Radio Activity (The Rick Shannon series)

by Bill Fitzhugh

  “What?”

  “Did you split it fifty-fifty? I suspect DeWayne mighta gone for seventy-thirty.” Donna’s eyes darted side-to-side gauging Rick’s reaction to her accusation. “But then maybe Clay’s in on it too,” she said. “‘Cause I’m not sure you’ve been here long enough to find somebody as back in the woods as DeWayne without some local help and hell, who knows, maybe that girl’s in on it, too.” Donna forked a piece of pie and held it up. “You know, everybody gets a little piece.” She slowly put the pie into her mouth and chewed for a moment, staring at Rick all the while. Then she picked up her coffee mug and gestured with it, saying, “It doesn’t matter. What’s important is, I’m the one that gets to do the blackmailing now.” She sipped her coffee.

  “You’re not serious,” Rick said.

  “No?” She put her coffee cup down. “Tell me there’s not something suspicious about two people using bogus names involved in a contest where one of ‘em’s givin’ money away and the other one’s winnin’ it.”

  Rick had never considered the possibility the contest was rigged. But he was thinking about it now. “Okay,” he said, “from that perspective, I see your point. But the fact is, I only used the bogus name when I came to see you the other day. But this guy, Duane?”

  “DeWayne,” Donna said. “DeWayne Ragsdale.”

  “He’s the one using the bogus name at the contest, not me.”

  “And why should I believe you? Isn’t that exactly what I should expect you to say if you did rig the contest?”

  “I guess it is, but think about it. I wasn’t in a position to fix it. Joni Lang pulled the name from the barrel and Stubblefield announced it. If anybody fixed the contest, it was your old buddy Clay, or maybe the girl, but I don’t think so. She didn’t strike me as the type. Besides,” Rick said. “If I ever go to rig a contest, it’s going to be for more than a thousand bucks.” The waitress slid Rick’s plate of Tater wads and his beer onto the table. When she left, he said, “So if you wanna blackmail somebody, you better go for DeWayne and Clay.” Rick popped one of the hot Tater wads into his mouth in a sort of punctuation to the end of his argument. Unfortunately, the thing was still about 350 degrees. It shot out of Rick’s mouth like a musket ball. “Yaowww!”

  Donna had to laugh at Rick’s pained expression. He grabbed his glass of beer and stuck his tongue into it, hoping to relieve the sting. After a moment he looked up at her and said, “You know, you need to keep more of a straight face if you want to look like a serious blackmailer.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t wanna blackmail anybody. I just wanted to see your reaction when I said it. Wanted to see if I was right about you.” She shrugged. “And maybe I wanted to see how it felt at the other end of the stick.”

  “And?”

  “It’s pretty scummy.” Donna picked up the knife from her flatware set and tilted it back and forth, looking at her reflection in the blade. She looked tired. “I don’t think I’m cut out for that line of work.” She pointed the knife at Rick and said, “How about you?”

  Rick seemed to consider it for a moment. “Well, a couple of things come to mind. First of all, the risk to reward ratio is no good, just ask Captain Jack.” Rick picked up another Tater Wad and blew on it, trying to cool it down. “And second, it’s not enough.”

  “What’s not enough?”

  “It’s not enough to prove that Clay fixed a two-bit radio contest, though you’re probably right about that. But proving it doesn’t give us any leverage against him. He’s not likely to confess to murder in order to keep from being charged with rigging a contest for a thousand bucks.”

  “No, I guess not,” Donna said. “But maybe DeWayne knows something about Clay’s other activities.” She gave Rick a coy look and said, “Maybe I should hire a private detective to look into that.”

  Rick smiled. “Maybe you should.”

  “You recommend anybody?”

  “I know a guy named Buddy Miles.”

  “Is he any good?”

  “He’s cheap. And he’s motivated.”

  “That’s a good combination.”

  Rick nodded and looked down at his beer for a moment before he said, “Do you happen to know where Mr. DeWayne Ragsdale lives?”

  Donna smiled and pulled a piece of paper from a pocket. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  53.

  Eight hours later, Rick’s radio alarm woke him up to the chiming finger cymbals and jangly strings of bouzouki and balalaika of Jethro Tull’s Fat Man. As that led into the halting backbeat of Little Feat’s Fat Man in The Bathtub Rick dragged himself into his kitchen to make breakfast. He was about to butter his toast when Randy Newman came on singing about Davy the Fat Boy. Rick looked down and put his hand on his stomach. Maybe it was time to adjust his diet.

  Rick put the butter away and had his toast dry with some black coffee. He looked out to the woods and thought about taking a walk for some much needed exercise and, as long as he was out there, he’d look for the carport that had blown off in the storm. Unfortunately he had to get to work. He wanted to tell Traci about his chat with Donna Moore and find out if she’d heard from her friend in the used car business. The exercise would have to wait.

  “You’ve outdone yourself,” Rick said when he saw Traci. She’d created a sexy sort of Cat Woman effect with her eyeliner and mascara.

  Traci made a suggestive cat noise and said, “Kitty needs some love.”

  “I could make a scratching-post joke,” Rick said. “But I think you’d rather hear about my meeting with Donna Moore late last night.”

  “What? Why didn’t you--” Traci held up a finger when the phone rang. She pushed a button on the switchboard. “Dubya-ay-oh-ahhr,” she said. “Mmm. Hold please.” She directed the call then looked back at Rick. “Ohmigod, what’d she say?”

  Rick told her about DeWayne Ragsdale and how it looked like Clay had fixed the contest. He handed her the newspaper he’d taken from her desk the night before. She looked at the photo but said she didn’t recognize the guy. “You think he knows something?”

  “Bound to know something,” Rick said. “Question is, does he know something useful? And would he tell me if he did?”

  “You gonna talk to him?”

  “Not yet,” Rick said. “I wanna talk to Joni Lang first. I think she might have seen something.” He picked up the Rolodex and found her number.

  “Oh, by the way,” Traci said. “My friend said there hasn’t been a Corvette up for auction in over a year. He said he’d know too, ‘cause he’d have bought it.”

  Rick gave that a moment’s thought. “Well, that’s too bad. Woulda been nice to find it.”

  Traci glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was coming down the hall before she said, “Also, I called Tammy Callaway to ask her if she knows anything about. . .” She lowered her voice here. “. . .about the woman Clay said wanted him to pee on her. But she wasn’t there, so I left a message for her to call me back.”

  “I’d love to know how you’re gonna phrase that question.”

  Traci waved a hand, dismissing his concern. “Oh, me and Tammy got to be pretty good friends while she was here. She quit because Clay wouldn’t stop playing grab-ass with her. If she’s got any dirt on him, she’ll shovel it my way.”

  Rick’s expression changed abruptly. “Hey, today’s payday, right?”

  “Yeah, but not ‘till after three.”

  “That’s okay, I’m not looking for the check.” Rick headed for the hallway.

  54.

  The bookkeeper wasn’t in. Rick went over to the grey metal filing cabinet and opened a drawer. He read the file labels until he came across one that said: Contest W-9s. He pulled the file and looked inside. There were several W-9 forms from earlier cash giveaways but nothing for Ken Stigler or DeWayne Ragsdale.

  “Lookin’ for something?” It was the bookkeeper, standing in the doorway.

  “Yeah,” Rick said. “My paycheck.” He shoved the file back i
n the drawer and closed it.

  “You’re not going to find it in there.” The bookkeeper crossed the room and opened the drawer, forcing Rick to step aside. The bookkeeper saw the W-9 file out of place. He pulled it out, then filed it properly before shutting and locking the cabinet. “Your check’ll be in your employee mail slot after three. Meanwhile I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your nose outta my drawers.” The two men looked at each other briefly before the bookkeeper said, “You know what I mean.”

  Rick went back to his office to do an air check review with Autumn before she started her shift. He hit the play button on the cassette player and said, “Just listen.” James Taylor’s Mud Slide Slim was shuffling toward its end when David Bowie and Mick Ronson came roaring in with Star from Ziggy Stardust. Rick stopped the tape. “See now, that’s a bit jarring,” he said. “You might have found something a little softer to follow JT.”

  Autumn held her hands up in defense. “Somebody requested Bowie,” she said. “I’m just trying to give folks what they want.”

  “I understand.” Rick held up copies of Mud Slide Slim and Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust. “Come with me.” He led her to the production room. “Not that you usually want to follow JT with the Thin White Duke, but if you do, you might try something like this.” He put the needle near the end of Mud Slide Slim then cued Rock and Roll Suicide by Bowie. As James Taylor faded out, Rick started the Bowie. A slowly strummed acoustic guitar took over from JT, making a nice transition from one to the other.

  “Hey, that’s pretty good,” Autumn said. “I just went with a song I knew off of Ziggy.”

  “If you’re not familiar with a record, just drop the needle at the start of all the tracks and listen for something that sort of matches the end of what you’re playing.”

  After Autumn went on the air, Rick met with J.C. They had their usual arguments. J.C. once again accused Rick of trying to stifle his on-air personality. Rick reminded him that the format was more about music than personality. “And speaking of the music,” he said. “I’m still hearing a lot more metal than I’d like.”

  “Well, you know, sometimes I feel like it’s my job to keep the station from sounding like a twenty-four-hour-a-day folk festival. But, I’ll work on it.”

  Afterward Rick called Joni Lang. His pretext was wanting to discuss the possibility of Joni participating in another station promotion. He asked if they could meet that afternoon but she said she was busy until seven. For a minute Rick thought she was giving him the run around but then she offered to come down to the station while he was on the air that night. “But only if your general manager isn’t going to be there,” she said.

  Rick remembered how Clay had palmed Joni’s ass at the park that day and figured she didn’t want any more of that. He assured Joni that Clay wouldn’t be at the station after five.

  He started his shift at eight. Autumn stayed for a few minutes while she filed her CDs and records before she said good night. On her way out the door, Rick asked her to kill the overhead lights. There were several light configurations that helped create different moods in the on-air studio. Different jocks preferred different lighting. Autumn liked to work under full brights, in this case, a row of fluorescent tubes overhead. Rick had always favored a darker room. He switched on the cool blue and red spotlights over the control board. Off to the side was a desk lamp on a dimmer that he brought up to the glow of a few candles. It soothed him and put him in the right mood for the music.

  Rick started the nine o’clock hour with Gino Vanelli’s Storm At Sunup. Joni arrived a few minutes later. She was wearing jeans and a Hard Rock Café (Las Vegas) T-shirt. It was late enough for Rick to start playing longer songs which would give them an opportunity to talk with fewer interruptions. Hearing the end of Storm At Sunup in his mind, he pulled Quadrophenia and cued side four.

  They made small talk for a few minutes while Rick waited to get into the Who. Joni allowed as how her last name was really Langevoort. “I shortened it to Lang for entertainment industry purposes,” she said.

  Rick went into the Who, overlapping the storm sound effects for the easy segue. Doctor Jimmy, The Rock, and Love Reign O’er Me would play for twenty-one minutes. He turned the monitors down and spun around in his chair. He spoke matter-of-factly, going for a lawyerly tone. “Joni? I have to tell you. I lied about why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Joni said, point blank. “I lied when I said I’d be interested in doing another promotion with your station.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah.” She looked at him skeptically. “I hope you didn’t invite me down here to hit on me.”

  “Uhh, no.” Rick shook his head and assumed a severe countenance. “I wanted to talk to you about a possible legal matter.” He leaned forward and dropped his voice. “In fact there may be an investigation by the Federal Communications Commission and I wanted to--”

  “Is it about the contest?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Good because I saw something and I wanted to tell somebody but I didn’t know who. I thought about going to the police but I saw Mr. Stubblefield talking with the cops at the park that day and it looked like they were pretty friendly. So I thought about getting a lawyer, but, well, here’s what happened,” she said. “I drew the first two names and he read ‘em, and then I drew the third name and I handed it to him. But he did a switch.” Joni mimicked Clay’s awkward hand movements. “He had another one of the entry forms in his other hand. That’s the name he called out. Later, I saw him toss something in the trash and I pulled it out and looked at it to make sure I wasn’t imagining things.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

  Rick told her to keep it in a secure place, a safe-deposit box if she had one. “The FCC will be in touch about your testimony when the time comes,” he said with far more authority than he had.

  Of course the FCC didn’t know anything about the contest, at least not yet. But Rick knew there was a rule requiring broadcast stations to fully disclose the material terms of any contest or promotion they conducted. Failure to disclose that the contest was fixed was an obvious violation. He wondered if basic fraud statutes might also apply. In any event, Rick would contact the feds when the time was right. Meanwhile, Joni seemed to be growing anxious about things and Rick thought that invoking a federal bureaucracy would be comforting in some way.

  “Am I in any danger?”

  “Nooooo.” Rick gave an exaggerated frown and shook his head. “Don’t worry about that. He has no idea he’s under investigation.” He wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “Here’s my cell number. Call if you need me.”

  Joni took the number and said she would make herself available to federal authorities when the time came and that she’d keep the evidence in a safe place in the meanwhile. “But there’s something I don’t understand,” she said. “Are you, like, an undercover cop or something? I don’t get why you’re the one telling me this instead of the FCC people.”

  “My reputation’s at stake,” Rick said. “I’m the program director, and when it hits the trade papers that this station ran a fixed contest, it’s also going to say that I’m the one who brought it to the attention of the authorities. Otherwise I’m out of the radio business and there’s precious little else I’m qualified to do.” This was the first time he had bothered to look at it this way and there was more than a little truth in his appraisal. The trade papers would certainly give bigger play to the murder plot if was proved in court, but the rigged contest on Rick’s watch would be in there too, so he actually did need to cover himself.

  “That makes sense,” Joni said. “It’s sorta like if people found out a girl won a scholarship pageant because she curried favor with the judges.” She shook her head. “She’d never qualify for another pageant.”

  “Yeah,” Rick said, thinking back to some of the opportunities Clay talked
about when he was a pageant judge. “It’s sorta like that.”

  Joni stood. “Listen, thanks for your help,” she said. “It’s good to know there are still a few honest people out there.” Rick demurred at the comment, since he’d been less than honest with her. Joni looked around the studio for a moment. A look of delight sparkled in her eyes and she said, “Hey, could you play a request for me, while I’m driving home?”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Could you play that Steve Miller song about Billy Joe and Bobby Sue who shot a man while robbin’ his castle. I love that song.”

  Rick found himself comforted knowing that radio still had the power to make people smile that way.

  55.

  After playing Joni’s request, Rick veered off in the direction of Boogie Chillen and the guitar riff that he figured was the jumping off point for more ‘classic rock’ songs than any other. John Lee Hooker ended up with most of the credit but the riff had been around since at least Charlie Patton or Blind Blake and the turn of the twentieth century. Rick started with ZZ Top’s La Grange. At the break two-thirds through the song he segued into Shake Your Hips from Exile On Main Street, then, at the break in that one, Rick went back to the ZZ Top without missing a beat. He came out of that into Canned Heat’s Woodstock Boogie and went on from there.

  The phones had been pretty slow for the past hour but around eleven the request line started blinking. Rick picked up the handset and said, “AOR.”

  “Kitty still needs some love,” Traci said before making the suggestive cat sound again.

  Rick felt a surge of blood and he said, “Hubba hubba. Meet me at my place?”

  “Can’t,” Traci said. “I’m baby sitting.”

  “Okay, how ‘bout I come over there?”