By the time the sun was stabbing over the flat horizon, I was wrapping up the best shift I'd ever had. Reluctantly, I turned the board over to Georgie Boy, host of the Kick's Morning Show. I signed off on the transmitter log and went home. I was so wired, I didn't fall asleep until noon. A lot of people probably called in sick that morning.
Night Owl didn't phone the next week, but plenty of others did. Some were women confessing murder. A few guys apologized for the whole male gender. Most people quite simply wanted to talk about death and dying, especially of the "unnatural" variety.
I played the role of arbitrator. I'd never fought in the battle of the sexes, so I just stood by and counted casualties. I changed the name of the show to "Death Radio," and I even had some celebrities dialing in. I was caught in the flush of excitement. I felt free, like a teenager with his first car and the whole bright future laid out in front of him like a six-lane highway.
There was a rash of homicides in the city, and officials had no explanation. Gun sales were up, but robbery and rape were way down. My show was number one with a bullet among the overnights in my market. When I went to pick up my check one Friday, I ran into Pudge. He looked like a cat that had swallowed curdled cream.
"Congratulations, Mick. In three weeks, you've escalated to the top of your time slot. We've got sponsors lining up to take your show. We can pretty much name our price. Freddie in sales is shopping for a new BMW, he's so confident this is going to be his big payoff. This 'death' thing is a stroke of genius. You should go into marketing."
And spend even more time with people like you, I thought. I'd rather eat digitalis cheesecake. I enjoyed having Pudge over the fire, so I rotated the spit a little.
"Well, I think we need to automate the show. People just love spending the night on hold." I was about to fan the flames a little more when smugness crept like a shadow across his doughy face.
"Oh, by the way," he interrupted, with an undisguised note of glee, "there's a policeman waiting in the lounge to see you. I hope you're not into those awful drugs again."
I'd been expecting this. The cops were slow in this town, but even they could follow a beacon like the one my show had become. I flipped Pudge a finger and walked past the studio into the lounge. At the table sat a short, wiry man in a rumpled tan suit. His eyes were beady and intelligent, like those of a field mouse. He was eating a glazed donut.
"You must be Mickey," he said, a jawful of pastry muffling his words. "I'm Detective Dietz from homicide."
He held out his hand for me to shake. My hand came away a little bit sticky.
"I've heard that you might know a little bit about this 'Night Owl' character. According to witnesses, she's called here at the station on at least two occasions, apparently just after committing murder."
"I can't control what people are going to say. There's that little matter of the First Amendment."
"There's also a matter called 'withholding evidence,' and its kissing cousin, 'aiding and abetting.' Surely you're familiar with the judicial system by now."
I was about to protest when he held up a hand. "Society considers those debts paid, Mickey. Or should I say 'Michel'? We just want to stop the killings. All this city needs is a female Charles Bronson running wild. The next thing you know, the papers pick up on it and we got a slew of imitators."
"You already know as much as I do. She says she killed some guys who did her wrong."
"Well, she seems to think you're on her side. You haven't done anything to encourage her, have you?" Dietz wiped the crumbs off his chin and licked his rodent lips.
"Look, she's good for ratings. The audience loves her. She connects with people. Maybe there's a murderous streak in all of us. It's not my place to censor immorality."
"That's why there's a Federal Communications Commission, my friend. I'd be willing to bet that a death forum is not what they consider 'in the public interest.'"
"What can I do?" I shrugged. I got the impression that Dietz would be on me like a fly on stink until he wrapped up this case.
"We want to set up a wiretap in the studio and wait for her to call again. You'll need to keep her going long enough for us to get a trace. Our technician tells me that takes about two minutes if she's on a local exchange."
I shrugged again. He would have no problem getting a court order if necessary. "I never know when she's going to call."
"We'll wait. We're on salary. And you have good donuts here. We start tonight."
My Honda broke down, so I had to catch a bus back to WKIK that night. As I walked to the entrance, I noticed a sign with my name on it. It was a good space, right next to the GM's. I noted with satisfaction that it was a little closer to the door than Pudge's.
It was a little past midnight, so I was late signing on. Dietz and an engineer who looked like a junkie were already on the job. The engineer was splicing into the phone system. Bits of bare wire littered the floor like copper worms.
I checked the transmitter readings and apologized to the jock who had to stay late to cover for me. He had a little acne around his mouth. Probably an intern. He looked at me with a flash of something like hero worship in his eyes.
"No problem, Mr. Nixon," he said, handing me the playlist. For a second, I thought he was going to ask for my autograph.
I settled behind the console like a pilot about to launch a jumbo jet. Dietz slouched in one corner with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. The engineer held an earphone against his gaunt head and nodded at him. All systems go, prepare for lift-off, I said to myself. I flipped over the mic key and addressed the waiting ears of Topeka.
"Have some fear, Mickey's here, welcome to 'Death Radio,' only on the Kick. Give me a buzz and let me know what's going down in the dark corners of your mind."
I grinned at Dietz as the board lit up. "Go ahead, caller. You're on," I said, cranking up the pot.
A woman with a stuffy nose began talking. "Mickey, I just wanted you to know how much we love 'Death Radio' here at Floyd's Truck Stop. You don't know how many loafers sit around here on their lazy hind ends soppin' up free refills and listenin' to your show."
"Glad to have you aboard, honey. So, have you killed anybody lately?"
I saw Dietz wince as she laughed. "Now, I don't think that girl's as bad as all that. So she shot a few, sounds to me like they had it comin'. And all the guys around here been tippin' real good this week. Been mindin' their manners, and eatin' with their hats off. Ever bad wind blows somebody good, I say."
"Amen to that," I said. I was beginning to wonder, and not for the first time, if I was playing to people's fears just to be a big shot. To be honest with myself, I was enjoying the success. Let people die if it was good for the ratings. I was beginning to think like a television news producer. Give the people what they want and damn the consequences.
I steadily punched up callers, and every one had a story about some man they knew who was finally shaping up or had died trying. A few knew, "first-hand", about somebody who met their Maker over a little marital indiscretion. Dietz was pale, furiously scribbling on a note pad with the stub of a pencil. He hadn't realized just how out of control the show had gotten.
"Folks, I love you," I said at the end of the shift. "Thanks for opening your hearts to me, not to mention a few holes in people's heads. Night Owl, if you're out there, fly right and keep your barrel smoking. Tune in again tomorrow, skip work if you feel like it, and deep-six somebody if you must. This is Mickey Nixon, stick a fork in me, I'm done."
Dietz was as white as a nurse's bra. He would probably be in an all-day powwow with the District Attorney's office, scrambling for offenses to charge me with. Georgie Boy walked in and surveyed the electronic carnage the police engineer had inflicted. I winked at him and poked the Denon machine with my finger. The Cars started playing "Let The Good Times Roll."
Three nights passed that way, with Dietz as my co-pilot and the skeletal technician as navigator. The phone lines stayed busy. Other stations were covering my show as a
news event, and a few were trying their own Death Shows. But I was the only one with Night Owl. She called that Tuesday at about 4 AM, just after the hourly station ID.
"Hey, Mickey, honey, it's Night Owl," her voice purred over the speakers.
Dietz jumped up, spilling his coffee and adding another stain to the studio floor. The police tech rolled the tape recorder and watched his meters. I reached a trembling finger to my mic switch.
"Hello, Night Owl, it's good to hear your voice. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten old Mickey here."
"I'd never do that. Just thinking about you gets me all hot and bothered. I've been listening, and I like what I hear. It seems like murder's the biggest game in town."
"Yes, but nobody does it like you. Have you done it lately?"
"Well, now that you mention it, I was just with a gentleman who knows how to show a lady a good time. He even did the driving. It's funny how if you walk down certain streets at night, guys just pull over and ask if you want a ride. They'll even try to give you money. But, oh my, the things they ask you to do."
"What did this one want?" I was excited and scared at the same time. Dietz flicked his eyes from the tech to his wristwatch, then to my sweaty face.
"You know I don't talk dirty over the phone, Mickey. That would be unladylike. Let's just say we wound up on a dead-end road. I could feel the pounding of his cheap heart beneath his polyester suit. He said I could do it any way I wanted. The way I wanted was to put it right between his meaty chins and scatter his pea-sized brain all over his nice, clean upholstery."
"Way to go, girl," I said. The switchboard was clogged with callers wanting to talk to Night Owl. There was no time to punch someone in. The tech started nodding down the seconds, his bony head wobbling like a frog on a wire, and I felt dread squeeze my throat.
"Mickey, nobody knows how to treat a lady anymore, except you. Thanks for keeping me going when the rest of the world is going crazy. If only every man were like you-"
I suddenly felt sick.
"Hang up, there's a police trace!" I screamed into my mic, covering it with saliva. I heard a click on the monitors. It was the sound of my world coming to an end, in a stream of dead air instead of the guitar feedback I'd always imagined.
Dietz rushed at me, anger twisting his face into a mask. The tech threw his scrawny arms up in surrender. I leaned back in my swivel chair and stared at the zeroed-out volume meters. "Good-bye, Night Owl," I said, to no one in particular.
Everything moved in slow motion after that. Dietz read me my rights and was about to snap on the cuffs, but in my condition, I was about as dangerous as a goldfish. Once he regained his composure, he was kind enough to let me run the board until another jock showed up. They couldn't reach Pudge, but the GM sent in the pimply intern. I signed off with The Who's "Song is Over."
I've got a battery of lawyers from the American Civil Liberties Union, and they tell me my case will be tied up for years, years I probably don't have. Night Owl left a message on my answering machine at home.
"Mickey, you said you'd never do me wrong, but you're just like all the rest." Sadness had replaced the fire in her voice, and her words twisted in my chest like a corkscrew. "All the joy's gone, but at least I still have my work. I'll see you around. And now I think I'm supposed to say, 'Don't call me, I'll call you.'"
I kept my deejay job. There was no one to fire me. It seems Pudge was found dead in his car. Ballistics tests match those of the other Night Owl murders. The GM decided I have just enough notoriety left to draw a few listeners. They've removed the interface from the studio, and all we have is a request line.
So now I sit and wait. I heard there's been a string of shootings over in Council Bluffs, with a familiar M.O., and it's not a long drive to get here. The request line blinks, as lonely as the last morning star. Wayne is on the other end.
"Looks like it's just you and me," I say.
"Rock on, dude."
I do.
HOW TO BUILD YOUR OWN COFFIN
Blood and nails, that's all you need.
Larry ran his hand over the wood. Smooth as a baby's ass and a mother's tit. He'd planed the cherry himself, by hand, not with one of those machines. Sure, he'd caught a few splinters, but that was the blood part of this business.
And what were a few calluses? Skin turned to dust just as surely as brain and bone did. And your heart probably crumbled faster than any of it. The meat didn't matter. What mattered was how you walked off the stage. That's what they remembered. And Larry McMasters was going to go out in style.
He dipped his brush into the shellac and lifted it to the lamplight. The thick, golden material hung from the brush like honey. If he sealed the wood, it would keep underground for a few months longer, maybe even a year. Would that be honest, though? Wouldn't that be putting just another layer between him and his return to the dirt?
Larry wiped the brush clean on the edge of the bucket and set it to soak in turpentine. Best to go with plain, bare wood. Like what surrounded him here in the barn. The barn itself was like a coffin, except it was filled to busting with life, chickens and pigs and old Zaint the horse. Zaint was so far faded he was about half glue, but he kept heading to the pasture of a morning and turning up again every night.
Larry's pastures had seen more drought than plenty. His days in the world hadn't added up to much. Fourteen years loading produce on trucks paid him with a bad back and a smoking habit. Oh, he'd had about eighteen good years before that, when his parents were still around to pay the bills, but those were so long ago and far away that they might as well have been in a book, or somebody else's memory.
Once in a while over the years, he'd had stretches where getting out of bed wasn't such a lost cause. This last year had shown some promise, which made it the cruelest and slowest of them all. And the blame belonged squarely on Betty Ann Armfield. Betty Ann. Betty Ann.
Larry gritted his teeth and laid the crown molding along the edge of the coffin to test for length. When you mitered the joints, you had to allow for that little bit of extra distance. There would be no putty or wood filler used on this job. No crack could be wider than a spider's leg. Larry's coffin had to be as airtight as possible so the rotting would be proper, from the inside out.
The phone rang in the house. That would be her.
Larry slammed his hammer against the work bench, causing his tools to jump and raising a ruckus among the hens. He looked at the angled box before him, six sides, planks straight, the knots aligned in something approaching art. Not that Larry had much use for art, besides the art of dying. But you did things right while you were on this earth, and let things take care of themselves after you were under it.
The phone bleated again, as insistent as a pregnant ewe. Larry wiped the hammer handle and hung the tool from its pegs. The handsaw gave a dull grin, hungry for another meal of hardwood. Or maybe that was only his blurred reflection. He'd have to polish the saw later. But right now he had to answer the phone.
He stepped out of the barn into sunshine and tasted the mountain air. Rocks, water, grass, and trees, he had plenty of those. He owned seven acres of dirt, some bottom land and a ridgeline. He couldn't own any woman, though, and he couldn't make any of them love his land.
The walk to the house took thirteen seconds, another seven to get through the kitchen, and two more to get the phone to his ear. Betty Ann knew the distance, probably had an egg timer running at her end, and if Larry was ever more than five seconds late "Hello?"
Usually he just said, "Hello, Betty Ann," but once in a while he got a call from work and those damned telemarketers had been trying to give him credit cards lately. He didn't believe in borrowing. You pay as you go, and when you had a chance, you paid a little bit ahead.
"Larry."
"Hey, Betty Ann."
“Where you been?”
“Working in the barn.”
“You and your damned wood. You ready?"
"We ought not talk about this kind of
thing on the phone."
Her laughter sounded electronic, as if she were one of those pull-string dolls. "You've always been paranoid, ain't you, Larry?"
"Just cautious, is all."
"Cautious, my ass. Chickenshit, you mean. If it wasn't for me, you think you'd ever have a woman? Think anybody else could stand you? Any other woman let you play smoochie and run your hand down her skirt and-"
"That's not proper talk for a lady."
"I ain't a lady no more. Not after tonight."
Larry looked out the window, at the long dirt drive that led to the highway. "You sure you want to go through with this?"
"You ain’t thinking of backing out on me now, are you? You better grow some balls and fast."
Larry expected the blue lights to come down the drive any minute, because cops could probably read minds. And if not, they knew how to tap into phone lines, and Betty Ann never could keep her damned mouth shut. "I–I'm with you, honey. I promised, didn't I?"
"A promise from a man. Hah, that's worth about as much as an egg from a mule. You only promised because I was giving you my yummy sweet sugar at the time. Remember?"
Larry clenched his hand around the phone. He nearly flung it at the Franklin stove, but the Franklin had been in the family for four generations. Maybe he'd start a fire with his coffin scraps and melt down the phone later. "Of course I remember, darling."
"And after, that part about snuggling in the dark. Bet you never heard pillow talk like that before."
He had to admit he hadn't. But he didn't want to admit it out loud. Not when they might hear. It was bad enough, him knowing. And Betty Ann knowing. And whoever Betty Ann blabbed to, at the hairdresser's or the Baptist Church or the Stateline Tavern.
"You know that kind of thing gets me all worked up," Larry said. "That's stuff's for in the dark, not out here in the daylight where God and everybody can see."
Betty Ann laughed. "You must have forgot about that time in the hayloft."
"Don't do this, Betty Ann. It's hard enough as it is."
Curtains Page 3