(Music up)
(“You’re really digging your grave, Jackie,” the girl says, worry lines marring the ivory perfection of her forehead. “Oh, don’t get on my back, Kris,” he says, cueing the next record. “Sybil does the same damned thing, and I can’t stand her.” The girl winces at the comparison between herself and Whalen’s wife, and settles back with the stub of her cigarette. Whalen leans over in the console chair and pulls at his lower lip, mumbling to himself. “What?” the girl asks him. “I forgot to bring that damned revolver with me today,” he says. “I left it in the nightstand.” The girl rises once more, walks to the console and snubs the cigarette in the large ceramic ashtray. “You might need it today,” she says. Her face is unmarked by lines of annoyance or worry. It is obvious she thinks no harm can come to Whalen; it is obvious in her carriage, in her looks, in her voice. “What the hell,” he says, “I’ll pick it up when I go back to the apartment to change. It’s safe where it is.” “But are you?” the blonde demands. He ignores her, and watches the black disc spinning under the rapier tip of the diamond needle. As it reaches the final grooves, he flips a switch.)
(Music under, Announcer voice superimpose)
…your cool lips have told me…
…I shouldn’t have loved you…so-o-o mu-uch.
And that was Rod Conlan again, kids, swinging his big new one, “I Shouldn’t Have Loved You So Much.” After this word about Blim, the miracle cream that will rid you of unsightly pimples and blackheads in just one week, we’ll be back to have that talk with the lovely Kris Long.
(E.T. Commercial up)
(He riffles through a sheaf of after-commercial comments written by the continuity department and tosses over the console, “This Blim crap couldn’t remove dirt from a sand pile,” to the girl. She laughs lightly, and examines a fingernail with its polish chipped. She bites at the nail absently.)
(Commercial out, segue to Announcer)
That’s the straight stuff, kids. Blim is guaranteed to do the job, guaranteed to leave your skin fresh and clear and clean, or your money will be refunded. Don’t miss going to that hop just because of unsightly blemishes or blackheads. Jump out right after the show tonight, kids, and fall down on a jar of that great Blim.
And now, what you’ve all been waiting for, let’s call over that singing sensation of Sapphire Records, Miss Kristene Long, whose rendition of “Shagtown Is My Town” is holding tight to first place all around the country.
Hi, Kris.
“Hi, Jackie.”
We’re really thrilled to have you here today, Kris.
“It’s a big thrill to be here, Jackie.”
Kris, let’s get serious for a minute, and find out just how you got into the singing game. You’re a lovely girl, and you look to be—oh, about twenty-one.
“Ha-ha-ha. Why, thank you, Jackie. Actually, I’m twenty-five, and I first got my break singing with Earl Pettifore’s band in Detroit. It was just a step up to singing on my own, I guess.”
Well, that’s really tremendous, Kris. Tell me, how do you feel about the success of “Shagtown Is My Town”?
“Jackie, I’m really thrilled. I mean it’s such a great thrill to know you’ve recorded a song so many people like so much. When Al Hackey at Sapphire first showed it to me, I wasn’t too hot about it, but Al isn’t A&R man at Sapphire for nothing. He certainly—”
—Excuse me, Kris.
For all you kids out there who might not be familiar with the term, A&R means Artist and Repertory, and it’s the title used by the man who selects the songs and who’ll sing them. Sorry to interrupt, Kris, go on, won’t you?
“—well, all I was gonna say was that Al certainly knows a hit when he hears it.”
And so do we, Kris. So for all those kids out there who’ve made “Shagtown Is My Town” the number one song in the nation, here’s Kristene Long doing her rocking, socking version of that big sensation.
(Music up)
(Jackie Whalen cues and then draws a cigarette from the pack and lights it. “One for me,” the girl says, and he hands her the lit one from his mouth. “Much more of this kind of idiot chatter and I’ll be ready for Hysteria House,” she says, drawing the smoke into her lungs. He shrugs, “It’s what the teenaged morons want, so who am I to argue. It’s bought me a Porsche.” The girl points a finger at him, “Yeah, and Florey called attention to it in that damned item. Why can’t you drive a studio car when you’re out with me?” Whalen rubs his lower lip with a manicured fingernail and waves her objection away. “Forget it. There’s no surprises left in this life for old Jackie Whalen, baby.”)
(Music down and out)
Kris, now that we’ve heard your number-one hit parade entry, what’s new for you these days?
“Well, Jackie, right now I’m in town for the opening of my new movie Holiday Rock which opens at the Rialto tomorrow. It’s my first big singing role, and working with such great stars as Fats Domino, Tommy Edwards, Joni James, Gene Vincent and the Redcaps, and Bill Haley was a tremendous thrill.”
Say, that is news, Kris. I know we’ll all be down there for that smash premiere tomorrow at the Rialto. How about you giving us that title again, Kris:
“Holiday Rock, Jackie.”
Well, Kris, it’s about time for some more music, so why don’t we spin that new one of yours, “Mocking Love,” that has everybody so excited.
“That’d be swell, Jackie, and thanks a million.”
(Fade music up)
(Jackie Whalen cues the next record and turns to say something to the girl, who still sits behind the spare microphone at the right-hand turntable. He stops in midturn, for three men are looking into the control room through the huge picture window. He sighs tightly, recognizing one of them. The girl catches the direction of his stare, and turns to look. “What’s the matter?” she demands, looking between them. “Ehrhardt,” he says simply, staring at the squat man in the camel’s hair coat. The man has a brown snap-brim down over his eyes, and a pipe clutched tightly in a corner of his thin-lipped mouth. “I’m getting out of here,” the girl cries, starting to rise. He quiets her with a vicious “Sit where the hell you are. I’ll handle this. I’ve been—been waiting for them.” He beckons to the men to enter the control room. The red ON THE AIR lights has gone off. One of the taller, silent-faced men with Camel Ehrhardt opens the door to the control booth, and the squat man enters. “How’d you get in, Camel?” Whalen demands in a cheery, false good-humor voice. The squat man draws a metal chair up to the console and sits down. He speaks with difficulty around the pipestem. “We have ways,” he says, in a cultured, dulcet tone. “We asked you to cooperate with us, Jackie. You know we have a lot of time and money behind Wally George. We hate to see all that dough going down the drain so you can make a buck off that dog Conlan.” Whalen begins to speak, but the record ends. He motions to everyone for silence, noting the half-crazed expression of terror in Kristene Long’s blue eyes. He flips a switch.)
(Music out)
That was Kris Long’s big new one, “Mocking Love,” kids. And here’s Mitch Miller and his orchestra on the Columbia label with “The Munich Drinking Song.” So, sing along with Mitch!
(Music up, automatic gain reduces volume set too high)
(Camel Ehrhardt draws a large, meaty hand from a patch pocket of the camel’s hair coat. A .32 Police Special is clutched in the hand. “Jackie, you’re going to make radio history tonight. Your listeners are going to be the first to hear a man actually die on the air.” Whalen cues in the next song and settles back in the chair, and the two sidemen of Ehrhardt move around the console toward him. “You can’t commit murder while we’re broadcasting, Ehrhardt.” He laughs at them. “Too many people saw you come in and too many people would see you—” Ehrhardt interrupts rudely, “No one saw us come in, no one sees us go out.” He takes the pipe from his mouth. Jackie Whalen’s full lower lip trembles and the girl is trying to suck up all the air in the booth through a big wet hole in her face. Whalen pu
ts a flat palm against the air to ward off Camel Ehrhardt’s action. “Hold it a minute, Camel. I’ve been waiting for you to come around to see me. Look, there’s no reason why we have to be on opposite sides of this thing.” The squat man cocks a heavy eyebrow. “No? Why not? Am I supposed to like penny-ante chiselers who take nicks out of my till?” Whalen leans forward and the bully-boys twitch with readiness to pounce on him. “Listen, Camel, you can make twice as much as you’re making now.” Camel Ehrhardt’s face tilts querulously, and he says, “I’m listening to you.” The record rasps as it catches in the last groove, and Jackie motions Ehrhardt to silence for a moment.)
(Music down and out)
Mitch Miller and “The Munich Drinking Song.” Looks like another hit to follow “Bridge on the River Kwai March” and “Children’s Marching Song.” That one is really big this week. As my buddy Ed Sullivan says, “A reeeleee big shewww.” Old Jackie wants to take sixty seconds now to give you the word about Sparkle Toothpaste, kids, so bend your ears around this word from Wayne Marks.
(Commercial record up)
(“Go on,” Ehrhardt says. Jackie looks at the huge clock on the wall, timing the commercial, and launches quickly into “I’ve got Rod Conlan and you’ve got Wally George. So okay, why couldn’t the Syndicate—” Ehrhardt snaps, “Don’t call us that!” and Whalen pales, then continues, “—why couldn’t your group have both of them? That way you have two moneymakers going for you. And I could make you a mint on both of them, by plugging their hits.” Ehrhardt’s gun hand wavers, and he stares thoughtfully at Whalen for a long time. “You want to cut us in on Conlan?” Jackie nods. “What percent?” Ehrhardt asks. Jackie motions him to silence, and cuts in over the commercial’s fading sound.)
(Commercial out, segue to Announcer)
For teeth that shine like true love, kids, don’t get steered onto any brand but Sparkle. It contains the miracle ingredient PAX-60 and it tastes like fresh, clean mint. So when your toothbrush is empty, don’t be startled…be Sparkled!
Now here’s one you’ve been asking for, and we’re sending this one out to Angie and Phil, Marcia and Carl, Dave and Someone Special, and all the kids out at the Triangle Dairy Hop. Here it is, that big new one for Jerry Lee Lewis…“Rip Tide”!
(Music up)
(“Goddamit, Whalen, what percent?” Ehrhardt asks again. The gun hand has steadied. “No percent,” Jackie Whalen answers, cueing and grinning hugely at the same time. The girl draws a sharp breath, and the two bullyboys cast appreciative glances at her sweater front. “Straight out sale, Camel,” Whalen says. “Fifty thousand and he’s yours, contract and all, with my personal guarantee that I plug the hell out of his records. As well as Wally George’s stuff.” The squat man licks his thin lips for a moment, and his face is a mask of imperturbability. “Why the fast change of heart, Jackie?” Ehrhardt asks. Whalen spreads his hands. “You boys don’t think I’m going to buck you, with your organization, do you? I bought Conlan’s contract so I could sell it to you. I’ve been waiting for you to come along for a talk. I’m only sorry you waited this long and thought I was crossing you. But now that you can see I’ve got a good property in Conlan, I know you’re businessmen enough not to knock off the goose that can lay the golden eggs for you.” Ehrhardt stares solidly at Jackie Whalen. Abruptly, he slips the still-silent weapon back into his coat pocket. With marked slowness he lights his pipe with a kitchen match. He shoves the chair back and stands up. “I’ll be talking to you.” He nods sharply to the side boys and the three men leave the control booth. As Jackie Whalen reaches for the pickup arm of the turntable the three men pause outside the great control room window, and stare at him.)
(Music down and out)
That was “Rip Tide” and it was Jerry Lee Lewis smashing. Don’t forget, The Spindle, 6720 Seventeenth Street, where you can buy all these hits with that big Jackie Whalen discount. Hits like this one: Frankie Avalon and “Sweetlips.”
(Music up)
(Jackie Whalen sits in silence, lips pressed tightly closed, eyes also tightly closed, the lids trembling slightly. The girl makes a sound, a half-formed word, but he waves her to silence, then rubs his eyes with his fingertips, fiercely. He waits in darkness for the record to end. When it does, he cuts in abruptly.
(Music down and out; cut to Announcer)
Well, today has been a big day, kids. Bigger than you know, really. And I see by the big clock on the wall that it’s almost 8:00, time for your disc Jackie to close down the old shop and say so long till tomorrow. We’ve just got time for two more, so I’ll lay ’em on together and let ’em run out to close the show. We don’t usually hit a platter as hard as we’re hitting these two, kids, but today has been a real special day, so we’ll break our own rule. Here they are, because you’ve made them your favorites.
Here’s Rod Conlan again with that hit you’ve been phone-bombing us to play more often, “I Shouldn’t Have Loved You So Much,” and the extra-beautiful Kris Long with “Mocking Love,” what I predict will be the two big ones of the season.
(Music up)
(Jackie Whalen stands, scratches at himself, and walks to the chair in which Kristene Long sits, her back very straight, her face very pale. “You lead a real rough life, Mr. Whalen,” she says. He leans down, takes her face in his hands and kisses her full on the lips. “You’ll find out just how rough tonight, baby.” He grins. Jackie Whalen straightens, reaches back, and takes the pack of cigarettes from the console. He shakes one out. With the smoke full in his lungs he replies to her unasked questions: “It was a calculated risk, honey. I knew they’d come around to dicker first. The days of the St. Valentine’s Massacre may not be gone completely, but these guys are businessmen, even though they’re hoods and punks. They won’t pass up a chance to get hold of a good property like Conlan. They’ll come across; I made a sale today. That was the angle I was playing.” The girl shakes her head. “They’ll sell him down the river. Lousy songs with big pushes, too many personal appearances, too many bookings for benefits, they’ll screw him good, Jackie. They always do.” Whalen shrugs and sits on the edge of the console. “That’s the way it goes,” he says. “It was either him or me. And he’ll like working for the Syn—for the group.”)
(Segue first record into second)
(The girl stands up and half turns away, tucking a lock of blond hair that has tumbled over her forehead back into place. As she turns, she faces the big control booth window and sees a short, dark woman in a beret and black coat, standing in the center of the glass, staring at them. A peculiar expression trembles on the woman’s face. She is holding a gun out before her, stiffly. “Jackie!” the girl shrieks. Whalen turns and sees the woman. “Sybil!” he gasps, as she brings the gun up an inch. Thoughts pile through Jackie Whalen’s head as the gun travels that inch. They are jumbled, disorganized thoughts. One is:
She did understand who Florey was talking about in his column.
Another is:
How did she find the revolver in the nightstand?
A third is:
How stupid: to make it past one bunch of killers who make their living knocking guys off, just to get it from a stupid, jerky farm girl. Oh, Jeezus!
And the last thought of all is:
There are no more surprises in this life for Jackie Whalen.
And as the crash of the revolver echoes through the anteroom, into the control booth, as the glass of the picture window magically sprouts three small bull’s eyes with millions of radiating lines, as fire and pain and chagrin and cursing fill Jackie Whalen like an empty vessel…)
(Music fade up and GONE. EXTREMELY GONE.)
No Game for Children
Herbert Mestman was forty-one years old. He was six feet two inches tall and had suffered from one of the innumerable children’s diseases at the age of seven, that had left him with a build decidedly pigeon-chested and slim to the point of emaciation. He had steel-gray hair and wore bifocals. It was his avocation, however, that most distinguished him from
all other men: Herbert Mestman knew more about Elizabethan drama than anyone else in the country. Perhaps even in the world.
He knew the prototypes and finest examples of the genre of drama known as the “chronicle history.” He knew Marlowe and Shakespeare (and believed firmly the original spelling had been Shexpeer), he was on recitation terms with Dekker and Massinger. His familiarity with “Philaster” and Johnson’s “Alchemist” bordered on mania. He was, in essence, the perfect scholar of the drama of Elizabeth’s period. No slightest scrap of vague biographical or bibliographical data escaped him; he had written the most complete biography—of what little was known—on the life of John Webster, with a lucid and fantastically brilliant erratum handling all early versions of “The Duchess of Malfi.”
Herbert Mestman lived in a handsome residential section in an inexpensive but functional split-level he owned without mortgage. There are cases where erudition pays handsomely. His position with the University was such a case, coupled with his tie-up on the Britannica’s staff.
He was married, and Margaret was his absolute soulmate. She was slim, with small breasts, naturally curly brown hair, and an accent only vaguely reminiscent of her native Kent. Her legs were long and her wit warmly dry. Her eyes were a moist brown and her mouth full. She was, in every way, a handsome and desirable woman.
Herbert Mestman led a sedentary life, a placid life, a life filled with the good things: Marlowe, Scarlatti, aquavit, Paul McCobb, Peter Van Bleeck, and Margaret.
He was a peaceful man. He had served as a desk adjutant to the staff judge advocate of a smaller southern army post during the Second World War, and had barely managed to put the Korean Conflict from his notice by burying himself in historical tomes. He abhorred violence in any form, despised the lurid moments of television and Walt Disney, and saved his money scrupulously, but not miserly.
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