detective Lukowski,” said MacNab. “Teresa here says she doesn’t have a last name.”

  “Everyone has a last name,” said Lukowski, indicating she should shove over to make room for him. She gave him a startled look, then scrunched over and made a big deal of crossing her legs, revealing an expanse of taut thigh.

  “Look,” said MacNab, “we want to know what you know about Ed Costello and the Home Run Escort Service. Your voice was on his tape.”

  “It’s just like I told you when I called and left a message with Detective Lukowski here,” said Teresa in her come-hither voice. This was Teresa, Queen of the Night, all right. “I thought it was all a joke. Honestly, I never met the man in my life.” She made a fluttery, helpless little gesture and flexed her head back to exhale more smoke. Lukowski’s eyes followed the line of her long, pale neck, and then he checked out her face. It was heavily made up, but stunning, with fine bones and sultry eyes smoldering through the black lace of the veil. It also looked strangely familiar.

  “I’ve got a question for you, Teresa,” he said. “What size shoes do you wear?” He looked under the table at her feet. She was wearing black suede high heels with a lot of tarty-looking straps over the instep.

  “Shoes?” She smiled and blinked furiously. Her
Minnie Mouse eyelashes looked fake. “Oh, that’s right. Carl said they found a pair of shoes at the station. Not mine, I assure you.”

  “No, I guess not. I’d say you wear about a twelve. A man’s twelve. Probably the same size as Carl Weeb.”

  MacNab looked startled, and Lukowski saw him glance down at her hands, which had shiny coffee-colored nails. She folded them up, but not quickly enough. They were big and square, with pronounced knuckles.

  “In fact,” said Lukowski, “you are Carl Weeb, aren’t you?” Teresa’s face crumpled. In a reassuring tone that he summoned up whenever he was confronted with hurt female feelings, Lukowski went on, “Hey, you look fabulous. If I hadn’t talked to your, um, other personality earlier today, I never would have guessed.” He was too kind to mention the fact that his first clue had been an Adam’s apple sliding around on top of that elegant neck as Teresa exhaled her cigarette smoke.

  “Oh, hell,” said Teresa, stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette rather viciously. She turned to MacNab and sighed. “I asked you to come alone. I would have pulled it off if you’d come alone.”

  MacNab looked blustery, as if he was about to sputter that he hadn’t been fooled. Lukowski doubted that, judging by the goofy look he’d had while lighting her cigarette. To stay on Teresa’s good side, Lukowski said gallantly, “We both wanted to meet the famous Teresa.”

  “Look,” she said, “is there any reason you have to tell anyone down at KLEG about this? I’ve got a fabulous following, but Phil Bernard is adamant about keeping poor mousy little Carl off the air.”

  “Your secret is safe with us,” said Lukowski.

  “But only if you’re straight, um, straightforward with us,” added MacNab.

  Teresa sighed again. “All right. I recorded that answering-machine tape because that slimebag Ed Costello made me do it. He found out that I was really Carl and said he’d tell if I didn’t.” Teresa reached inside her neckline and delicately adjusted a bra strap. “I’d sure like a martini.”

  Lukowski signaled a waitress and ordered it for her.

  “Bombay gin, very dry, two olives,” she added.

  “How did Ed find out?” said MacNab.

  Teresa wrinkled her nose. “Stupid me. I got sloppy one night, and my tape was short. I sneaked in to do the last half hour live. I’d done it before. It’s kind of a kick to work live. Anyway, Ed came in a little later to tend to his escort business. He heard my voice over the speakers in the office and saw the On Air light was on and looked through the glass and saw Carl sitting there with my voice coming out of his mouth.”

  “You mean you weren’t all dressed up like now?” said MacNab. Lukowski sensed that the literal-minded MacNab was struggling with gender issues and couldn’t conceive of Carl being transformed into Teresa without full wardrobe and makeup.

  Teresa laughed. “The magic of radio. No one knows what you’re wearing. A girl might as well be comfortable. Anyway, I begged him not to tell. He took a sadistic pleasure in having something on me. It was very chilling. He asked me what it was worth to me to keep my secret.

  “While we were arguing about it, I heard his answering machine come on. He’d thought he was alone, too, and he’d turned up the speaker on the machine. He had one of his tarts reading his message.”

  “So you both had something on each other,” summarized Lukowski.

  “That’s right. When I heard his machine, I told him I’d keep my mouth shut about his operation if he wouldn’t snitch to Phil about Teresa’s true identity. Then, for good measure, I told him the tape sounded really tacky.” She rolled her eyes. “Some squeaky little low-class slut trying to sound classy.”

  Teresa’s martini arrived. She took a sip and produced a satisfied little purr. “Ed said he hoped there were no hard feelings, and he promised not to tell on me. Then he asked really nicely if I’d record a new message for him. More professional-sounding. I thought it would keep him sweet, and kind of smooth over the fact that we were blackmailing each other.” Teresa smiled. “But just in case, I got absolute proof of what he was up to.”

  “Absolute proof?”

  “That’s right.” Teresa looked pleased with herself. “I taped him in his cubicle, running his escort business.”

  “You taped him?” Lukowski was interested. “How?”

  “Your basic twenty-dollar voice-activated tape recorder from Radio Shack. I put it under his desk for a couple of nights. You can hear his half of the conversation while he answers the messages on his machine. I just listened to the first five minutes, and I knew I had him. There was no doubt about what he was up to.”

  “You still have the tape?” asked MacNab.

  “Sure. It’s at home. But I guess I don’t need it anymore.”

  “We’d like to listen to it,” said Lukowski. “Can we run you home and pick it up?”

  “Actually,” said Teresa, consulting a small gold watch, “I’m meeting someone for dinner. I don’t like to be more than a little late on a first date.” Teresa smiled. “He’s a retired Marine Corps officer. Probably likes everything neat and punctual. I could bring the tape to work tomorrow. Can you pick it up there? Discreetly?”

  Lukowski was irritated. Teresa should just cooperate, like any good citizen. This was a police investigation, for God’s sake. To his surprise, MacNab said, “Okay. Don’t want to keep an officer and a gentleman waiting.”

  After she’d left, Lukowski muttered, “We should’ve made her break that date. God, MacNab, anyone bats his or her eyelashes at you like that, and you just fold.”

  “Old interservice rivalry,” said MacNab with a smug little smile. “I never did like those jarheads I had to cross-train with years ago. I’m betting that guy doesn’t know he’s meeting a chick with a dick.”

  “Maybe he’ll figure it out right away,” said Lukowski, reflecting on the size-twelve pumps.

  MacNab bristled a little at this suggestion. “I think Teresa is too much of a lady to get intimate on the first date,” he said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Stan Edgecombe had been everything Teresa had hoped for. Sweet. Understanding. So respectful. Just the kind of old-fashioned guy she thought didn’t exist anymore. She’d practically had to put him in an armlock just to give him a little peck on the cheek at the door. And he’d been so darling, telling her he had to run home and listen to Teresa, Queen of the Night.

  Sighing happily, she turned on the stereo and listened to her own voice announcing a Puccini aria, then kicked off her heels and collapsed in a beanbag chair in the middle of her apartment. After a second, she remembered she’d promised to give those detectives the tape she’d made of Ed Costello. She wondered if there was anything interesting on it, past the five minutes or so she’d heard before. It might be worth a listen before parting with it.

  She rose again, found the cassette, put it in the machine, pulled off her wig and went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. While she was peeling off her lashes, Ed’s voice came rumbling out into the apartment.

  “No problem,” he was saying. “We’ll have Dagmar and Candy out there in half an hour.” There was a pause. “No problem.” Another pause. “Well, maybe. I can’t guarantee that. You’ll have to negotiate that with the girls themselves. I can tell you one thing.” Here, Ed chuckled. “It’ll cost you a lot extra.”

  Teresa curled her lip in disgust and rubbed cold cream into her face, creating a glassy palette of smeared beige foundation, burgundy lipstick, raspberry blusher and charcoal eye shadow.

  The machine turned itself off when there was silence and kicked in again when it heard something. Right after the sound of telephone buttons being tapped, Ed came on again, sending two of his girls out to an address in the University District. “The guy has some very specific requests. He’s got a couple of outfits for you gals to wear. There are a lot of feathers involved, and he wants to make sure neither of you are allergic. Apparently he can’t keep it up when people are sneezing around him.”

  Teresa,
now looking like Carl again, brushed his teeth, and wondered what the guy in the U District had in mind. All he could come up with was Papageno and Papagena outfits from Carl’s own favorite opera, The Magic Flute, and maybe a giant birdcage with a swinging perch or something.

  More phone blips, and Ed’s voice again. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad you agree that this is best for everyone. Fine. Cash. Great. Well, I know you want to be discreet. We can meet at the radio station after hours. Call me when you have it all together.”

  There was a slight pause and then Ed said in a defensive voice: “Blackmail is a little harsh. Think of it as security. And cheap at the price. A thousand bucks. Big deal. It’s a onetime-only fee.” Ed chuckled again, then said in a slightly hurt voice, “Yeah, well everyone’s trying to make a buck. What can I tell you? There’s nothing personal here. Okay. Good-bye.”

  Ed hung up and gave a little laugh of triumph, then began singing “My Way” in an off-key rendition that nonetheless reflected a familiarity with Sinatra’s phrasing.

  What a sleaze, thought Carl. Whoever Ed had been putting the squeeze on there, he’d expressed the same glum, smug, evil pleasure in having some kind of knowledge about them as he had when he tumbled to Carl’s own secret. What a contrast Ed Costello was with someone upright and straightforward and honest and decent like Stanton Edgecombe.

  Ed was back on the phone, in hyper-salesman mode. “Yeah. Boy, these girls are really hot,” he was saying. “They get restless and horny on their days off. Seriously. They’re so eager I have to remind them to collect the money. I swear to God. You know, if they didn’t need to earn a living, I bet they’d do what they do for free, they love it so much. And it shows in their work, you better believe it.”

  Disgusted, Carl unzipped his dress, stepped out of it and went over to turn off the tape. This kind of thing was a travesty of real feeling. There were fine men like Stanton Edgecombe around who were genuinely interested in a decent, loving relationship. Carl had begun to doubt this, but after this evening, his faith in the possibility of true love had been slightly restored.