First Time Killer

by Alan Orloff

  He heard the shuffling first, the soft footsteps down the hall, then felt his wife’s arms snake around him from behind and clasp around his chest. The smell of herbal shampoo and the warm nuzzle at his cheek were inviting.

  “We did good, didn’t we?” Barb Jennings whispered in the dark, although once Livvy nodded off it would take a herd of elephants to wake her before she was ready. “Our little angel.”

  An angel when asleep. An imp when awake. Full of questions and opinions. Just like her mother. “She’s priceless, all right.” He gently closed the door and led Barb down the hall to their bedroom, still arm-in-arm. “Some day, huh?”

  “Yeah. Terrifying. But I bet it got great ratings,” Barb said.

  “Shit. Not you, too.” Rick went to his side of the room, sprawled on the bed.

  “Sorry. It’s just…Never mind. How are you?” Barb shucked her robe and draped it across the chair next to the bed. Climbed in and propped herself up, squishing a pillow behind her head for more height. Didn’t look too comfortable to Rick.

  “I’ll survive, I guess. Celia and I got into it again.” Rick sat up on his side of the bed and untied his shoes. “I hate that woman. In case I haven’t told you that before.”

  “Hmm. I remember you mentioning it once or twice. Or maybe three hundred times.” Barb faced Rick, pillow still jammed under her head. “Things will change once you get on satellite.”

  “If we get on satellite.” Rick rose, headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he returned to the bedroom, he found his wife in the same position as he’d left her. Propped up, staring at him.

  “How come you’re so late? Change your mind and go out for a drink with Winn?”

  “Nope. I was giving my statement to the cops.”

  “For so long? What kind of statement? All that psycho did was call you.” Barb’s voice pitched higher.

  Rick had phoned Barb right after the show to fill her in on what had happened. He said he’d be late, he just hadn’t known how late. He caught Barb’s gaze. “I…”

  “What?”

  “The cops were a little torqued at us.”

  “Why?” Barb scooted herself up taller in the bed.

  “I had to dump out the very end of the call. He told us he’d left something in a trashcan. Gave us the location. I didn’t want it going out on air. Didn’t want to encourage him.” Rick pulled on a pair of sweatpants. Tied the drawstring loosely.

  “And?”

  “And the cops started talking about obstruction of justice.”

  “For Pete’s sake. Didn’t you think about calling the police?”

  He stared at her, bit his lower lip. “I asked Celia to call. Thought she did. Instead, she sent J.T. to do a live stand-up. She’d ream her grandmother on-air if she thought it would be ‘great radio.’”

  “Every program director is like that. At least that’s what you’ve been telling me all these years.” Barb shifted her body, but didn’t take her eyes off him. “Did they identify the victim?”

  “Not yet. All they have so far is the arm. I guess they’re out looking for the body now.”

  Barb shuddered. “Do you really think you know him?”

  He shook his head. “No chance. It’s just a sick fuck playing games on the radio. The cops’ll figure it out in a few days and arrest his sorry ass. Hopefully, they’ll throw away the key, too.”

  Barb got under the covers, adjusted her pillow again. “The Afternoon Circus really needs you. You’re smart, sensitive. Morally strong. You’re the yin to their yang. The sturm to their drang.”

  “Sturm and drang? You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She giggled. “I know. But it rhymed. Sort of.”

  Rick climbed into bed, burrowed under the covers. Reached out for Barb and grabbed her hand. “You know, I’m the luckiest man on Earth. I’ve got two princesses. A big one and a little one. Surrounded by beauty. And charm. And grace. And wisdom. And sunshine.” He cleared his throat. “And complaining. And nagging. And long hair in the sink. And stinky perfume. And—”

  A playful kick in the shins was followed by a poke in the ribs. Then Barb’s lips were on his, and her hands, and her tongue. Anxious fingers clawed for the drawstring on his sweats and the stress of the night drained away.

  CHAPTER 4

  “AFTERNOON, RICK. RECOVERED from yesterday?” Celia eased into the empty chair next to his desk and settled in, crossing her legs. Her skirt rode up, giving Rick a glimpse of thigh.

  “I’m fine, Celia. Getting ready for my show. Hopefully, today will be a little calmer.”

  Celia reached into her leather portfolio and withdrew a folded section of the newspaper, then slapped it on the desk. “See this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Front page of Metro, right below the fold. First Time Killer Calls In. Mentioned the show—by name—six times.” She lifted an eyebrow in Rick’s direction. “Your name, twice. How’s it feel to be a celebrity?”

  “You’ve been telling me I’ve been one for months now.”

  Celia’s cheeks colored. “Well, now it’s official. It’s in the Post. That should increase our audience for the next few days.”

  “Wow. Maybe it’ll double to sixty listeners.” Rick rubbed his hands across his face. “This thing makes me uncomfortable. We should just ignore it.”

  Celia shook her head. Slowly, back and forth, as if she were confronted by a dolt and had to explain how a sandwich worked. “Rick. For. The. Love. Of. God. Yesterday’s show was great. Exciting. Thrilling, even.”

  Rick’s eyes narrowed. “I know that’s how you see it. But I thought it was terrible.” Celia might technically be his boss, but he didn’t have to buy into her warped vision of how radio worked. He just had to get along with her well enough to do his job and earn his paycheck. Provide for his family. It had been a while since radio had been fun for him.

  “It got great ratings.”

  “There’s more to radio than ratings.”

  Celia’s eyes bugged out, then she shrugged and smiled. Patronizing. “Sure, Rick. By the way, I’ve got a couple suggestions for the show, moving forward. Remember, you are Ringmaster Rick of the Afternoon Circus. If you would refer to yourself on-air like that, I’d appreciate it. Gives us uniformity with our promos, you know.” She scratched her chin with a long red fingernail.

  “What about our deal?” Rick asked. “You’re supposed to let me do the show my way. And Tin Man can do it his way. Then let the people decide. Remember?” It had been Celia’s hare-brained idea to split the Afternoon Circus into two two-hour segments. Have Rick host one and have an outrageous shock jock host the other. The guy with the biggest ratings after three months would get the keys to the bus.

  Celia licked her already-glistening lips. “That’s right, that’s the deal. But it’s my job to help both of you get the best ratings you can.”

  Rick opened his mouth to respond, but Celia kept talking. “The recipe for that is simple. Listeners want conflict. Raw emotion. Sparks. Don’t treat your callers like people. They’re actors, looking for their fifteen minutes in the spotlight. Make ’em pay for the privilege. Make ’em squirm. That’s how you get good theater.”

  “I think I’ll leave that for Tin Man. Humiliating callers is his shtick.”

  She glared at him. “It’s what they want, you know. The attention. That’s why they call.”

  Rick just shook his head. There was nothing he could say to Celia to make her understand. “Why did you bring me to the Circus? I was doing fine with my pedestrian little lunchtime show talking to normal people.”

  “That’s exactly why. You’ve built up a solid following. Good ratings. Very good ratings. You’ve seen the book. We need to bring those listeners along, get them hooked on the Circus. I know having you and Tin Man share the stage—as it were—is unorthodox, but sometimes a fire and ice thing works beautifully.”

  “Not this time,” Rick said.

  Celia crossed her arms across h
er chest. “Trust me. We need to focus all of our firepower. I’m willing to throw the rest of the shows under the Metroliner if it will help the Circus.” She tilted her head. “Right now, we need every set of ears we can get. Too bad a murderer can’t call in every day.”

  It took every once of control Rick had to keep his lips sealed. No sense getting into another shouting match with Celia.

  She lowered her voice and glanced around, although they were alone. “You and I both know what happens if we can’t get the Circus ratings up. SatRad won’t buy our show. And then the equity we own will be worthless. We’ll be stuck working the daily grind for the rest of our lives. Can’t you put aside your precious ideals for a few million dollars?”

  Rick splashed cold water on his face. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand it. The pressure, the financial uncertainty, Celia, the Boss Bitch. Things were slowly building to a crescendo, and he was afraid he might go ballistic any day, like one of his crazy callers. He stared into the mirror, trying to picture how he looked twenty-odd years ago, when he was getting started in the business, back when the politics, back-stabbing, and double-dealing were all things to look forward to. There would have been fire in his eyes. Now, all that stared back at him were the cold eyes of a dying ember.

  The door of the men’s room swung open and WTLK News Director Winn Hummel ambled in, newspaper under one arm, canary struggling to escape his mouth. “Hey, Rick. Doin’ okay?” he asked, in a baritone that rivaled Rick’s.

  “You heard?” Winn was off yesterday and missed the killer’s call.

  “Oh, yes. How could you not hear? Fruitcake. Sounded like you did the best you could.”

  “Not sure about that. Got into it with Celia.”

  “Oh? Walk out again?” Winn smoothed his droopy white moustache with two fingers, obscuring the hint of a smile. He reminded Rick of a slightly acerbic, distinguished-looking walrus.

  Rick had walked out in protest several times during the past couple months, each time after—or, more accurately, during—an argument with Celia. Always came back, though. “Yeah. Sort of. Never got out of the building, so maybe it doesn’t count.” A grin slowly grew on his face. “I’m calmer today.”

  “Good.” Winn leaned against the sink next to Rick’s. “Don’t let her get to you. We’ve seen dozens of clueless PDs like her. Dozens. They’re hard charging types, but they’ll burn out soon enough. They all do.” Winn turned toward the mirror and began picking at something in his teeth.

  Rick dabbed at his face with a paper towel. How had he gotten into this position? Not too long ago, he was happy hosting his sedate talk show. Handling listeners’ day-to-day problems with thoughtful, caring solutions. Then the previous afternoon jock, the Rhino, overdosed, leaving the Circus rudderless. With a mega-million-dollar satellite deal hanging in the balance.

  Rick felt Winn’s hand on his shoulder. “You can do it, Rick.”

  “What?” Rick wasn’t sure where this was headed, wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  “Beat that jerkoff Tin Man. He deserves to get his ass whipped.”

  “He’s built up a pretty good audience so far. Maybe the listeners have changed. Maybe they really do want over-the-top shenanigans.” Rick shook his head. Shock jocks had been a staple on the radio scene for twenty years, but it seemed like they were multiplying faster than ever recently.

  “Shock jocks are like ticks. Disease-carrying little buggers, practically indestructible. After the nuclear holocaust, it’ll be the shock jocks left crawling around.” Winn stroked his moustache. “Tin Man will go too far, mark my words. Do something incredibly stupid. Or illegal. Just give him a little time. In the meantime, don’t do anything stupid yourself.”

  “Not planning to.” Rick sized up his old friend. He seemed more weathered than usual. And that was saying something. “You know, even if Tin Man beats me—and the ratings are good enough—the SatRad deal will go through…” Rick trailed off. His equity stake in the deal could be worth something in the five- to ten-million-dollar range, depending on who was doing the estimating. Not chump change.

  “Ah, yes. Satellite Radio. The Holy Grail. Would be nice.”

  “That’s an understatement, old man.” Rick wasn’t the only one who would make out. Others at WTLK found themselves looking at big paydays, too. A what-should-I-do-now-with-my-life kind of payday. All contingent on the SatRad deal going through. And it wouldn’t, unless Rick or Tin Man pulled some huge numbers.

  “I’m just hoping I can make it three more years until I retire.” Winn looked back at Rick. “What do you think? Do I have three more years left in me?”

  “Try thirty more years.” Rick remembered meeting Winn, at his first station in New Haven, on his first day. The aura of authority, the confidence of a professional. Rick was awed from the beginning. The older man had drawn him close and taught him the business, pointing out the landmines and secret passages along the way. But that was many years and three or four stations ago, and the business had changed. Drastically, in places.

  Next to Rick, Winn ran a wet hand through his gray hair, slicking it back. Then he picked up his folded newspaper off the edge of the sink and tucked it under his arm. “Want to catch a cold one at the Belly Up after the show?” Winn asked.

  “Not tonight, buddy. Rain check?”

  “Sure thing.” Winn glanced at his watch. “Have a good show today, Ringmaster.”

  CHAPTER 5

  SHOCK JOCK TIN Man leaned back in his chair and inhaled, savoring the smell of the studio. Sweat, stale coffee, the faint, yet distinctive, odor of electronic equipment. No place better in the world, nothing he’d rather be doing. Where else could he get paid big bucks for calling listeners ho’s and dorks, losers and f-tards? And few things were more intoxicating than being mobbed at an appearance by adoring fans, eager to speak to him or get his autograph or touch his skin. Only one thing better—being on satellite so more people could appreciate his genius.

  He surveyed the studio as the spots played. Bigger and nicer than the one he had in Trenton, even if the beige cinder block walls reminded him of a prison cell. On his first day, to mark his territory, he’d plastered a bumper sticker on the back of the studio door so every deejay in the studio would see it, during every minute of every show. Red letters on a black background. Tin Man: America’s Favorite A-Hole! He’d had ten thousand printed, on his dime, and he passed them out every chance he could. At appearances, at parties. One day, he even paid a kid to put them under the windshield wipers of the cars at Safeway. America’s Favorite A-Hole! Something to aspire to. The more outrageous he was, the better his listeners liked him. And the better he liked himself.

  Four months ago, he’d been the swinging dick at a small Trenton station. They’d promoted him with a Tin Man Takes Trenton! campaign, and he’d enjoyed a steady climb in the ratings. But Trenton was a small radio market, barely cracking the top 150, and there’d been no chance of syndication. Then came the lucky break. One of his idols, the Rhino, checked out, and WTLK came knocking. Washington, D.C. A top ten market. More importantly, the show was syndicated nationwide. It hadn’t taken much wrangling on Celia’s part to get him to run away and join the Circus. Hell, he probably would have ditched Trenton without the big salary and a piece of the action.

  He glanced at his sidekick, Tubby, staring into space, slack-jawed. Cro-Magnon man. Where had Celia found this guy, anyway? Greeting people at Wal-Mart? Tin Man had insisted on having a straight man, someone who could set him up while not hogging any of his precious airtime. And Celia had come up with a rotund, balding guy with permanent armpit stains, whose idea of haute couture was an old Redskins jersey with the number nine stitched on the back.

  Unfortunately, Tubby’s appearance wasn’t his worst quality. The guy was such a milquetoast he hadn’t even blinked at his new radio name. He’d actually said, thank you, when Tin Man told him two million people would be calling him Tubby. What a pussy! Even though he wanted someone he could belittle
and push around, his partner needed to have at least a modicum of personality. They were doing a radio show, after all. Maybe he could give him some asshole lessons.

  “Back from spots in ten, Tin Man.” J.T.’s voice over the intercom ended Tin Man’s internal musings. “Your call is queued up.”

  He counted down the seconds in his head. “Welcome back to the Circus everybody. This is Tin Man, the Heartless One-der, along with the Tubman. Let’s have a little fun, shall we? I’ve got a few questions for the helpful salesclerks over at Macy’s.” He hit the button on the Gentner phone. “Hello? Macy’s men’s department?”

  “Yes, how can I help you?”

  Tin Man detected a trace of an accent, but couldn’t place it. Didn’t matter, foreign was foreign was foreign. “This is Tin Man from the Afternoon Circus. You are on the air.”

  “Um. Okay.”

  “How come there are never any shirts in my size?” asked Tin Man.

  “Well, we do our best to stock all sizes and styles, especially—”

  “Especially ugly rags only foreigners wear.”

  “We carry the latest fashions. From the world’s top designers. And—”

  “Have you ever tried on women’s clothing in the dressing rooms?” Tin Man asked. In the world of shock-jockery, it was anything goes. And maintaining the proper image from the get-go was vital.

  “No. Never. And I don’t see—”

  “I find that hard to believe. Isn’t every sales clerk a little light in the Florsheims?” Tin Man asked, glad he found a career where immaturity was prized.

  “No. And I resent you—”

  “Lighten up, pal. Didn’t you ever drag a saleswoman from the lingerie department into the storeroom and, ah, check out her inventory? Maybe one with big kajongas. All the underwear babes are hot, I hear.” Tin Man turned to his partner. “What do you think, Tubby?”