by K. K. Beck
She felt a strange mixture of exhaustion and excitement. “No skateboarding in the house,” she screamed in the direction of Zack’s room where a rumbling sound had been added to the rock music he said he needed to concentrate on his homework.
* * *
“Sorry the car’s such a mess,” said Ron Ott cheerfully. He was throwing some fast-food wrappers over his shoulder into the back seat to make room for Franklin in the front.
Franklin noticed there still seemed to be a lot of french fries on the floor in front of the passenger seat, so he got into the beat-up old station wagon carefully, but still managed to place his black wing tip in the middle of a half-used foil packet of ketchup.
“Has Chip got the money?” asked Franklin as Ott pulled away from the curb.
“Well, it’s kind of a long story,” said Ott. “But that’s okay. It’ll take us quite a while to get to Chip’s house. He lives way up north.”
Franklin let out a deep sigh, and Ott launched into his tale. “The thing is, Chip was married years ago.”
“I know,” said Franklin. “To some poor little woman he ordered out of a catalog.”
“Oh, really?” said Ott. “I never knew how they met. How did you know? Nobody knows about this.”
“Never mind,” said Franklin. “Go on.”
Ott seemed alarmed. “As a public figure, Mr. Gilmore wishes to be very discreet about this marriage. He prefers attention be focused on his message,” he said.
“You mean he’s embarrassed to be a racist who once married a person of another race?” said Franklin.
“Well, it might be better if you not reveal your knowledge of this marriage when we meet Chip. He’s kind of touchy about it.”
“Fine,” said Franklin, who’d had a youthful marriage he was a little touchy about himself. “What does any of this have to do with his buying KLEG, anyway?”
“His wife went back to Manila after a couple of weeks. At least that’s what my client was led to believe. But Ed Costello found out different. He found out she was still in Seattle. And that she has a great deal of money.”
“What does this have to do with KLEG?” repeated Franklin. “Are you aware this is a community-property state?” said Ott with a self-satisfied smirk.
“Of course I am,” snapped Franklin. “I’m a lawyer, for God’s sake.”
“Well, I advised Mr. Gilmore that half of what his wife has is his. They were never divorced. Ed assured us she’s worth millions and owns real property all over the state. His share will finance the purchase of KLEG.”
“It could take years and years to get that all sorted out,” said Franklin. Ott’s promising his client millions in what was bound to be a very complicated divorce with a well-financed opponent showed just how stupid he was.
“Mrs. Gilmore is using another name,” continued Ott. “What does this suggest to you?”
“That she doesn’t want to remember a big mistake,” said Franklin.
“I think the immigration authorities might be interested in her,” said Ott. “Years ago Chip refused to cooperate when she tried to get a green card on the basis of being married to him.”
“Are you telling me that you plan to blackmail this woman?” demanded Franklin.
“No, no,” said Ott hastily. “I’m just giving you a little background to let you know that Mr. Gilmore has a rosy financial future. Unfortunately, Ed died before revealing this person’s new identity. He was holding out for some kind of a finder’s fee. In any case, knowledge of this woman’s new name and whereabouts has recently come into Mr. Gilmore’s possession, and he contacted her.”
Yeah, and he probably got the name and address by breaking into KLEG, thought Franklin. It must have been somewhere in Ed’s box.
“Mrs. Gilmore already told my client she’d be willing to settle a large amount on him. I feel sure that when we meet with Mr. Gilmore, he’ll report positively on his meeting with Mrs. Gilmore.”
“You mean I’m driving all the way up to hell and gone just to see if his wife gave him a check?” said Franklin.
“Frankly, I expected to have heard from Chip by now,” said Ott. “But as I’ve explained before, he’s a little eccentric. Anyway, his lieutenants up at the house left a message for me to get up there as soon as possible, so I’m sure we’ll have something to discuss. He doesn’t like to discuss business on the phone. It is a fact that his activities, all protected under the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, may attract the attention of various authorities,” added Ott darkly.
Franklin had a vision of the sinister Ghurkas and shadowy United Nations officials of Chip’s fevered imagination tapping his phone and listening to him try to shake down his wife.
“Here’s the place,” said Ott, pulling up in front of a depressing little dingy yellow house. Franklin got out of the car, scraped the ketchup off his shoe on the weedy parking strip and followed Ott up to the porch. The sound of barking dogs from behind a battered old door alarmed him, and then he heard a voice yell, “Who is it?”
“Ron Ott!”
“Password?”
Ron Ott muttered “Triumph” and then gave Franklin an embarrassed, go-figure shrug.
The door opened, and the dogs quieted down. The skinny youths Franklin had first seen in the parking lot of the bad Italian restaurant in West Seattle peered out suspiciously.
“Who’s he?” said one of them.
“He has an appointment with Chip,” explained Ott. “It’s okay. He’s with me. This is Franklin Payne. Justin and Brett.”
The two dopey-looking kids glanced at each other, then seemed to come to some conclusion.
“Okay,” said Justin, the one who had done all the talking. “Come in. There’s some pretty bad shit been going down. Our enemies have struck.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” demanded Franklin.
Brett burst into a sob. “They killed him. They shot him,” he said. “Our leader, Chip, is dead.”
“What?” said Ott.
“See for yourself,” said the sobbing youth.
Franklin followed Ott through the door into the living room where Chip Gilmore’s tubby corpse lay in a Naugahyde BarcaLounger, head back, mouth and eyes open, arms and legs sprawled apart. In the middle of his white T-shirt was a large patch of dark blood. Square in the center of the patch was a large black hole.
“We found him here this morning,” said Justin, gnawing on his cuticles. “We called your office, but it was an unsecured land line, so we just left a message for you to get here real fast. Then some cops came by, but we didn’t let them in. Chip always told us to talk to you first.”
“I see,” said Ott, staring woozily at his dead client before looking away and bracing himself on the wall.
“Brett and me figured they’re already working on a way to get the cover-up going,” said Justin, narrowing his eyes.
“Yeah,” said his companion craftily. “It’s no coincidence that the cops show up before they even know he’s been killed, right?”
Franklin took in a few of the details in the room. A big old-fashioned television in the corner. Empty beer cans on the coffee table. Bent and grimy venetian blinds. A large still from Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will on the wall.
The thing to do, he thought to himself, was get the hell out of here and call the cops from somewhere else. He did not want to spend time in this dump waiting for the police with one dead sleazebag lunatic, two live ones, a couple of Doberman pinschers and a complete idiot like Ott.
Neither did he want to spend a lot of time being interrogated by detectives at the scene, like when Ed Costello had turned up in that Hide-A-Bed. Just explaining why he was having dealings with these ghastly people would be humiliating enough. He’d rather do it in the dignified surroundings of his own office.
Brett was now saying, “Chip thought this might happen. He was ready to die for the cause. He knew, man. He told us there’d be a cover-up. It’s already started. W
e better not call the cops.”
“We’ll have to,” said a badly shaken Ott. “What else can we do? As your lawyer, I advise you to call the cops right away.”
Justin, an aggressive edge to his voice, said, “Not so fast. There’s shit around here the cops shouldn’t find. We’ve got to clean it up and do stuff to make sure the cover-up doesn’t start right away. Like in that movie about Kennedy.”
“Listen,” Franklin said mildly. “Maybe I should just go and leave you guys to sort this all out.”
“No fucking way,” said Justin. “Stay here until we figure out what to do.”
“Look,” said Franklin firmly. “I’m leaving.”
“Forget about it,” said Brett. “You heard Justin.” Franklin was horrified to see that he had produced a pistol and was pointing it at Franklin.
“Hey, Brett,” said Ott in a frightened voice. “As your attorney, I’d advise you to put down the gun.”
Brett looked confused.
“The thing is,” said Franklin, trying to sound patient and reasonable, “if there is a cover-up, it will be important that you have an impartial witness who left the area and can tell the truth about what happened here.” He realized that he was making no sense at all, but counted on the fact that sense was probably the wrong approach to Brett anyway.
Brett turned to Justin and gave him an inquiring look.
“An impartial witness away from the scene, like in Hitler’s bunker,” Franklin added solemnly, although what Hitler’s bunker could possibly have to do with the present situation he couldn’t imagine. He was just jabbering, but he tried to give his words some sense of importance.
“Hitler’s bunker. Right,” said Justin, nodding thoughtfully. “Maybe he’s got a point.”
Brett lowered the gun, and Franklin, his heart pounding, slowly backed toward the door. Ott looked at him with a pathetic yearning, as if he too would have liked to get the hell out of there.
Then, more terrified than ever now that his back was turned to these gun-toting nutcases, Franklin walked through the front door and down the crumbling concrete path to the street. He turned once, to see the house number so he could give it to the police, and was relieved to see only the two dogs staring at him through the window. Presumably Ott was trying to persuade Brett and Justin to call the cops and to refrain from screwing around with the crime scene in some ditzy attempt to confound imaginary enemies.
A few blocks away, Franklin found a 7-Eleven with a pay phone. He called 911 and told the dispatcher that he, in the company of Ron Ott, had arrived at Gilmore’s house and found him shot dead. “There are two vicious-looking dogs and a couple of goofy kids with guns in there, too,” added Franklin helpfully. After giving his own name and address, he called a cab.
It arrived just as the sound of police sirens became audible. Franklin got in gratefully, gave the driver his home address and collapsed against the back of the seat, closing his eyes. He’d been through the most hellish experience of his life, and all because of that damn radio station.
The driver turned around and said to him, “Mind if I keep the radio on? There’s weird stuff happening at this funky little AM classical station. This guy locked himself in the studio and he’s going crazy.”
“Why not,” said Franklin, feeling completely defeated. Hadn’t Alice Jordan told him something about Phil going berserk? Apparently his ranting was interesting enough to the cabdriver.
With a snicker, the driver turned up the volume.
Franklin flinched as the sound of Phil’s voice filled the cab. “This is Classic KLEG on your AM dial,” he said. “Franklin Payne, if you’re listening, remember you have precipitated a terrible crisis. You are responsible.”
“Oh, my God,” said Franklin.
“He seems to have it in for this Payne character,” explained the driver. “This is pretty wild stuff.”
“In fact,” Phil went on, “it is a crisis of global proportions. It is time to open the red envelope.”
“Not the red envelope!” said Franklin.
“What?” said the driver.
“Forget about the address I just gave you,” said Franklin. “I want you to take me to that radio station.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“What’s he doing now?” asked Daphne, squinting through the studio window.
“Oh, my God,” said Judy. “He’s messing around with the EBS file.”
“What’s that?” asked Stanton Edgecombe.
Teresa put a hand on his arm. “The Emergency Broadcast System. We’re only supposed to open the red envelope in case some government authorities call and say there’s some huge disaster. The red envelope has codes in it, so we know we’re talking to some legit authority. That way, cranks can’t call up and say a volcano is about to erupt or something.”
“Here it is!” announced Phil wildly. He pulled out a sheaf of papers, looked puzzled for a moment, flung a few of them to one side and then shouted, “Yes! Tango Romeo Bravo Whiskey!”
He pushed his glasses up his nose and grabbed a large booklet. “We interrupt our program at the request of the White House,” he began in agitated tones. “This is the Emergency Broadcast System. All normal broadcasting has been discontinued during this emergency. This is KLEG-AM. This station will continue to broadcast, furnishing news, official information and instructions for the Seattle area as soon as possible.”
“We better shut him down,” said Bob in grave tones. “There could be huge FCC fines involved. In all my days in broadcasting, I’ve never heard of anyone messing with the EBS stuff.”
“The civilian population could be alarmed,” said Stanton Edgecombe. “We can’t shut him down without an explanation in mid-broadcast. We’ve got to get in there.”
Phil was still reading: “Do not use the telephone. The telephone lines should be kept open for official use.”
Stanton Edgecombe examined the door hinges.
Phil, after rummaging around some more in the EBS file, segued neatly from the White House message to another booklet, this one a yellowed old relic.
“Oh, my God,” said Teresa. “He’s got ahold of that funky old civil defense brochure from the fifties. We should have cleaned that file out years ago.”
Outside the building, Franklin threw some money at the cabdriver and ran into the station just as Phil was saying, “Warheads are aimed at Seattle. Remain calm. Proceed in an orderly fashion to your nearest civil defense air-raid shelter as soon as possible. Authorities will give you further instructions there. If you do not know where your nearest air-raid shelter is, prepare basements and cellars with food and potable water for seven days, blankets, and battery-operated radio receivers. An all clear will sound when the highest danger of radiation poisoning has passed. This is not a test. This is an actual emergency. If you are at home when the blast comes, stay away from windows, as the blast will shatter them.”
“You’re damn right it will,” said an enraged Franklin. Picking up an office chair, he shouted, “Stand back!” and proceeded toward the glass at a fast clip, carrying the chair over his head.
* * *
“I wonder how things are going at the station,” said Caroline, sipping her first margarita of the day and leaning back in her lounger next to the pool. “I haven’t had the heart to call and find out, but with Franklin in charge, I suppose everything will be running smoothly.” A light breeze riffled the palm fronds far above her head.
“How much do you think KLEG is worth?” asked Jeffrey in the lounger beside hers. Like Caroline, he was wearing a swimsuit, sunglasses and glistening sunblock.
“Oh, I don’t know. Lots and lots, Franklin says. I feel like a rat deserting KLEG, but you’ve convinced me that I must think of myself for a change. I need to make my mark as my own person, not as an extension of Mama.”
“Exactly,” said Jeffrey.
“Besides,” she said, smiling fondly at him, “I made the decision to keep KLEG going before I knew I’d meet you. All my prioriti
es have changed, darling.”
“Why don’t you call your brother and tell him?” said Jeffrey. “Maybe he can unload the thing right away, send you a check, and we can get started on the rest of our lives.” He leaned over, removed his sunglasses, kissed her and said fervently, “Oh, my darling, I’m such a lucky man.”
A few minutes later, a waiter had brought them fresh margaritas and plugged a phone into a convenient jack cunningly fitted into the border around the patio. A call to Franklin’s office elicited the information that he was at KLEG, having just called in from there to collect messages.
The phone at the station rang about fifteen times before Judy, sounding very frazzled, answered it, and passed her over to Franklin.
* * *
Franklin was calmer now. The straight-backed, take-charge man, whom Franklin didn’t know but who he thought might be from the FCC, had had a good idea when he suggested that they crisscross the studio window with masking tape before smashing it. The tape had prevented Phil from being injured by flying glass, although at the moment of impact, Franklin hadn’t worried too much about Phil’s safety, filled as he was with rage.
The take-charge guy had then climbed in the studio window, pried the two-by-fours loose quickly with the hammer, and opened the door. The good-looking woman with him had rushed in and taken the microphone to tell the world that nuclear war had not—repeat, had not—broken out, that Phil Bernard would be taking a very long rest in quiet surroundings, and that KLEG apologized for any inconvenience the bogus announcement of Armageddon might have caused its listeners.
A call to 911 produced not the legendary men in white coats with stretcher but a mousy social worker type, a young man in socks and sandals, who chatted quietly with Phil, pronounced him delusional, and arranged for some medics to take him to Harborview Hospital for overnight observation.
