by Wes Brummer
“Your Sunday program made me feel like part of something bigger. Your words explained the world in an understandable and reassuring way. Your solutions would set the nation to a prosperous future. I long to hear them again.
“I wanted to ask for a radio, but events which we cannot control imperil our world.
“Leaders in our community have deemed it necessary to abandon us. They wish to sell our home and land in a public auction as a way to cut expenses for the county. We will be turned out with nowhere to go. I don’t fear for myself, but what will become of the infirmary patients? Where will they go?
“In a few weeks, our home will dissolve. As time grows short, I pray for a miracle: a way for us to keep our home.
“Pastor Sam, can you save us?
Sincerely Yours,
Beatrice Mullens”
McGurk turned to Gladys. “Excellent. Very perceptive of you to bring this to my attention.” He paced the office floor, pocketed the note, then whirled around. “This letter has a story that will draw listeners in. It will turn my debut into an event.” He scrutinized the top of the page. “Joshua County Farm. What kind of place is that?”
Gladys shrugged. “A poor farm. They harbor the needy.”
“Exactly. A group of indigent workers living in isolation. What do you suppose they wish for? What would they want the most?”
Gladys turned her palms up. “Shelter?”
McGurk scowled, “Shelter…” He brushed the idea away. “Open your eyes. They’re alone and want to be a part of the outside world. They need a place to gather, and a radio would suit that purpose. I suppose they’ll need one with a battery.”
Gladys pursed her lips. “Aren’t you forgetting? Their shelter is about to close.”
McGurk wrinkled his nose. “I’m not about to take on the expense of saving a poor farm.” He continued pacing, eyes furrowed, one hand covering his mouth. “I need to know more about this place. All of you will need to make calls. Where is it? What are the people like there? Who runs it, and how can I contact them? I want this by eight tomorrow.”
Gladys gasped, “It’s after four now. How do you expect us to get that information by morning?” She spread her hands. “Do you see a telephone in here?”
McGurk grunted and reached into his satchel, drawing out some bills. He counted out five dollars and handed the money to Gladys. “The Allis Hotel has a row of phone booths in the lobby. Make your calls from there. Tomorrow is my last day of meetings with the Alliance representative. The brass from the radio station will be there too, so I need to have my facts straight when I’m convincing them to do the impossible.”
“What do you mean?” It was impossible to follow this man’s thinking.
McGurk glared at her. “Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said? The premiere will be live from Joshua County Farm. I’ll present a nice radio to this Beatrice during the program. Think of the publicity it would generate.”
Gladys bit her lip for a moment. “You’re going there?” Apprehension washed over her.
McGurk smirked. “No doubt the engineer will balk. But a remote broadcast could work. With more information, I’ll be able to sell the idea to the Tabors. William and Meredith Tabor own the station. Bill likes a challenge. But it’s his wife, the Snow Queen, who will be the tough sell. If she agrees, then it’s simply a matter of engineering.”
Oh, no. He mustn’t go there. Not if her guess was true. “The poor farm won’t have electricity. Broadcasting requires power.”
“Engineer Gorham touts himself as a problem solver. He’ll figure out the solution.”
Gladys’ mind churned, looking for another obstacle. “The Alliance broadcast is only a month away. There won’t be enough time to prepare for such a broadcast at a location you know nothing about. Doesn’t this sound a bit risky?” Showing Pastor this letter was a mistake. Who would have guessed he would want to go to a poor farm?
McGurk sighed. “Possibly. But the pay-off will be a historic broadcast. You do your job. Mine is to sell the idea. The rest will take care of itself.” Pastor grabbed his hat and satchel. “You have phone calls to make. Good day, ladies.” He strode to the office door, opened it, and stamped out.
Gladys waited a minute before creeping to the door. No sign of the pastor in the hallway. Satisfied, she hustled to Sara’s desk. The handwritten draft of a letter lay in the top tray. Gladys took a page to her desk, produced the envelope, and laid it on top of Sara’s note. For a long moment, she studied the handwriting between the two.
They matched.
She motioned to Sylvia and Marilyn. “You need to see this.”
Marilyn stood up. “What is it?”
Sylvia raised a hand to her lips. “Something wrong?”
“Just the opposite. I know where Sara is.”
Sylvia and Marilyn rushed to join her.
Gladys pointed to the envelope “My first clue was how the envelope was addressed. Nobody writes Attention on a fan letter. But the handwriting was the real giveaway. See how Sara prints a capital A in Alliance? She makes a diagonal line from the bottom to make the crossbar. It matches the A in Attention. The B in Broadcasting is curved at the top just like the B in Broadway on the envelope. There’s no doubt in my mind. Sara is staying at Joshua County Farm.”
Sylvia’s jaw dropped. “What should we do?”
Marilyn frowned. “We should get her. Drive up there now and bring her back.”
Gladys rubbed her chin. “It’s tempting. Joshua is about sixty miles from here. My husband could take us there. Still…the best thing might be to write her back. Find out what she wants us to do.”
Sylvia clasped her hands together. “Sara’s brothers came here askin’ about her. Shouldn’t we tell ’em?”
Gladys pressed her lips together, thinking. “Good point. If she wants her family to know where she is, she could have written to them directly. Or gave us instructions what to do. Nowhere is there a plea for help. She may want us to do nothing.”
Marilyn tapped the corner of the envelope. “The return address says Beatrice Mullens. We should write back to that person.”
“You’re right. Sara may be using a false name.”
“We should tell Miz Sara how we miss her,” Sylvia said. “Find out how she doin’.” The ebony-skinned woman steepled her fingers before her lips. “Iffin’ you think so, Miz Gladys.”
Gladys smiled. “You’re part of this, Sylvia. Those are good suggestions.”
“That letter…” Marilyn’s voice held a serious tone. “The pastor must never learn it came from Sara.”
Gladys lowered her eyes. “That’s why we’re warning Sara. Pastor Sam has stars in his eyes, and he’s about to come calling.”
Marilyn shook her head. “I still think we should bring her back. We can stop any trouble before it happens.”
Sylvia’s eyes became liquid. “But what if Miz Sara sets her mind to stay? Surely, we can do something to help.”
Gladys set her jaw. “There is. We’ll be there when they meet.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Jason McGurk lay on his bed rubbing his eyes. Michael was already asleep. It was nearly midnight and the cabbie had not shown yet. Through the open window, a far-off train whistle pieced the night. A nighttime mockingbird trilled in a nearby tree.
Harlan was late. The taxi driver made it sound so easy to find Sara’s destination. He seemed sincere enough, but there was things he said that made him less than trustworthy. Surely, he wouldn’t take the money and run. No, he wanted the cash—all of it—so he wasn’t likely to disappear.
Jason picked up one of Michael’s pulp magazines. The cover story was King of the Sky and showed a giant airship engulfed in flames with red biplanes circling about. One plane streaked downward trailing black smoke. He flipped to the story and read from where he left off.
“Jackson King, Commander of the Aero Knights, scoured the skies as his zeppelin, The Monarch, burned like a bonfire in the heavens.
The only thing keeping the hydrogen from exploding was the insulating layer of lightweight beruvium coating the buoyant vessel. The armor could sustain bullets, but could it protect against heat? It had to. They blew one of Red Murdoch’s flyers out of the sky. The aircraft fell in a spiral, trailing flames and smoke. That left four planes, each loaded with lethal machine-guns. King needed a miracle or his crew would perish in a fiery explosion.”
Somewhere outside a car honked.
Michael rolled over, muttering in his sleep.
Jason leaped to his feet, crossed to the window, and peered out. A taxi sat in front of the house. Harlan came through! Jason waved his arms, hoping the driver would notice. Headlights blinked. He stepped to his brother’s bed and shook him awake. “Get up. Cabbie’s here.”
Michael blinked, rubbing his nose. “What time is it?”
“Midnight. Get your cash and follow me.” Jason darted out of the room and descended the stairs with as little noise as possible. He flashed out the front door with Michael catching up as he neared the taxi.
Harlan rolled down his window. “Step into my office, boys. We need to talk.”
Jason and Michael glanced at each other, then climbed into the backseat.
The cabbie turned to face them, lighting a cigarette. “I talked to two of the three drivers who drove last Sunday morning. Not many fares so they knocked off early. That leaves the third guy, and he’s out of town. Funeral, I suppose. He’ll be back Sunday. I can’t get an address for you until then.”
“So why are you here?” Jason asked. “We got a deal. No address, no money.”
Michael tapped Jason’s arm. “Let him finish.”
The tip of the cigarette glowed in the dark. Harlan exhaled, filling the cab with smoke. “Yeah, we got a deal. The third driver is scheduled for a double shift starting noon on Sunday. I can catch him then and have your address to you by twelve-thirty.”
Jason waved smoke from his face. “We can take it from here by calling for a cab Sunday and asking for the cabbie who just returned. We don’t need you anymore.”
The driver sucked in another drag. “No can do. I’ve spent a lot of time on this. You give me the other half of that Hamilton tonight and that other five and I’ll get you the address on Sunday. Otherwise, I drive off, and spread the word that you guys don’t pay your fares.”
Jason narrowed his eyes. “Are you welching?”
Michael handed the driver some money. “Here’s the other half of the ten and the five. We’ve honored our half of the bargain.”
Jason gritted his teeth. Michael just gave away any control they had in their agreement.
“Thanks,” Harlan said. “See you Sunday.”
“We’ll see,” said Jason.
“Easy, boy scout.” the driver said. “I remember your ma the day we made the deal. I saw how she looked when she talked about her daughter. I’m not going to stiff you.”
Michael sighed. “It’s been a tough week. We’re not sure if our sister is even alive.”
Harlan whistled. “Maybe you should call the cops.”
“It’s an option. In the meantime, you’ll still get us that address?” Michael asked.
“Will do.”
“Thanks.” Michael got out. “You coming?”
“I’ll be along,” Jason said. “See you at the house.”
After his brother left, Jason turned to the cab driver. “I know you can renege at any time, but I believe you.” Jason thrust out a hand. “Care to shake?”
The cabbie seemed to hesitate, but shook his hand. “You’re not the trusting sort, are you?”
Jason inhale the stale air. “I suppose not.”
“I’ll prove you wrong.”
“Do that. My brother will make sure I eat plenty of crow.”
Harlan chuckled. “That I’d like to see.”
“Sunday then.” Jason left the cab and joined his brother on the front porch.
Michael yawned as he approached. “Now don’t you be yelling at me. I had to give him the money to show good faith.”
“Don’t worry,” Jason said. “We kissed and made up.”
Michael burst into laughter.
Jason turned away to hide his smile. Too bad they weren’t at the café. He’d have won that round.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Saturday, April 13, 1935
Jeremy Gorham rose to his feet, both hands on the conference room table. “Pastor McGurk’s idea of a remote broadcast is impractical.” He hated these daily meetings. With KSKN’s debut with Alliance in four weeks, he ought to be testing the control board they received last week. Sure, the equipment might be new, but the vacuum tubes that made up the insides could have been damaged during transit. Troubleshooting took time, and time was growing short. Crazy endeavors as the last minute wasn’t what they needed. “Our station would have to pay for building a telephone line to a location where a single show will air. Moreover, we don’t even know if a remote is feasible from there. Our resources for such a grandstanding experiment are limited.”
There were four others in KSKN’s smoke-filled conference room. William Tabor, the owner of the station, continued puffing on his long cigar and wiping non-existent ash from his gray suit. Pastor Sam McGurk leaned back in his leather chair scowling, as if he cared less what the hired help said—except he, too, was a hired worker. Charles Lam, the dapper representative from Alliance Broadcasting Systems, gazed at a photograph on the far wall. None of them matter. Jeremy retook his seat. Only one opinion counted—The Snow Queen’s.
Meredith Tabor swept back her feathery white hair with long elegant fingers, peering at him with cool blue eyes. Those cobalt peepers could freeze mercury. She reigned as the radio station’s bookkeeper, chief producer, scriptwriter, and wife to the owner. It was rumored she often dined with Olive Beech, bookkeeper and financial guardian of Beech Aircraft. “And what do you suggest we do instead, Mr. Gorham?” Her voice was quiet, but firm. Joan Crawford could learn from such a voice.
Jeremy shrugged off an icy chill. “Broadcast from here in Wichita, the way we’ve always done. Since Alliance requested a choir to perform on Pastor’s program, we’ve constructed a new studio—one large enough to hold a dozen singers. Let’s use what we have.”
Tabor blew another puff from his cigar. “Sam, go over again what you wish to do, but leave out the sales pitch.”
McGurk glanced at his notes. “I wish to create a singular radio event, a network premiere from a unique remote location about sixty miles from here. The centerpiece of the program would be to present a radio to a deserving group of people.”
Tabor waved his hand with the cigar. Acrid smoke permeated the air. “Yes, yes, I get that. But what is this place—did you say a poor farm?”
“Joshua County Farm is an institution where the indigent pay for their keep by working in the fields. According to the county clerk, they have a telephone.”
Meredith jotted some notes. “Tell us, Pastor, how did you come up with such an extraordinary idea?”
“I received a fan letter from a person living on the premises.”
“Do you have the letter with you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Hand it over, please.”
McGurk gave the folded note to Jeremy, who passed it to the Snow Queen.
Tabor laid his cigar on a mahogany ashtray. “Jeremy, what would it take to get a remote up and running by May twelfth?”
Jeremy considered. “First, we run network quality telephone wire from this station to the broadcast site. That location would become the end link to Alliance’s radio network. Second, we’d need to set up a broadcast station, complete with mixing board and amplifiers. Third, to haul all this heavy, bulky equipment up there, we’d require a large truck, one big enough to hold a generator or batteries since there’s probably no electricity. Generators are noisy. Batteries are quiet, but I would have to convert DC battery power to AC current.” Insane.
Tabor lifted an eyebrow. �
��Is that possible?”
He wanted to say no. “It’s dicey but workable. Dry cells, like car batteries, would work best. We should have an engineer and director at both ends to coordinate the broadcast. A backdoor communication line is a must in case problems arise. When the broadcast is over, the remote crew packs up and goes home. How long a show are we talking about?”
McGurk shrugged. “A half hour, same as a regular show.”
Jeremy shook his head. “The station would lose money.”
McGurk leaned in, scowling. “Surely, alternatives can be found. Perhaps we can use the existing telephone line. Or broadcast using a shortwave transmitter.”
Gorham sighed. Everyone’s an expert. “Both would work after a fashion. What it comes down to is sound quality. The tinny voices of a choir singing over a telephone line sounds terrible—not acceptable for a commercial broadcast. If you were trying to communicate with Admiral Byrd over the South Pole, shortwave would make sense. These signals travel thousands of miles because the waves bounce between the ground and upper atmosphere. They become less reliable as the sender and receiver come closer together. Reception becomes spotty. One area may sound clear, but another location can get distortion. At sixty miles, you’re asking for a perfect bank shot from earth to atmosphere and back down to the ground again. The most reliable signal will always be through high-quality telephone wire.”
The Alliance representative cleared his throat. “You know, there is another way to get a perfect signal without spending a dime for telephone line.”
Tabor picked up his cigar. “How is that, Carl?”
“The same way some of our other stations broadcast baseball games. As your engineer suggests, it’s cumbersome to take the studio to the ballpark. But some stations re-create the ballpark from within the radio studio.”