by Ben Rehder
“Well, he’s slimier than I thought, which is no small deal,” Traci said. “And he might’ve set a new indoor record for moral bankruptcy. But does it help us any?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, is any of it illegal?” She tipped back in the big soft chair sporting a boozy smile. “I mean using sex as collateral. Right? Wasn’t that the deal? Or wait, is she using sex to pay back the loan or just to get it?”
“I wondered about that,” Rick said, pointing at the tape deck. “Clay said he thinks Universal has either written the loan off or still has it on its books. So it sounds like the sex is what secured the loan but that she had to pay back the principal, presumably with interest.”
“Okay, so what’s the crime? Prostitution? Soliciting?”
“I’m not sure, but–”
“You know, now that I think about it? I wonder if it is prostitution.” Traci reached down and pushed the seat lever. Her feet hit the carpet and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I mean look, a hooker standing on the street is approached by a guy, right? He offers money in exchange for sex. The money only goes one way. He gives her money. She gives him. . . well, you know.”
“Yes, I like to think so.”
“But with this deal, the money is returned, with interest. The sex is just collateral, like you said.”
Rick squinted at her. “I think you’re splitting pubic hairs here.”
“All right, try this,” Traci said. “If I offer to have sex with you in return for money, I’m a prostitute and can probably be arrested. But if I offer to have sex with you for free, I’m just a slut.” She smiled.
Rick smiled, too. “No, you’d be doing charity work,” he said. “But remember, this wasn’t for free. Dribbling had to give her money before she’d have sex with him.”
“But she had to give the money back with interest. So, if you look at it that way she actually had to pay for the sex with him. If anyone’s guilty of prostitution, it’s Dribbling!”
“And as much as I’d like to see someone sell that to a jury, it misses the point, which is this: There were three serious crimes committed here, none of which is prostitution. The first was extortion. We know Captain Jack tried to blackmail Lisa Ramey and Donna Moore, and they really weren’t guilty of all that much, given the topsy-turvy little world we live in.”
“And you figure if he was willing to try it on them, there’s reason to think he’d try it on the bigger fish as well.”
“Deeper pockets and more to lose,” Rick said.
“Which leads us to the second and third crimes. Kidnapping and murder.”
“And maybe two of each. Maybe more.”
“Captain Jack and Holly Creel.”
“Right.”
“So we have to find out what happened to Captain Jack or Holly Creel, one.”
“That’s the first thing,” Rick said. “Then, assuming we find them on the wrong side of the grass somewhere, we have to connect Clay and Bernie to it. We need evidence. But even if we find some, we can’t just go to the cops since Clay, and probably Bernie, are buddies with Chief Dinkins.”
Traci said, “We could try to blackmail them.” She seemed serious. Rick paused, considering the merits of the idea. “I’m kidding,” Traci said. “It’d be more fun to visit ‘em up at Parchman.”
Rick put the tape back in its hiding place then sat on the sofa where Traci joined him. They talked for a while about different points raised by the tape. It turned out that Traci recognized the other voice as that of Kenny Owens, the manager of a branch of Pine Belt Savings and Loan. Traci was less sure, but thought that the Tammy mentioned at the start of the tape could be Tammy Callaway who worked briefly in sales at WAOR and who had competed in some local beauty pageants but who didn’t have that win-at-any-cost attitude.
It was pushing toward two in the morning and the wine was running out. Traci excused herself to the bathroom and Rick reached over and put Uncle Victor on the stereo. He caught the very end of Ballin’ Jack’s Try To Relax as it segued into something by The Sons of Champlin. He pulled out his cigar box and loaded his pipe. He lit two candles on the coffee table and then took a hit. When Traci returned and saw the pipe, she looked pleasantly surprised. She took a small puff before she plopped back down on the sofa. Rick couldn’t help but notice she’d taken off her bra while she was gone. She was beautiful in the candle light. Traci said, “Let’s talk some more about what I’d be if I offered to have sex with you for free.”
Rick weighed his options and then shook his head. He stood up and said, “I’ve got a better idea.” He held out his hand. “Let’s not talk.”
44.
There was nothing particularly romantic about it, which wasn’t to disparage any of the acts that followed. It was more athletic, more like a contest than something from the archives of true romance. Each tried to outdo the other. Faster, slower, longer, harder, more. There were shows of strength and there were weaknesses for certain sensations and it wasn’t long before they were making jokes about qualifying for different events in the mattress Olympics. At one point Traci hopped out of bed and raced out of the room. A moment later she came running back shouting “Broad jump!” and leaped into the bed. They laughed as much as they moaned and they eventually ran out of breath and steam and they fell sound asleep.
The next morning they picked up where they left off. They were in an unusual position and engaged in a rather vigorous deed when Rick thought he pulled a hamstring. “Shake it off,” Traci said. And he did. It was just a cramp.
Afterward they showered, dressed, and went to Kitty’s for breakfast. Rick had the chicken fried steak and eggs special while Traci had a mushroom and sausage omelette. “Now, you can’t be acting all mushy and lovey-dovey at work,” Traci said. “We don’t want to let on.”
“I think I can control myself,” Rick said.
“Uh huh. Some control.” She pointed her fork at him. “You told me you had a rule about not getting involved with co-workers.”
Rick shrugged and said, “Yeah, well, maybe I’ll do something to get myself fired.”
“All right, but just so you know, I can’t make you a kept man on my salary.”
“Maybe you oughta get-chu a better job,” Rick said.
Traci laughed at the way he said it. “I think you got yer accent back,” she said, shaking her head. “Get-chu a better job.” She looked at her watch and sort of giggled. “You better get-chure butt on over to Riverside park for the thing. Who’s setting up over there?”
“Supposed to be Rob and J.C. But you’re right. I oughta get on over there.” Rick pulled his wallet and paid the tab. “You comin’ with?”
“I think I’ll go home and change,” Traci said. “It’s too warm for these sweats.” Then she winked at him and said, “But I’m comin’ with later.”
45.
On his way to Riverside Park, Rick stopped at a florist. He handed a note to the woman behind the counter and asked her to send a dozen yellow roses to the address he gave her. Then he headed to the park. To his surprise the weather was cooperating. The forecast had called for a sixty percent chance for rain, so Rick was expecting cloudy skies. But it was a clear blue Mississippi day.
Riverside Park was on the western edge of town on a small rise not far from the Strong River. The park had nature trails, a swimming pool, and playgrounds spread over a couple of hundred acres. In the center of the park there was a stand of eight Italian cypresses that formed a tall backdrop to a large concrete platform that was used as a stage for everything from graduation ceremonies to theater-in-the-park productions.
The WAOR Prize Patrol Van was parked on the grass nearby. Rick parked next to it. The Allman Brothers were booming from a pair of big speakers standing next to the van. J.C. and Rob stretched a banner across the back of the stage. WAOR-FM – Redefining Classic Rock!
After setting the speakers on the stage, the three of them set up the WAOR Prize Barrel which would hold al
l the contest entries. The size of an oil drum, it was made from a metal mesh you could see through. Mounted on a stand, the barrel had a Z-shaped handle to spin it on its axis. There was a small hatch in the middle allowing you to reach in to draw the winning name.
Rick was eager to see the turnout. The next ratings book was two months away and he wanted to get a sense of how the format was doing before that. One of the good things about live promotional events was that you could meet your audience and talk to them. It gave you a qualitative measurement of the real audience as compared to the contrived quantitative audience measurement you got with the the conventional ratings system which Rick considered inherently flawed since it forced stations to employ programming that was proven successful in getting ratings as compared to actually building an audience.
Rick felt he could objectively argue that programming based on the ratings methodology tended to serve the station owner more than the audience and Rick was one of those finicky guys who considered that a violation of the FCC license and a betrayal to the local citizens to whom the airwaves belonged.
Anybody with a big budget could give away sweaty wads of cash at 7:15 every Thursday morning during a ratings period. It was called ‘forced listening’ and usually resulted in a document that said you had the largest measured audience for morning drive time. Of course those people probably listened only for a total of twenty minutes, spread out over four days and not every day from six to ten in the morning as the sales staff would suggest. But what happened when you weren’t giving away money? Were those same people listening then?
Rick knew that if you had the highest ratings in a time period, the price for ad time would soar beyond what local businesses could afford. And that was fine with the sales manager since national franchises with regional co-op subsidies would swoop in and buy all that pricey time. The problem, from a local perspective, was that late in the afternoon when the audience was hungry and driving home from work, they’d hear ads for McDonalds and Pizza Hut instead of locally owned businesses, which could only afford to buy time between midnight and six, when they weren’t even open.
Of course when you’re trying to earn a living on commission, you can’t reasonably be expected to concern yourself with the idea that Mom and Pop put money back into the community and that their businesses give the community its unique identity. And if you work in sales you certainly can’t worry that those who profit most from the franchises by-and-large take money from the community in exchange for a bunch of minimum wage jobs.
With all that in mind, Rick wondered why Clay wasn’t giving the thousand dollars away in smaller parts, say, two-fifty a week for four weeks. But he didn’t think about it for long. The contest had been put in motion before Rick arrived and the whole thing was out of his control.
People started showing up around eleven with ice chests and picnic baskets and barbecue grills. Rick and the other jocks mingled with the crowd and talked about the music. On the whole it was a fan-fest. One guy in his late forties, said to Rick, “Man, when I heard you go from Clapton’s Easy Now to Van Morrison’s Wild Night, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. You never hear that kinda thing on the radio anymore.” Of course some came to complain but they did so reasonably and not without dropping their name in the barrel for a shot at the thousand bucks.
The weekend DJ back at the studio was having a good shift, mixing a steady stream of rollicking, good-time, blues-based boogie from J. Geils and Wet Willie to Black Oak Arkansas and Brownsville Station. It took Rick back to the seventies when carefree, barefoot teens with long-hair and cut-off jeans tossed footballs and Frisbees and smoked a little pot and had some hot fun in the summertime.
Rick was caught off guard when a woman snuck up behind him and grabbed him in a bear hug. She started kissing his neck and whispering in his ear, “You are the sweetest man I have ever met.”
Tight in the woman’s grip, Rick couldn’t turn around. He said, “Sorry. I didn’t get your name.”
Traci gave him a squeeze. “You can call me whatever you want,” she said. “Long as you keep calling.” She let Rick turn around. “I don’t know if I liked your note or the roses better. My heart just felt like it swole up.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I know a good cardiologist.” He kissed her then looked around. “We’re not supposed to be doing this in public. I thought you said you could control yourself.”
“No, that was you,” Traci said. “I know better than to say stuff like that.” After kissing him again, she saw something over his shoulder. She said, “Sorry, but you’ll understand later.” Then she slapped him, spun around, and left in a huff.
Rick was still rubbing his cheek trying to figure out what had happened when he heard someone sniggering behind him. He turned around and Clay said, “Yeah, she’s a hard nut to crack, all right. Tch. I give it a shot every now and then but that girl can wiggle out of a corner.” Before Rick could say anything, Clay gestured at the crowd. “Pretty good turnout,” he said. “Just think how many mighta showed up if you’d used that Pink Floyd song like I told you.” He gave a little wink then said, “You seen our beauty queen? She’s s’posed to be here by–” He looked past Rick and waved at someone. “Air she is. C’mon, lemme introduce ya.”
Rick turned to see Joni Lang, the newly crowned Miss Loblolly Pine, walking toward them in a designer sweatsuit. She wasn’t the tallest beauty pageant winner Rick had ever seen but the pinkish-red, spike-heeled, open toed pumps she was perched on gave her the allure of a six foot strumpet. Clay introduced her to Rick then gave her a lingering pat on the ass, which she obviously didn’t appreciate. They made small talk before Rick excused himself to get ready for the drawing.
A little before three, they took the stage. Rick had planned to emcee the actual drawing but Clay pushed him toward the prize barrel and grabbed the mike himself. “Hey, all right, how’s everybody doin’? I’m Clay Stubblefield, general manager at WAOR, the station with rrrreal rrrrock, rrreeeaaalll cash!” He thrust a fist in the air to punctuate the line and the crowd responded with a tepid round of golf applause that gave Rick perhaps more satisfaction than it should have. “Okay, before we do the drawing I’d like to introduce somebody who probably doesn’t need an introduction, but what the heck. She’s a McRae native, folks, so let’s give a big WAOR Classic Rock welcome to the newly crowned Miss Loblolly Pine, Joni Lang!” He turned and offered his open palm to the side of the stage and Joni sashayed out sporting a big tiara and doing the beauty queen wave. She stopped midway across the stage and, in one deft motion, yanked off her sweatsuit to reveal a thong bikini. Clay flashed the ‘okay’ sign and said, “All right! Joni Lang! Let’s hear it!” He waved a fist in a circle over his head while making a whoop, whoop, whoop sound as Joni crossed the stage to where Rick was standing next to the barrel.
“Well, okay,” Clay said, “Let’s get this show on the road. Rick, why don’t you give it a spin and let Joni draw the name for third prize?” He held up a stack of CDs. “The folks over at T-Bone Records put together a collection of their top ten classic rock discs and man are they good ones!” Rick cranked the big barrel around half a dozen times then opened the hatch. Joni drew a name and handed it to Clay. He called out the name and a young woman in the crowd let out a happy scream and came running up to collect her prize. They repeated this process and gave away dinner for two at Steak & Surf.
“All right,” Clay said. “Everybody ready? It’s time for the moment of truth. Can I have a drum roll please?” The DJ back at the station played the sound effect. Rick popped open the hatch. Joni reached in and pulled a name then handed it to Clay. He fumbled it a bit then looked at the entry form and said, “WAOR’s grand prize winner is . . . Ken Stigler!” He shaded his eyes, looking out over the audience. “Ken Stigler! You out there?”
A big guy in the back of the crowd let out with, “Yo! Right here!”
“We have a winner,” Clay said, pointing at the guy who – based on his mutton-chop sidebur
ns and worn leather coat – Rick figured for a Steppenwolf fan.
The DJ back at the studio went into the Beatles singing, Money (That’s What I Want) as Ken made his way to the stage. People clapped him on the back and gave him the thumbs up for his good fortune. Clay made a big gesture and said, “C’mon up here, Ken. Get your one thousand twenty-nine dollars from WAOR-FM, the station with rrrreal rrrrock, rrreeaalll cash!”
Ken whooped and hollered and gave high fives to everybody with a hand in the air. A photographer from The McRae Monitor came on stage and took some pictures of the winner accepting the poster-size check from Clay with Joni Lang and Rick standing alongside.
After the photos, the party continued. The Beatles segued improbably into a flashy set of Bowie, Mott the Hoople, and Roxy Music. Rick was standing over by the WAOR van talking to J.C. when he noticed Joni Lang still on the stage putting her sweatsuit back on. He thought about asking her if Clay had ever judged any of the pageants she had competed in and, more to the point, if there had been any contestants named Tammy. But that got sidetracked when he noticed Joni looking around as if to see if anyone was watching her. She walked over to the edge of the stage and looked into a cardboard box that had become an impromptu trash can. Joni quickly reached into the box and pulled something out. Then she stuck it in her pocket and hurried off the stage.
46.
After the event, Rick and Traci went back to his place. “That’s a nasty burn,” Rick said as he untied the knot on Traci’s halter top. “You should’ve let me put some sunscreen on you.”
“I know,” Traci said. “I was bad. But I was having so much fun.”
Rick squeezed a dollop of aloe vera into his hand and said, “Brace yourself.”
