by Alan Orloff
The sounds assaulted him. Talking. Shouting. Musical cell phone ringtones. The food court at the mall was always jammed at lunchtime. Nothing people liked more than cheap, greasy food. And lots of it. He’d finished his Whopper already, now content to glower at anybody coming up to his table, searching for a place to eat. When some slob hovered for a moment to see if he was leaving, he shifted in his chair and began to get up, then sank back down. Sucker! Let him find his own spot. Couldn’t the jerk see he was reading?
Although he wasn’t reading. Not really. He’d been on the same page for the last ten minutes. He was thinking. About his first killing. That pretty-boy intern. As hard as he tried, First Time couldn’t remember all the details of that night. Only colors and shapes and sounds. Black and red. The silvery shimmer of shiny steel slashing. More red. Shrieking. Blood on his hands, in his hair, on his cheeks. Sticky. Nasty. Exhilarating. As soon as pretty-boy stopped moving, First Time had regained control. Slowly his senses had returned to normal. He remembered gazing down at the face. Untouched. Sleeping. At peace. Except for the second smile he’d carved into pretty-boy’s neck. Not so pretty, now, he’d thought.
The crowd thinned. Workers back to work, mall salesclerks back to their shops. Moms back to the ranch so their kiddies could nap. First Time remained, though. He was on a mission.
The sounds of a radio drifted from one of the food stalls. Deejay patter. Quippy, sarcastic, inane. Just like that a-hole Tin Man. Making fun of him. Having a chicken contest. Inviting listeners to recite poems ridiculing him. Some nerve. He wasn’t a chicken. On the contrary. You had to have some large gonads to do what he’d done. What he was going to do. They thought they were safe, hiding behind their little microphones in their little soundproofed room. He’d show them. No one was safe from First Time. No one.
Every thirty seconds or so, he focused on the store directly across from his table, Tops ’N Bottoms. Slim mannequins with large, impossibly shaped breasts cavorted in the windows. All dressed in the latest, hippest fashions. Tangerine and teal, mauve and taupe. The colors seemed chosen based on their clash factor. Inside, he scoped out two sales clerks joking around with each other as they studiously ignored their customers. But First Time only cared about one of the sales wenches.
The little cunt who ripped him to shreds on national radio.
The one with the yellow bikini.
Ashlee.
CHAPTER 25
TWO MORE BLISSFUL days passed as Rick ignored the gathering storm clouds. He and Barb bantered and joked, chatted and chuckled. Never acknowledging the albino donkey in the room. And that’s how Rick felt half the time—whenever he thought about the radio business. Like an old, freakish beast of burden that’s outlived its usefulness. Couldn’t live with it, couldn’t kill it. His style, his sensitive and caring approach, had been passed by for outrageousness in the pursuit of ratings.
Barb had dropped Livvy off at school and then gone grocery shopping. He’d offered to come and help, but Barb didn’t want him tagging along. On her way out the door, she’d muttered something about his help making the task last twice as long. So Rick decided to spend the morning channel-surfing. See what surprises TiVo had for him today.
Before he could even locate all the remotes, he heard a knock on the door. Two seconds later, the bell rang. He padded to the front door, still in sweats and socks. Peered out the peephole. He wasn’t surprised, knew it was just a matter of time until they gave up the phone calls and adopted a more proactive strategy.
Brewster Landis and Celia Perez, come-a-calling. Live and in-person. He pulled the door open part way and leaned his head against it.
“Good morning, Rick.” Brewster’s deep, patronizing voice sounded out of place on Rick’s doorstep. Like a car horn in the woods.
“Rick.” Celia gave him a curt nod. Businesslike.
“Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” Rick said, gazing at his visitors. “What brings you to these parts?” He made no move to invite them in.
“Can we talk to you?” Celia asked.
“Sure,” Rick said. He maintained his position, leaning against the edge of the door.
“Inside?” She asked. “Please?”
Rick could feel the pain in her voice as she had to plead with him.
“Yes, of course. Please come in.” He swung the door open wide.
Rick led them into the living room, one of the few rooms in the house not festooned with Livvy’s toys. He took a wing chair and offered the couch to Brewster and Celia. After they were all settled in and the pleasantries out of the way, Rick leaned forward. “So? Want to watch some TV with me? I think the Price is Right is on.”
Brewster cleared his throat. “Rick, we’d like you back. We’re sorry about what happened, and we’d like to put it behind us. You’re a valuable member of the team and we need you.” It came out smooth and smarmy. Practiced and polished. CEO-speak all the way. Rick would have been disappointed if it was any other way.
Rick nodded, pursed his lips. He knew it was coming, so there was no surprise on his face. But even though it was expected—and had been for days—he still didn’t have an answer. He turned to Celia. “You feel that way too?”
Celia opened her mouth to answer, but Brewster’s voice filled the room. “Of course she does. Celia wants to do what’s best for the show. And this is what’s best. Isn’t that right?” He reached over and patted Celia’s knee. Celia stiffened for a second, then relaxed, and Rick sensed a jolt of electricity pass between the two of them. Rick knew right then the rumors were true; Brewster was sleeping with Celia.
Celia recovered. “Yes. Yes, of course. We need you back, Rick.” She clasped her hands, put them in her lap. Tried to fix her gaze on Rick’s face, but it strayed. Avoiding the truth. Going along with the boss.
Rick leaned back, pretended to think about things. “I don’t know. I’ve been pretty happy this past week.”
“Have you been listening the past few days?” Brewster asked.
“No. Not once. Can’t say I’ve really missed it either.” Rick didn’t tell them about his chat room session.
“Well, it hasn’t been pretty. Those two head cases are fine for a couple of hours, but when they try to fill the entire show, well…Let’s just say it isn’t working very well,” Brewster said, and Rick saw Celia swallow hard, taking things personally. The two head cases were her boys, after all.
“Maybe they just need some time to get used to things,” Rick said.
Brewster leaned forward. “The ratings are diving. Celia’s polling firm’s been on the phone and what they’ve discovered isn’t good. If you’re not behind the mic, too many people don’t want to listen. The fans want you.”
Celia looked like she might be sick.
“I find that a little hard to believe,” Rick said. “Tin Man has fans. I’ve seen them and I’ve heard them.”
“That’s true. That’s why we need both of you. We don’t have much time. What do you say, Rick? Think about it?” Some of the snakeskin oil had evaporated from his words. If Rick didn’t know better, he’d think Brewster actually was displaying some real emotion.
Celia said, “Plus, the listeners seem to like how you handled the whole First Time thing. They think you can relate to him better than Tin Man can.”
So that was it. They wanted him back to attract First Time’s calls. To sensationalize things. To rev up the listener base. To boost ratings. He hadn’t even gone back yet and they were already starting in on him. “I think I’ll pass. Since I left, my whole body has felt relaxed. My head’s been clearer. I think maybe the stress of the show was getting to me. You know, with the whole First Time Killer thing.” Rick started to get up. “Thanks for coming by. It was—”
Brewster interrupted. “Rick, do you have a garden?”
“Uh, yeah. But it’s the middle of winter, it’s not—”
“That’s okay. Celia likes gardens year-round. A real garden aficionado.” Brewster turned to Celia. “Why do
n’t you check it out? See what he’s done with it?”
Celia’s cheeks turned crimson. To Rick, it looked like she wanted to protest, then reconsidered, all in a split-second. “Okay. Sounds…lovely.” She rose tentatively, held up a hand. “Which way?”
Rick pointed. “Straight back. Through the kitchen door. The garden is off to the left, by the fence.”
She left the room for her garden tour.
“Take your time, Celia. No hurry,” Brewster called out to her back, then waited until the door slammed before speaking to Rick. “Okay. Let’s get down to it. Mano a mano.”
“Sure. But where’s Marty?”
“At the station. Someone’s got to keep things running.” Brewster crossed his legs. “I think I can be a little more persuasive. We want you back. We need you back. Tin Man and Tubby are struggling, and I’m afraid our ratings will slip so far we’ll never recover. And if that happens, I think we can kiss our satellite deal goodbye.” Brewster shifted positions, recrossed his legs. “And none of us want that. Lot of money at stake.” A cheery ring tone chirruped from his pocket. “Oh shit. Excuse me.” He pulled out a cell phone and started talking. Some sales-related matter. Somebody was pissed-off, no doubt.
Rick zoned out, thought about the money. When he quit, he gave up his salary, which was not inconsequential. But because of the way the equity agreement was structured, it didn’t matter if a shareowner still worked at the Circus. In fact, the shareowner didn’t even have to be alive; the Rhino’s share had been divvied up between his three ex-wives. So Rick’s stake was not in jeopardy if he refused to return. Unfortunately, if the ratings kept tanking, the stake would be worthless.
Brewster ended his call with an abrupt, “Get it done, now!” and he slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Sorry about that. The sponsors are getting restless. They want concessions. They don’t like our trending.” His face clouded. “Me either. That’s why we want you back. Celia thinks she can improve ratings with what she’s got right now. But she can’t. We need more talent. Despite what she believes, we need some compassion. We need you.”
Rick didn’t answer. Simply nodded and stared at the wall above Brewster’s head. He held the cards right now. But damned if he knew how to play them.
Brewster went on. “If you come back, we’ll reinstate you at your current salary, and give you a small ‘re-signing’ bonus. And I’ll talk with Celia about giving you some additional breathing space. Get her off your back. But Rick, most importantly, you need to think about the bigger picture. With you back, our ratings will climb. Then we can get our satellite deal. And once we get the cash, I don’t care what you do. You can take your millions, retire, and garden all damn day long, for all I care.”
“Would I report directly to Marty?”
Brewster leaned back, put his arm up across the back of the couch. Looked at the coffee table for a minute. Raised his head and met Rick’s eyes. “Let me be frank. You owe me, Jennings. I brought you here after you were down and pretty near out. I saved your career. Without me, you’d be playing country music on some AM station in the desert for a bunch of jackrabbits. I gave you a second chance, and now I’m asking you to give me one.”
Rick nodded and started to speak, but Brewster’s phone rang again. “Christ! We’d better get going. Fires to put out, all day long. Would you mind telling Celia it’s time to go? And Rick, think about what we’ve discussed. Time is running short.” He stood and pulled the phone out again, already yakking as he walked to the door.
CHAPTER 26
THE BELLY UP was always busy at lunch. Burgers, sandwiches, salads. Chili. Homemade soups. Decent food and cold beer made up for the consistently lackluster service. Too many people trying to scarf down lunch at the same time. After Brewster’s and Celia’s visit, Rick had asked Winn to meet him there for lunch. Rick wasn’t under any time constraints today, and, these days, Winn pretty much did as he pleased. Today they were sitting in the newer, brighter section.
“We’ve missed you, buddy.” Winn curled his fingers around his mug of beer. Trailed a fingertip through the condensation.
“Yeah, right.”
“Hey, with you gone, the inmates are running the asylum. And Celia is fueling the fire. I give the Circus two weeks—at most—before it self-destructs. And with it, our big fat satellite deal.” Winn shook his head slowly. Somberly. “Oh well, I can always do voice-overs, I guess.”
Rick glanced around the restaurant, hoping to spot their server. They’d ordered their burgers a half hour ago. “They asked me to come back.”
“No shit?” Winn’s face lit up.
“None whatsoever.” Rick kept his expression neutral.
“Who? Marty?”
“No. Brewster himself. And his little marionette-girl. Both of them.”
“Nice to be wanted.” Winn smirked. “Did they beg?”
“A little. Gave me the ‘For the good of the team’ line. I tried not to laugh out loud.” Rick saw their server heading toward them carrying a couple of plates. He leaned back to make room, then watched as she passed by on her way to a table farther in the back. The aroma of greasy French fries wafting by made his mouth water.
“So? Should I organize a welcome back party?”
“I don’t know. Barb said I should go back. Said radio is my life. In my blood. I gotta tell you, I haven’t missed it this past week.”
“I’d like to quit too. But…” Winn said. He took a long draw on his beer, leaving only an inch or so of amber liquid. His arched his neck, scanning the room for the waitress.
Winn sounded wistful, but Rick knew—for a fact—Winn would be completely rudderless without his news job. The grass is always greener. Or, as Winn himself liked to say, the wattage is always higher at another station.
“Shit. Where’s our wench? I’m thirsty.” Winn swirled his remaining beer around, then emptied the mug in one gulp.
“What would you do?” Rick asked.
“You mean, would I come back?” Winn faced Rick, glassy-eyed. “I’d have never left in the first place. I’m a big talker, but I’d work there for free. Radio is my life. Especially now.”
When the beer started to flow, Winn always brought up his late wife. Rick didn’t want to go there now. “Pretend you’re in my shoes. Would you come back?”
“You love the business. I know you do. What you don’t like is the Boss Bitch. And all the chuckleheads’ bullshit. Even though the Rhino was abrasive, he had some standards. Not like Tin Snips and Tummy.” Winn glanced around, making sure no one was eavesdropping, like he was about to deliver the secret bombing codes to end World War II. “Why don’t you get a job at a different station?”
“I signed a no-compete when I came here, and Barb doesn’t want to move. Says it’s not fair to Livvy.”
“So there’s your answer. Come back. I mean, after all these years of putting up with shit from P.D.s, haven’t you figured out a way to deal with it?” Winn winked.
Their server arrived and set down their lunches. Enjoy. Winn ordered another Amstel. Rick picked up his burger, sunk his teeth into it. If it were a few degrees warmer, it would be ice cold. He contemplated sending it back, but decided he didn’t want to wait another forty minutes. He put it down and started on the fries. Inexplicably, they were piping hot. Winn had already wolfed down half of his burger.
“Yours warm?”
“Not even close. But I’m hungry and I can’t drink on an empty stomach.” He kept on chomping. “Where were we? Oh yeah, your job. If you need more persuading, here it is. Two words: Barb and Livvy. They’re counting on you.”
“You’re right, I know. I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
Winn shook his head. “Something else, too. You have to come back for the good of society.” He paused, letting his pronouncement hang.
“I’m not following you. Most people would say society would be better off without talk radio.” Rick pushed his plate away. His appetite had disappeared.
�
�First Time. You’re the jock he seems to trust. Maybe you can reel him in. Keep him from killing anyone else. And you have to get our own house back in order. After that shit with the chicken contest and the psychic, who knows what those dimwits will do next. You have to come back. People’s lives are at stake. Ours included.”
CHAPTER 27
RICK DIDN’T LIKE to talk about himself. Not because he was too modest; it was because the topic of Rick Jennings bored him. But first he’d gone to Winn asking for his advice, and now it was Barb’s turn. Maybe he wouldn’t have to talk about himself for another ten years, if he were lucky.
Barb spoke too fast, with too many bubbles in her voice. Rick could tell she was straining to act cool. Didn’t want to scare him off with her relief. She seemed unaware of her “tell” and Rick didn’t let on. Didn’t want to embarrass her.
“Well, if you think it’s what you want, then I support you.” She took a plate from the counter, rinsed it off, and set it in the upper rack of the dishwasher, next to the others. They’d put Livvy down for bed early and had a late dinner, just the two of them. Now she was filling the dishwasher while he helped. “You know I just want you to be happy.”
Rick handed her a Pyrex baking dish, encrusted with the remains of baked chicken. “I know you do. That’s what I want, too.” He watched her scrape off the bottom of the dish with a knife. Bits of food flew into the sink, mixing with the dirty water to create a primordial soup.
“They want you back. Maybe they’ll keep their word. Make things better. Rein in Celia.” She bent over and wedged the baking dish between the powder-blue nylon tines of the lower rack. “You’ll see. Things’ll be better.”