We Interrupt This Broadcast

by K. K. Beck

  With a lot of heavy sighing, Judy gathered up her big handbag—Franklin had hoped it was leather so he could confront her with using animal products, but it seemed to be woven from old creosote-covered ropes—and left the office.

  He now felt free to make a phone call without fear of her listening in. Inside Caroline’s office, he slid the glass doors closed. He called a radio station broker based in Dallas and asked him how much he thought he could get for a 5,000-watt AM radio station in Seattle.

  The broker asked a few questions about the transmitter, the equipment, the signal. “AM only, huh?” he said after a little intake of breath that sounded like a wince. Franklin felt like someone trying to get a car dealer to take a pathetic rusted-out junker as a trade-in. “To tell you the truth,” the man in Dallas went on, “we hardly ever deal with those in any kind of decent-sized market unless they’re part of a package with some FM station. Most of our deals involve station trades by national players who are taking advantage of relaxed ownership rules in broadcasting, and building station groups in major markets.

  “Your best bet is some church. That or an ethnic group that wants to broadcast in Vietnamese or Spanish or whatever. Basically, a low-wattage AM like that, it’s only going to be of interest to someone going after a small niche listenership.

  “Still, the dial position and a little equipment, maybe you can get yourself $500,000 for it. That’s just a wild guess. Don’t hold me to it.”

  Half a million for unloading this black hole sounded pretty good to Franklin. He wondered if he’d been too hasty, blowing off Chip Gilmore. Unless some Esperanto enthusiasts miraculously appeared with ready cash soon, Chip looked like his best bet. Maybe he could raise a half million dollars from car washes or illegal arms sales.

  It would be well worth paying a broker a hefty commission to eat bad food with Chip and Ron Ott in that hideous Italianate restaurant and to deal with the Federal Communications Commission. He’d see if they were still interested. And he’d also make sure they didn’t call him here at the station where they would be overheard.

  Later, when the on-air ranting about the new world order began, Franklin could tell Caroline he was shocked, shocked, that the broker had come up with buyers who were demented hatemongers. He began to dig through the wastebasket for the Post-it note with Chip’s number.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Lukowski presented himself at the station later that morning to pick up the tape Teresa had promised. “I’m here to see Carl Weeb,” he informed Judy.

  “May I ask what it’s concerning?” she said aggressively.

  Lukowski ignored her. “He’s back in that record library, I take it,” he said, breezing past her desk.

  In the record library, Carl looked up from a large cardboard box, nodded silently, then went to his desk and picked a cassette out of a drawer. He handed it to Lukowski.

  Also in the room was Phil Bernard, who didn’t notice the transaction because his head was down on the desk in front of him, face down on his folded arms. He appeared to be heaving slightly.

  Next to him stood Daphne Hamilton, patting him on the back. “It’ll be okay, Phil,” she was saying. “Really.”

  “What’s the matter?” said Lukowski, startled at the highly charged scene.

  Carl shrugged. “Phil’s kind of upset.”

  Phil remained collapsed on the desk, but his head snapped up. Strands of hair hung in front of his flushed face, and his eyes behind his crooked glasses had a wild look in them. “Civilization is dead,” he announced to Lukowski. “The barbarians have stormed the gates. They are inside the walls of the city.” He let his head fall back down on his folded arms, and Daphne began to rub his back.

  “Is he okay?” asked Lukowski.

  Carl shrugged. “The boss just told him we’re getting rid of all the old LPs.” He indicated a cardboard box full of record jackets and unceremoniously threw in a handful more, then pulled some packing tape off a roll with a screechy sound and sealed the box.

  “I see. I guess. Is Bob LeBaron around?” asked Lukowski, glancing at the bare dusty shelves where the LPs had sat.

  “He’ll be in at eleven for a staff meeting,” said Daphne, looking up at Lukowski.

  Phil Bernard’s head popped back up again. “I’m going to make it very clear that we can’t go through with this. It’s too horrible,” he said defiantly. “Carl! Stop that! Put those records back. And in the proper order!”

  Carl shrugged. “Franklin told me not to pay any attention to you if you said that.” He shoved the full box toward the door with his foot. Lukowski had the idea that in his passive, affectless way, Carl was relishing Phil’s pain.

  Phil pounded his desk. “We’ll all stand up to Franklin. The whole staff will back me up. They have to!” Spittle had formed at the corners of his mouth, giving him the look of a rabid dog.

  Lukowski withdrew, reflecting that his own office politics were played out with a lot less drama. And a good thing, too, since where he worked most of the participants were armed. Still, one of the KLEG staff had ended up with a bullet in his chest. Maybe it was time to have a word with that sensible, pleasant Alice Jordan about the high feelings around the place.

  As he walked down the darkened corridor back to the main reception area, he heard a whispered “Hey!” behind him. Carl, bent over a box, was pushing his way down the passage.

  He straightened up and whispered, “I listened to that tape I made of Ed last night. There’s some weird stuff there. Apparently I wasn’t the only one Ed was blackmailing.”

  Lukowski nodded and said noncommittally, “I’ll look forward to hearing it.”

  “And there’s another thing,” said Carl hurriedly, looking over his shoulder. “It sounds like Bob LeBaron knew about the call-girl operation. Don’t tell him I gave you the tape, okay? If he gets into trouble, I don’t want him coming after me.” Suddenly he jerked his head back and stood like a deer in the forest, listening. Then he yelled, “Daphne! Dead air!”

  Daphne came flying down the corridor toward the studio door. Screaming “Jesus Christ,” she slammed Lukowski aside, then plunged into the booth. “Ah,” said her calm voice from an overhead speaker a second later. “Daphne Hamilton, back with you here on Classic KLEG. I thought a little pregnant pause was in order—a moment to reflect on the stunning beauty of that moving Partita No. 2 in D Major by Johann Sebastian Bach.”

  In the manager’s office, Franklin listened to her and slid out from behind the desk. He’d go down to the record library right now and chew Phil out for letting one of his announcers refer to the station as a horsefly—and use Bach’s full name. Franklin’s memo on the subject had been very specific.

  As he emerged purposefully into the reception area, he noticed Detective Lukowski leaning cozily on the partition to Alice Jordan’s cubicle. “If I could just ask you a few general questions,” he was saying. “You seem to be a very observant person.” Alice was beaming back up at him in a hero-worshiping way that Franklin found irritating.

  “Say,” he interrupted, “have you people found out who broke in here?”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Lukowski, “I was going to talk to you both about that. Have either of you had any dealings with a Charles W. Gilmore?”

  “No,” said Alice, looking disappointed that she couldn’t contribute something.

  “Why do you ask?” said Franklin evasively.

  “Mr. Gilmore was apparently associated with Ed Costello in some way,” said Lukowski, as if trying to prod their memories. “He’s also apparently involved with some militia-type group.”

  “Chip!” said Alice triumphantly. She turned to Franklin. “Remember? That Chip character. I called his machine. Could that be the same person?” She looked back at Lukowski. “I found his number among Ed’s papers.”

  Franklin put on a blank face, wishing Chip’s name had not come up, but Alice went on. “You told me he was nuts and not to call him again.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Frankli
n feigned dawning recall. “Chip Gilmore.” He turned back to Lukowski. “What does he have to do with this?”

  “We found his fingerprints on the glass in the bathroom window.”

  “On the outside?” said Alice, barely able to contain her excitement.

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh!” she said, clasping her hands together with girlish joy. “Franklin and I figured out what he took too. A catalog of Asian mail-order brides. It’s all pretty strange.”

  Franklin cleared his throat. He certainly wasn’t going to discuss the fact that Chip wanted to buy KLEG. Not in front of Alice Jordan. Judy up at the front desk was probably listening with her super hearing to everything, too.

  Neither did Franklin want to volunteer the fact that he’d just left messages on Chip’s machine and with Ron Ott’s adenoidal secretary, asking them in a friendly way if they’d scraped some money together yet. If they had, he’d give them the name of the Dallas broker. “I believe Ed knew this Chip character back at KZZ years ago,” he said instead.

  Lukowski reached into his jacket and produced the photograph he’d gotten from Lorraine Costello. “That’s right,” he said. “Here’s a picture of Mr. Gilmore with Ed Costello taken some years ago. Recognize him?” Lukowski tapped the face of Chip Gilmore.

  Alice peered eagerly at the photograph. “The guy with the round head?” she asked. “Wow. Which one’s Ed?”

  “The oily-looking character with sideburns pawing the babe,” said Franklin, his lip curling.

  “That’s Mrs. Costello,” said Lukowski. “This was taken at their engagement party. I also wondered if you could identify this individual,” said Lukowski. “I noticed him here at the station last time I was here.”

  Franklin squinted at the snapshot. “My God,” he said, “that’s my sister’s latest boyfriend. Jeffrey something. Fleming. He’s on the road with Caroline in Arizona. What’s he doing there?”

  “Isn’t that Bob LeBaron, too?” said Alice.

  A low baritone voice rumbled across the room. “Did I hear my name?” he said. “Not being taken in vain, I trust.”

  “We were just looking at a picture of you from your salad days,” said Franklin. Bob came over, and Lukowski handed the picture to him.

  “Gosh, that brings back some memories,” he said. “KZZ. It was what we called an M.O.R. format—middle of the road—before everything in radio got segmented into a lot of mindless demographics. It was personality radio. We’d play music everyone liked, but mostly, people thought of us as warm, personal friends. We used to read all the spots live and an endorsement from a KZZ jock meant something. I’d say I liked a restaurant, everyone would rush over there, hoping to catch a glimpse of me.” He sighed. “I never paid for a drink or a meal for years. Everyone knew Bob LeBaron, the top-rated morning man in the market.”

  Bob allowed his head to lean back, and his face took on a sentimental glow. He seemed to be preparing to share more happy memories, so Franklin snapped, “Yeah, I know. The expense account was bottomless and you all hung out at Trader Vic’s drinking cocktails with paper umbrellas and gardenias in them.”

  “You recognize any of these folks?” said Lukowski, shoving the snapshot at Bob.

  Bob fished a pair of dingy reading glasses from a plastic holder in his shirt pocket. “Let’s see. There’s Ed and his wife. A couple of gals from the sales department. Wendy was always a lot of fun. Couldn’t hold her liquor, but that was okay too,” he said with a leer. “Poor little Chip. And some guy from an ad agency. Kind of a crony of Ed’s for a while. I forget his name. They had some scam going. Ed always had a scam going, bless him.”

  “Why did you say ‘poor little Chip’?” asked Alice.

  Bob chuckled. “Well, surrounded by a bunch of highfliers such as myself, he felt a little out of it. Every time we went into Trader Vic’s, Ed would turn bright red and get all excited when this little Chinese gal—Michiko was her name—would flutter all over us.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Franklin impatiently. “Orchid over her left ear. But Michiko is a Japanese name.”

  “Well, she was some kind of Oriental. Cute as a button. Anyway, we’d let little Chip tag along sometimes. Kind of our mascot. I’d fool around on the air, teasing him, you know. I’d get a lot of mileage out of him. I’d say stuff like ‘Our engineer, Chip, the lonely bachelor, looks like he finally had a wild night last night.’ People started writing him fan letters. Anyway, we’d go into Trader Vic’s and he had the hots for this Michiko. So anyway . . .”

  Franklin shifted his weight from one foot to the other and reminded himself that with the exception of the upcoming staff meeting, Bob was safely exiled to the six to midnight shift where there was no one for him to bore except the radio audience.

  Bob rattled on. “Ed was always the kind of guy who liked to get everyone fixed up, you know?”

  “The vice squad knows that now,” said Franklin.

  “Yeah, well, he told Chip he could get him a sweet little Oriental wife who’d give him back rubs and bring him his slippers.”

  “Really?” said Alice.

  “Yeah. And damned if he didn’t. Six weeks later, Chip was engaged to some little lotus blossom.”

  Franklin toyed briefly with the idea of firing Bob LeBaron on the spot on the grounds of racial and gender insensitivity. Let him sue for age discrimination then.

  Bob raised an eyebrow rakishly and seemed about to nudge Lukowski in the ribs with an elbow. “We gave him a stag party you wouldn’t believe. Got a lot of on-air mileage from that. You better believe it. We skated pretty near the edge on the air. People tuned in just to find out if we’d go over the edge, you know. It was always in good taste, though. Risqué but tasteful.”

  “Did Ed find a wife for Chip in one of those mail-order bride catalogs?” asked Alice.

  “He sure did,” said Bob with a chuckle. “Wrote her some cornball letters and stuck Chip’s picture in the mail. Before we knew it, she was over here and they hit it off. At first, anyway. I heard later the whole thing fizzled out and she went back to Hong Kong or wherever she came from. But at least Chip got himself a honeymoon. Good old Ed.”

  * * *

  Caroline drifted out onto the balcony overlooking the immaculate green lawn around the pool. Beyond thick adobe walls was desert with dramatic saguaro cactuses, and in the distance lay brown hills drenched with a rosy sunset.

  She carried a margarita and wore a long, sheer white cotton gauze garment, accented by the huge turquoise-and-silver squash-blossom necklace and matching drop earrings she’d just bought in the lobby gift store.

  “Darling,” she said, “come out here and smell the mesquite. It’s divine.”

  Jeffrey Fleming came outside. He carried a camera with a telephoto lens and wore white linen trousers and the loose, pale blue Mexican shirt Caroline had just bought for him in the same gift store because it matched his eyes.

  Below them, immobile hotel guests in loud shorts and sundresses exposing abundant pale flesh sat sprawled around the patio. Slim, dark, fully clothed Hispanics moved elegantly and quickly among them, bringing drinks and plates of food. Braziers around the perimeter took the desert chill from the air and provided the tang of mesquite.

  “Oh, darling,” said Caroline. “It’s lovely here, I know, but so depressingly bourgeois after our week in the trailer parks. Maybe we did the wrong thing.”

  “No, no!” said Jeffrey eagerly. He squinted down at the patio through his camera. “There’s great stuff here. I’m thinking it’s time for me to move on, creatively speaking. Look at those big white toads sitting around down there. They all look so miserable! I can see a whole show just devoted to assholes in luxury resorts. I could do this for months!”

  He turned to her. “I think I’ve taken the trailer-trash thing as far as I can. It’s time for a complete change of direction.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Darling, you’ve inspired me! I’m looking at everything with fresh eyes.”

  “Sweethe
art,” she said, nuzzling his neck with the top of her head, “it is wonderful, isn’t it? Seattle and KLEG seem so far away.”

  “Forget about KLEG,” he said. “Let’s just keep going. From resort to resort, golf course to golf course. I can do some great stuff with pools and tennis courts, too.”

  She turned away from him. “I feel so guilty, Jeffrey. I have a responsibility to carry on Mother’s work at KLEG. Franklin wants us to sell it, just because it loses money every month.”

  “It loses money every month?” said Jeffrey. “Really?”

  “Well, you—an artist, of all people—know how unimportant money is,” she said airily.

  “Of course I do. But I’m so selfish, darling, and so in love. I want all your attention. And I want to stay on the road with you forever. I can really see this resort thing developing into a great coffee-table book.” He gazed out into the desert. “There’s so much here for me creatively. The opulence and then the desert as a metaphor for, like, a desert kind of thing. You know?”

  “Oh, Jeffrey, I know exactly,” she said. “Maybe I should just follow my heart and turn my back on my life’s work with KLEG.”

  “I don’t want to tell you what to do, Caroline,” he said earnestly, “but if that thing’s losing money, I’d drop it like a bad habit.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Franklin was winding up his speech to the troops at the KLEG staff meeting. “And in conclusion, I’d encourage you all to think about ways you could seek new career challenges elsewhere. I’m not sure what the future of KLEG will be. It would be irresponsible of me to encourage any of you to count on KLEG for the long term.

  “My sister and I cannot continue to run the station as a public service. Anyway, the fact that very few members of the public bother to tune in indicates that the service we are providing isn’t something the public wants.”