by Gail Bowen
Misty shakes her head. “Nothing beyond the usual. The actual sex always took a very small proportion of the time. But early in my career, I learned that the first minutes of a date and the time the client and I spent together after we’d had sex were the key to real client satisfaction.”
“Any tips for our listeners?” I ask.
Misty laughs. “Nothing exotic. Just a little acting exercise. Before I went into a hotel room to be with a client, I’d close my eyes and tell myself that the man on the other side of the door was the man I loved. I hadn’t seen him for weeks. And I couldn’t wait to be with him.”
“You made your clients feel they mattered,” I say.
Misty’s voice is level. “We all want to believe we matter. I made my clients feel there was nowhere I would rather be than with them. It worked. My clients always came back to me. They could have gotten sex anywhere. What they cherished was the welcome I gave them and the time we shared afterward.”
“They wanted the closeness,” I say. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I remember how good it felt to lie beside the woman I loved, and talk. Ariel’s been dead three years. I can still hear the sound of her laughter in the dark. My mind drifts. Luckily, Misty stays on topic.
“You’re right, Charlie,” she says. “People are hungry for someone who will listen and not judge.”
I pull myself back to the present. “That’s pretty much what I do every night on the show,” I say.
The glint in Misty’s eyes is mischievous. “Do you earn eight hundred dollars an hour with a three-hour minimum?”
I furrow my brow. “I’m going to need a calculator for that one,” I say. “But while I figure out my hourly worth, let’s have a listen to Mick Jagger singing ‘Satisfaction’— the anthem for those of us who can never quite manage to get it together.”
I sing the opening bars along with Mick. Nova and Misty shoot me the kind of look sisters give kid brothers who are showing off. I open up my talkback.
“Mick may be getting a little long in the tooth, but he can still nail the pain,” I say. Nova rolls her eyes. She is not a fan of the Stones.
The callboard is lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree. The Inbox is already close to full. I turn to Misty. “Your dance card is filling up,” I say. “Satisfaction is obviously a hot topic.”
I cast a fleeting look in Nova’s direction. Knowing she’s there always anchors me. Nova’s a truly terrific woman—smart, compassionate and real. She never wears makeup. She doesn’t need to. Her skin is flawless. Her eyes are the clear blue-gray of a northern lake. When she’s working, she ties her blond hair up in a scrunchy. She’s thirty-four, my age, but the scrunchy always makes her look like a teenager. I watch as she takes a call. Her body tenses. Suddenly she looks like a teenager with big problems. I open the talkback.
“What’s up?” I say.
She doesn’t answer. Her focus is wholly on the caller. Her thumbnail finds its way into her mouth—always a bad sign. Her nails are already chewed to the quick. Finally, the call is over. When Nova opens her talkback, her voice is small and strained. “That phone call…” she says. “I hope it was a prank, but I don’t think it was.”
“Did you recognize the voice?” I ask.
Nova shakes her head. “No. It was a woman—at least, I think it was. The voice was muffled. But the message was clear. The caller said, ‘Tell Charlie’s guest to watch her step. It’s take-out-the-garbage night. Time to kill all the hookers and wash the streets with blood.’”
I have no doubt that the caller is one of O’Hanlon’s Warriors. I’m furious at myself. I wasn’t even aware the Warriors existed until Dolores filled me in. Kevin O’Hanlon has the time slot just before mine. He sits in the chair I sit in. He uses the microphone I use. He’s been on the air for nine months. I had no idea he was using the microphone we share to foment hatred.
When The Kevin O’Hanlon Show began, I listened to it a few times. His attacks on the granola-eating, Birkenstock-wearing, holier-than-thou, left-leaning intellectuals were nasty. But as Misty pointed out, Kevin developed a loyal following. Over 100,000 people listened to his program every night. Good news for CVOX. But not for the authorities who would now have to track down the person who had uttered the threat. It was a needle-in-a-haystack situation. And time was running short.
Nova’s voice is firm. “Charlie, we can’t handle this one alone.”
I run my fingers through my hair. “You’re right,” I say. “Call the police.”
Misty’s blue eyes are fixed on my face, attempting to read the situation. She’s nine months pregnant. I don’t want to alarm her by telling her about the phone call.
As is often the case, Nova’s way ahead of me. “I’ll send the police a tape of the call,” she says. “And Charlie, I’ll make sure they send over an officer to protect Misty.”
Chapter Three
I feel the first fingers of a headache pressing on the back of my skull. I reach for my aspirin and dry-swallow three. Misty watches without comment. “We may have trouble,” I say, and I give her an edited version of the phone call.
Misty surprises me by not being surprised. “There’ve been rumors,” she says. I signal Nova to change the setting on her talkback so she can hear Misty in the control room. “I still have…connections with other escorts,” Misty says. “Our network pretty well covers the country. We pass along information about dangerous dates and other news that affects us professionally. Kevin O’Hanlon’s Warriors have been on our radar for a while. Warriors groups have been springing up like poison mushrooms in every major city in this country.”
“That’s scary,” I say.
“It is, and O’Hanlon’s support is growing. The Warriors aren’t just targeting sex workers. They’re going after immigrants, Aboriginals, gays and lesbians—anyone who doesn’t fit their picture of what this country should be. At the beginning, they limited their activities to hate-mongering handouts like SLUT ALERT.”
“But they’re branching out?”
Misty nods. “We’ve had reports of Warriors swarming their targets. There’ve been some serious beatings. One sex worker in this city is still in intensive care. The police strongly suspect O’Hanlon’s Warriors are behind the attacks, but they don’t have any proof. Until they have evidence connecting the Warriors to the attacks, their hands are tied.”
“I follow the news pretty closely,” I say. “Tonight’s the first time I’ve heard about O’Hanlon’s Warriors.”
“They’re smart enough to keep a low profile,” Misty says. “The authorities haven’t gone public because they don’t want to cause hysteria. I don’t want CVOX associated with Kevin O’Hanlon. I’d like to fire him, but our lawyers tell me firing Kevin without cause would be a publicity bonanza for him.”
“So you have to keep him on the air.”
Misty shrugs. “The hope is that if we give him enough rope, he’ll hang himself.”
“Satisfaction” ends. Mick is still unfulfilled. Nova’s on the talkback. In the eleven years she’s been producing our show, Nova has dealt with many crises. I’ve never once seen her lose her focus. Tonight is no exception.
“The officer they’re sending to keep an eye on Misty will be here any minute,” she says. “I’ll fill him in on what we know about O’Hanlon’s Warriors. Meanwhile, keep the show moving. Boomer’s on line two.”
Boomer is a long-time listener and an occasional caller. His rumbling bass always makes me reach for the volume control. His laugh is a bear hug.
I lean into my mic. “Hey Boomer, it’s been awhile.”
His voice warms the room. “My lady and I listen to your show every night, Charlie D. Our routine is always the same. We ride our hogs until sundown. Then we pull into a motel and run a nice hot shower. After we’ve soaped each other up and toweled off, we crack open a co
ol one and wait until you come on the air.”
“Sounds like a good life,” I say.
“It’s the best,” Boomer booms. “I like what Misty said about talking. After my lady and I listen to your show, we lie side by side on those nice, fresh motel sheets and talk until we fall asleep. We used to worry we’d run out of things to say to each other, but we never do.”
Misty’s voice is playful. “So you agree that real intimacy is more than the physical act of sex.”
Boomer’s laugh rumbles into our headphones. Misty and I shudder and smile. “Gotta love the physical act of sex,” Boomer says. “My lady and I can still give a motel mattress a workout. I’m just saying that afterward is nice, too.”
“Afterward is nice,” Misty says, and there’s a note in her voice that catches my attention. Like everybody else, I’d assumed Misty married Henry for his money. But one look at her private smile tells me I was wrong. No matter what the cynics say, Misty de Vol Burgh is deeply in love with her husband.
On air, Boomer still has the floor.
“One more thing,” he says. “Misty, my lady wanted me to thank you for not being ashamed of your past. When her kid was little, there were times when my lady had trouble meeting the bills. She did what she had to do. Last fall, her daughter graduated as a nurse. My lady is very proud of her.” Boomer’s voice is suddenly thick with emotion. “And I’m very proud of my lady.”
“You have every reason to be proud, Boomer,” Misty says. “It was a pleasure talking to you.”
“Likewise,” Boomer says. “Happy trails, Charlie.”
“Happy trails,” I say, and the heaviness that has been pressing down on my shoulders lifts.
The buoyancy doesn’t last. When Nova announces our next caller, I know the good times are over.
“Lorraine’s on line two,” Nova says. “She’s the president of Families First.”
I groan. “Aren’t O’Hanlon’s Warriors enough grief for one night?”
“There’ll be more grief if we don’t put Lorraine on air,” Nova says. “Families First is one of the major sponsors of The Kevin O’Hanlon Show. They have their lawyers on speed dial.”
“Kevin O’Hanlon and Families First—a marriage made in heaven,” I say. I open my mic. “Good evening, Lorraine. What’s on your mind tonight?”
“Family values,” Lorraine says.
Over the years, I’ve learned that words can lie, but voices can’t. Lorraine’s voice is so sweet it makes my teeth ache. But under that sugar, there’s the hiss of a snake. It doesn’t take long for Lorraine to strike.
“Charlie, I simply cannot understand why you’re allowing a woman like Misty de Vol on your program. I believe in hating the sin and loving the sinner. But loving the sinner doesn’t mean giving a prostitute airtime to promote adultery.”
My blood pressure spikes. Lorraine has just set a new world record for pushing the buttons that make me crazy. I glance over at Misty. She’s unruffled. Nova looks as if she’s ready to spontaneously combust. She’s keying furiously into her computer. When Nova’s message arrives on my computer screen, I deliver it almost verbatim to Lorraine. My bag of tricks does not include a kindly pastor voice, but I do my best.
“Lorraine, I’ve just been reading the mission statement of Families First. Your organization identifies itself as ‘God-centered.’ That leads me to a question. In a God-centered organization, shouldn’t God be the one making the judgments?”
Lorraine is smooth. “I’m sure God has already made his judgment about Misty de Vol,” she says. I ball my fists and look longingly at the punching bag we keep in the control room for moments like this. Oblivious, Lorraine sails on. “Our mandate at Families First is to make certain that women honor their husbands as heads of the household. A man who knows that all his physical needs will be met by his wife has no need for women like Misty de Vol.”
Nova’s keying into her computer again. Given the distance between me and the punching bag, I’m tempted to use the statistics Nova sends me. In the past year, Lorraine has given more than two hundred speeches to audiences throughout North America. That’s a long time for a wife to absent herself from the head of the household and his physical needs. My good angel wins out. Instead of flattening Lorraine with her own record, I am courtly. “Thank you for taking the time to call in,” I say. “I know how busy you are.”
The sugar in Lorraine’s voice dissolves. “I have other points to raise,” she says.
“I’m sure you do,” I say. “But our lines are full.” Lorraine’s line goes dead. In the control room, Nova raises her fingers in the peace sign.
I return her sign and check my com-puter screen. Next up is Olivia Newton-John singing “Physical.” I introduce the tune and hum along for a few bars. Olivia’s voice has an innocent, sexy bounce that almost manages to clear the air of Lorraine’s poison.
I turn off my mic and lean toward Misty. “I’m very sorry about what just happened,” I say. “I should have cut off Lorraine sooner.”
Misty is thoughtful. “Lorraine’s husband was a regular client of mine. He was the loneliest man I’ve ever known.”
“No one would have blamed you for mentioning that on air,” I say.
Misty shrugs. “I didn’t want to humiliate her.”
I reach over and give Misty’s hand a quick squeeze. “That baby of yours is getting one terrific mother.”
“Henry says he doesn’t think there’s a book on parenting that we haven’t read,” Misty says.
“It’s an important job—might as well get it right,” I say. We exchange a smile and sit back and listen to Olivia Newton-John. When the tune ends, I glance at my computer screen and see that Eric, a first-time caller, is on line three.
I open my mic. “Welcome, Eric,” I say. “I’m glad you could join us tonight.”
“My pleasure, Charlie. I’ve been enjoying listening to you and Misty.” Eric’s voice is deep, rich and assured. He’ll be good on air.
“So, Eric, what are your thoughts about getting physical?”
He laughs. “I’m a paraplegic, so getting physical has never been a simple matter for me.”
Eric’s casual reference to his paraplegia throws me. I’m not certain what tack to take, but he steers us smoothly ahead. “Actually, my paraplegia is what prompted my call. Studies show that paraplegics rate regaining sexual function as more important than regaining the ability to walk.”
“That’s pretty solid proof that we all need intimacy,” I say.
Eric chuckles. “If you’re in doubt, just ask anybody in a wheelchair. I went through adolescence wondering if I was ever going to have sex with anybody other than myself. By the time I hit high school, I’d reconciled myself to life in a wheelchair. Facing a life without intimacy was another matter. It was tough to listen to my buddies talk about the joys of sex with a partner. I was really cheesed off.”
“You don’t sound cheesed off now,” I say.
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m a happy man, and I owe a big part of that happiness to a sex worker named Charity. The year I graduated from high school, my buddies chipped in and bought me a night at a motel with Charity.”
“Better than a matching pen and pencil set?” I say.
“By a country mile,” Eric says. “I guess everybody’s first sexual experience is daunting. If you’re a paraplegic, a lot can go seriously wrong. When Charity walked into the motel room, I was scared to death. When she walked out the next morning, I’d learned how to satisfy myself and a partner.”
“Charity must have been very skilled,” Misty says.
“She was,” Eric says. “And that’s the reason I called in tonight. Charity was kind and patient and she knew what she was doing. She showed me that I could experience physical intimacy and that I could give pleasure to my partner. For a seventeen
-year-old who believed he’d never have a normal romantic life, that was an immense gift.”
“A gift that keeps on giving,” I say.
“You’re right,” Eric says. “Every so often, after my wife and I make love, I think about Charity. I hope life has treated her gently.”
Misty is obviously moved, but her voice is strong. “Thanks for telling your story, Eric. It meant a great deal to me. I know it meant a great deal to other sex workers. I’m glad you called in.”
“So am I,” Eric says.
When the call ends, Misty is in tears. She shakes her head in frustration. “Hormones,” she says. It’s a nice moment, but it seems all our nice moments tonight are destined to be short-lived.
Nova and I are fluent in reading one another’s body language. Tonight she doesn’t wait for her body to telegraph her message. Her voice comes over the talkback. “Ask Misty to announce the topic and give the call-in information,” she says. “Tell her to keep talking till you’re ready to go back on air.”
Nova’s words are a punch in the stomach. She would never hand the show over to a guest unless there was major trouble. I relay the message to Misty. Smooth as silk, she starts delivering the goods.
I exhale and open my talkback. “Okay, shoot,” I say.
“There’s been an email,” she says tightly. “Charlie, I need you out here.”
Chapter Four
The World According to Charlie D has been on the air eleven years. This is the first time Nova has called me into the control room. Her whole body is trembling. She points to her computer screen. The scene unfolding there is beyond horrific. A woman is manacled to a bed. Her mouth is stuffed with a rag to keep her from screaming. The man is naked except for a black cloth ski mask that covers his entire head, exposing only his eyes. As we watch, the man methodically plunges a knife into the woman’s body. Gouts of blood smear the camera lens. On a night without pity, the fact that the blood clouds our vision is a small mercy.
