Radio Activity (The Rick Shannon series)

by Bill Fitzhugh

  “Can’t, I’m--”

  “You’re baby sitting, I know, but it’s not like I’m proposing that we do anything in front of the child.”

  “Kitty’s gonna need some love tomorrow night, too.”

  “Yes, but will Kitty be baby sitting?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then it’s a date.” Rick paused before he said, “Is that why you called?”

  “Nope.”

  He waited for her to continue. When she didn’t he said, “Do I have to put on a really long record and come over there and pull this out of you with a pair of needle-nose pliers?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Then what’s it gonna take?”

  “Play me a song.”

  “Name it.”

  “No. You pick one.”

  A record came to mind and he snickered. “You sure?”

  “I’ll call you back after you play it.”

  Rick finished the Boogie Chillen set before playing Traci’s song. Then he cleared his throat, turned on his mike, and said, “Tommy Bolin with the title track from his 1975 album, Teaser. And you know who you are.” The request line started blinking immediately. “Well, the phone lines are lighting up now,” Rick said. “So let’s get back to the music. This next little gem was produced by Jimi Hendrix, though he doesn’t play on it, which is a pure shame. Here’s Cat Mother and the All Night News Boys with Good Old Rock and Roll on WAOR-FM.” He pulled off his head phones and picked up the phone. “AOR.”

  “Bet you think you’re pretty funny,” Traci said.

  “Hey, you told me to pick, so I picked. Now what were you going to tell me?”

  “Would it have killed you to play something romantic?”

  “I’ll do that after you tell me whatever it is.”

  “Okay, you’re gonna love this,” Traci said. “I heard back from Tammy Callaway.”

  “What’d you tell her?”

  “That somebody told me that they overheard Clay telling somebody else about some girl that wanted him to come back to her motel room and pee on her. And she knew exactly what I was talking about.”

  “Get out.”

  “Picture this,” Traci said. “It was that beauty pageant down on the coast, right? All the girls and judges and promoters were havin’ this pre-pageant reception and cocktail party. So, Tammy and this girl named Melinda something or other, Tammy couldn’t remember the girl’s last name, but the two of them were talking to Clay and a couple other men who were going to judge the thing. They were talking about fitness and makeup and Botox and all that kinda stuff when this Melinda girl mentioned a news story she’d heard about how there’s a chemical in urine that doctors said helped reduce wrinkles. Well, Clay just jumped all over that, Tammy said. He wouldn’t shut up makin’ all these dumb comments. He started nudgin’ the other judges and winkin’ at ‘em and sayin’ stuff like how he’d be glad to go on back to Melinda’s room and piss on her if that was the sort of thing she was into. Two hours later Tammy heard him tellin’ the story to somebody else, just like he does on the tape.”

  “Boy’s got an overactive imagination.”

  “That’d be a charitable way of lookin’ at it, I guess.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “That’s it, except that Tammy and Melinda lost to some girl named Mitzi.”

  “Didn’t say anything about blackmail?”

  “Well, since Clay was makin’ the whole story up, I couldn’t see there was anything to blackmail her with, so I didn’t ask.”

  “Good point,” Rick said. “So where does that leave us?”

  “Leaves us trying to figure out what to do with Bernie and Clay. And leaves you playing me something romantic.”

  “Coming up,” Rick said. “By the way, did you like the Boogie Chillen set?”

  “I did,” Traci said. “But right now I’m more interested in a hoochie coochie man.”

  56.

  Rick decided to make Traci’s the last song of his show. But what would he play? Over the years, Rick had shown a tendency, when smitten, to play fabulous, if sappy, old nuggets like Jim Croce’s I’ll Have To Say I Love You In A Song. Its melody and lyrics had an undeniable romanticism, at least to some ears. But Rick’s experience had taught him that one woman’s romantic was another’s puerile sentimentalism. He knew if he went too sweet, he’d come across as a dewy-eyed schoolboy, not exactly the image he wanted to convey. So he decided to avoid that school of song altogether.

  Next he considered playing something tender but ambiguous. A pretty song with vague lyrics, open to interpretation. Something that wouldn’t make him sound like a stalker if read in open court. Not that such things were likely to happen but, as Rick liked to say, it was a funny world and one just never knew. After thinking on it for a minute, Crosby, Stills, and Nash’s Helplessly Hoping came to mind with its exquisite harmonies, sweet melody, and harmlessly hopeful lyrics. But when he looked at the clock he realized that from where he was, the 2:38 of the CSN would leave him two minutes shy of midnight, which was one of those things he just couldn’t do.

  He needed something in the five minute range and he needed it quick. The song he was playing was thirty seconds from its cold ending. Rick didn’t have time to weigh the possible impact of any lyrics of a song that fit his time requirements, so he took the easy way out. He grabbed Abraxas and cued the sensual Samba Pa Ti.

  57.

  Rick walked into the station the next day and stopped dead in his tracks. Traci was sitting at her desk with the most elaborately made up eyes Rick had seen since the last Kiss tour. She tilted her head just so and said, “How did you know I love that song?”

  “I’m a professional,” he said. “I just know these things.” Privately, he was thinking, Phew.

  “That was the song that was playing the first time I . . .” Traci decided not to say the words, instead she made a happy thrusting motion in her chair that made the point. “Anyway--”

  Both of them jumped when they heard a violent thud against the common wall shared by Clay’s office and the reception area. Rick imagined the dent Clay’s thick glass ashtray must’ve put in that old paneling. This was followed by the sound of muffled yelling, but not so muffled that you couldn’t understand Clay saying, “Goddammit, Lori! Look at what you did! I am so tired of this shit, I can’t tell you!”

  Mrs. Stubblefield’s voice pitched to high indignation. “You’re tired? I don’t doubt it, all the ‘business’ trips you take! You think you’re so damn slick, but you’re not. Don’t think for a minute I don’t know what’s going on. And don’t think I won’t call that lawyer either!”

  “Go on then, call,” Clay said. “You need a dime? Here’s a handful. But you ain’t gonna call nobody and we both know it, so just go on, get outta here. I got work to do. Jesus!”

  Traci grabbed at the stack of mail on her desk and slapped a copy of Billboard into Rick’s hands. “Read!” He buried his face in the charts while Traci feigned a phone conversation. “Yes, of course,” she said. “I can fax a rate card right away. If you can hold while I get. . .”

  Lori Stubblefield stormed through the lobby and hit the door at full speed, rattling the glass. A moment later Rick and Traci heard squealing tires. Rick went to the door to watch as she fishtailed onto the street. He turned and gave Traci a look of concern. Traci said, “Don’t worry about it. They do this every month or so.”

  “Do they?” Rick looked back and forth between the hallway leading to Clay’s office and the front door. “Interesting,” he said, almost to himself.

  Traci held up her hands. “It’s not my problem and I don’t ask.” She started separating the mail into different stacks. “Some people just think that’s a normal way to behave.”

  Rick shook his head at that before saying, “By the way, there’s no W-9 on file for the contest winner.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Any time you give away over six hundred dollars, you’re required to get a signed W-9
and issue a 1099 at year’s end. I don’t think you’re required to get the W-9 immediately, but it’s usually done when you hand over the money, so it looks suspicious.”

  “But it doesn’t prove the contest was fixed.”

  “No, it doesn’t. That’s why I wanted to talk to Joni Lang who, it just so happens, paid me a little visit last night.”

  Traci dropped the stack of mail and looked sharply at Rick. “She did? When?”

  “Just before you called.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me last night?”

  “I was trying to get laid last night,” Rick said.

  Traci fixed him with deadly eyes. “Trying to get laid by whom?”

  “By youm,” he said, mocking her tone. “All that talk about kitty still needs some love and that sexy little cat noise you make. . . had me distracted or I’d’ve told you.”

  “Did Miss Loblolly Pine have anything useful to say?”

  “Better than that. She has some evidence.” Rick recounted Joni’s story about Clay palming the entry form. “She’s keeping it in a safe--” He stopped when he heard Clay’s voice. He was in the hall talking to one of the salesmen and it sounded like he was heading toward the lobby. “Film at eleven,” Rick said as he grabbed his mail. “I’ll be in production if anybody needs me.” He went down the hall toward his office and the studios.

  There was a short stack of national spots to dub, some of which required local voice tags. As Rick prepped his work, something occurred to him and, for the first time since Captain Jack’s sister visited, he thought to look for a phone patch in the production room board. None of the pots were labeled ‘phone’ so he lifted the cover and looked at the guts. There were a couple of wires that had the distressed look of having been yanked out with no small amount of fury. He traced them back and, sure enough, they led to the phone.

  It was more evidence but not the kind Rick thought he needed. What he needed was to find Captain Jack’s body stuffed inside the board with a note in his pocket explaining where to find the rest of the evidence. Then he’d have something to work with. A couple of frayed wires in a ratty old mixing board weren’t going to prove anything.

  Rick did the first three spots and was about to lay down a voice track on a forth when the phone line for the production room started blinking. He paused everything, pulled off his headphones, and picked up the phone. “Production.”

  “Rick? It’s Donna Moore,” she said in an urgent whisper. “Have you been out there yet?”

  “You mean DeWayne’s house? No, not yet. I was thinking about--”

  “Stop thinking and go,” she said. “He’s here right now. Renting equipment for a job he’s doing this afternoon.”

  Rick threw all the production orders back to his ‘IN’ box and said, “I’m on my way.” He was out of the station in five minutes. Ten minutes later he was barreling down a county road looking for a landmark that Donna mentioned in her directions, specifically a double-wide trailer with a front door awning fashioned from the hood of a truck. That’s where Rick was supposed to turn right. Down that road three miles was the driveway Rick was looking for. He stopped at the mailbox. There was no name on it. He stepped out of his truck and looked inside. A handful of junk mail and an electric bill addressed to Mr. DeWayne Ragsdale.

  Rick pulled in. He didn’t know if there was a Mrs. Ragsdale or a pack of junk yard dogs to deal with or perhaps both. He parked next to a rusting Plymouth Duster mounted on the traditional cinder blocks. As he sat in his truck looking at the property, he couldn’t help but think he’d been lied to. On more than one occasion, people born and raised right here in Mississippi had told him that nobody in the Magnolia State really lived in a place like this. “That’s all just negative stereotyping,” they said. But here he was, looking at it. Rick came to the conclusion that if anybody was guilty of perpetuating this sort of cliché, it was the likes of DeWayne Ragsdale.

  It was a single wide, white with rusting trim. There were several tires on the roof and more strewn about the . . . what would you call it, Rick wondered, it wasn’t a lawn or a yard, it was just dirt, weeds, and trash under a canopy of pine trees. Mostly fast food containers, beer cans, and cigarette cartons. There was also a cheap bench press with 120 pounds on the bar and an olive green washing machine that had been tilted against a tree and used for frequent target practice.

  Rick got out of his truck and went to the door. He figured if there were dogs they’d’ve been on him by now and if a woman answered the door he’d just act surprised, put on his best Hee Haw accent, and ask for Billy Bob. When no one answered his knock, Rick tried the door. It was locked.

  He looked through the front window. The nicotine film coating the other side of the glass lent the living room an old-fashioned sepia tone appearance. Rick could see an old sofa in front of a big screen television. There was also a rack of expensive looking stereo gear and a tall stack of DVDs and CDs all of which Rick suspected DeWayne had acquired for less than the full retail price. Or maybe he’d used his cash prize for some of it.

  Rick circled around the side of the trailer, checking each window but they were all locked. Peeking inside the various rooms, Rick thought of Neil Young and he began to sing one from the Harvest album. A man needs a maid.

  He came around to the rear of the place and saw an aluminum tool shed and a big lump of camouflage in the back yard which turned out to be a car under an ill-fitting boat cover. He lifted the camouflage and found himself looking at a Corvette. As best he could tell, it was a 1996. Jet black. Rick checked the doors. They were locked. The windows were tinted but he could still see inside. There was a shoe box on the passenger seat, full of cassettes. Rick thought, Who listens to cassettes anymore? Then he had another thought. He pulled out the keys to his truck and scraped at the Corvette’s paint job. Underneath the jet black, it was torch red.

  58.

  Rick handed Traci a piece of paper and said, “This is the VIN number. See if your friend can find out if it matches the number of Captain Jack’s car.”

  “Sure,” Traci said. “I’ll call him.”

  “Thanks, I’ve got to go finish up in production.”

  Traci pointed down the hall. “You gotta go talk to Clay first. He said he wanted to see you when you got back.”

  “About what?”

  Traci shrugged. “Didn’t say.” She picked up the phone as Rick headed down the hall. “Dubya-ay-oh-ahhr,” she said. “Mmm. Hold please.”

  When Rick walked into Clay’s office he was surprised to find himself staring down the barrel of a Remington 870 Wingmaster shotgun. Clay pumped it once. “Jesus!” Rick backed up holding his hands palm-out at his chest.

  “Oh hey, didn’t see you there,” Clay said as he rubbed the barrel up and down with a soft, oily rag.

  Rick approached Clay’s desk from a safe angle, pointing all the while. “What the hell’re you doing with that thing?”

  “Gettin’ ready for ‘coon season, man, whaddya think?”

  Rick looked closer. “With a twelve gauge? Ain’t gonna be much ‘coon left if you shoot it with that.”

  Clay smiled and said, “Ain’t that the truth?” He set the gun across his desk and looked at Rick like he was the one who’d called the meeting.

  Rick waited a moment before he said, “So. . . what? You wanted to invite me on the hunt? Ask if you could borrow my ‘coon squaller?”

  “Huh? Oh, no, nothing like that.” It looked like Clay was about to say something but then he seemed to change his mind about it. He said, “Hey, you find that carport yet? Thing can’t’ve blown that damn far.”

  “Not yet,” Rick said. “But if I can get my production finished in time I’ll go out and look around this afternoon.” He noticed the dent in the paneling where Lori Stubblefield had thrown the glass ashtray, probably right past Clay’s head. “I’ll let you know if I find it.”

  “Good.” Clay kept looking at Rick as if waiting for him to say something.

  “Is that i
t?”

  “No, there’s one other thing.” He gestured toward the bookkeeper’s office. “I heard you were looking in the W-9 file the other day.”

  “I was looking for my paycheck,” Rick said.

  “Yeah, well, don’t worry about that W-9. That’s not your problem.”

  “Didn’t think it was,” Rick said.

  “Good. ‘Cause I’d hate to have to start programming the FM.”

  “I’d hate that too,” Rick said. “But I don’t see how one follows from the other.”

  “I’m just saying, the programmin’s your business. The other stuff’s my business. I don’t mess with yours, you don’t mess with mine. That’s all.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Rick said.

  “Thing is,” Clay said. “There wasn’t a W-9 in there ‘cause that old boy that won didn’t know his social security number so I just sent him home with the form. He’s gone mail it back.”

  “Great. Anything else?”

  Clay picked up the shotgun and looked down the sight. “Nahhh. Just wanted to get that straight. Tch.”

  59.

  Rick walked to the production room with the not-so-vague feeling he’d been threatened. He took it as a sign that he was barking up the right tree. At the same time, staring into the black hole that is a shotgun barrel made Rick realize he had to either rethink his hobby or find some solid evidence to nail Clay.

  After finishing his work Rick went back to his trailer. It was around five when he stepped down from his truck. He looked toward the woods in the direction where his carport was last seen cartwheeling. What the hell, he thought. Take a short run, get some exercise, see if I can find the thing. He changed into shorts and put on an old pair of running shoes and then stretched for a few minutes before starting a slow jog toward the tree line.