by Ben Rehder
“Yeah, well, I was having a drink with Lori Stubblefield when you called.”
There was a moment of silence before Traci said, “What?”
“I thought she might know something so I went over and–”
“You played her the tape? That’s awful,” Traci said.
“As compared to killing people?”
“Granted. But still. . .”
“Trust me,” Rick said. “That woman holds no illusions about Clay. In fact, she was rather eager to get her hands on the tape.”
“You gave it to her?”
“Just a copy. I think it’ll get some play in their divorce proceedings. But don’t worry, I got plenty in return. Matter of fact, with what she told me, I think I’ve got the whole thing figured out. All that’s left is to prove it.”
“Where are you,” Traci asked.
“In my truck at the railroad crossing about a mile from the station.”
“Oh. So tell me what she said.”
“Can’t,” Rick said. “I can see the caboose.”
“So?”
“I don’t have time. Come over to my place after work and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“How about you come to my place, and bring some of that cat nip of yours.”
“Deal.”
Rick got to the station about a minute before he was supposed to go on the air. He raced down the hall and burst into the studio. “What do you have cued up?”
“Train Kept A Rollin’.”
“Take it off,” he said as he grabbed The Beatles album.
Autumn did as Rick said, then moved from behind the board.
Rick plugged in his headphones and cued his song. He cleared his throat, opened the mike and said, “This is WAOR-FM, McRae, Mississippi. I’m Rick Shannon and I can’t wait to feel your finger on my trigger. ‘Cause you know what they say, Happiness is . . .a warm gun.”
67.
Rick got to Traci’s apartment around twelve-thirty. She was wearing sweat pants, a CMU football jersey, and fuzzy slippers. “I made you a sandwich,” she said.
“Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Is turkey okay?” She went to the refrigerator.
“Turkey’s great.” Rick smiled as he listened to Traci shuffle around the kitchen in her slippers. He was surprised and touched that she’d gone to the trouble, not that it was a great undertaking but it was sweet and he wasn’t used to being treated that way. He sat down at the table in the dining nook and told her about how he met Lori Stubblefield at the Booster Club party. “At one point she actually said she knew where all the bodies were buried.”
“Yeah, but that’s just a figure of speech,” Traci said as she cut the sandwich on the angle and put it on a plate. “You want a beer with this?”
“Yeah, please,” Rick said. “I know she wasn’t being literal, but there was something about the way she said it. She’s nobody’s fool,” he said. “She knows what goes on.”
Traci brought the sandwich, a beer, and a bag of chips. She sat down across from Rick. “Okay, keep goin’.”
“After their fight the other day, I figured Lori might be willing to talk, if she knew anything, so I took a chance and went over there.” Between bites of his sandwich he told her what Lori had said.
Traci seemed surprised by one thing. “They just talked about all this in front of her?”
“I don’t think she was in the room taking notes,” Rick said. “But she wasn’t locked up in the tower either. She was expected to serve drinks and cook dinner and be selectively deaf. As long as Clay sent her off to Dallas or Miami on shopping sprees now and again, she did what she was supposed to. Anyway, they never said anything obvious. It was always, ‘We’ve got a problem and I need you to take care of it’ sort of stuff.”
“Then she’s somebody’s fool.”
“I don’t know,” Rick said. “I guess she just found a way to tell herself that Clay and his cronies were talking about legitimate business.”
“So why would she talk now? She’s still gets to go shopping. You think she just wants to get back at him for cheating on her?”
“No, she could’ve done that a long time ago. I think it has more to do with the fact that she now knows real people are getting hurt. She couldn’t tell herself it was legitimate business anymore after I told her about Holly Creel and Captain Jack and the body I found. By the way,” Rick said as he brushed the crumbs from his hands. “Great sandwich.”
“Glad you liked it.”
He pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “She gave me this.” It was a thin yellow duplicate page from multi-page form. He handed it to Traci.
She read the form then said, “What’s is it?”
“A police report.”
She looked at Rick and said, “Oh! You must be the guy from the Department of Duh. I was hoping for a little bit more of that context you’ve become so famous for.” Rick explained how the police report fit into his theory. Traci thought about it for a moment and agreed it made as much sense as anything she could muster. “So,” she said. “Now what?”
Rick wiggled his eyebrows and cast a suggestive glance toward the bedroom.
68.
Traci had gone to work by the time Rick woke up the next morning. On the drive home, he stopped at Kitty’s. They were between the breakfast and lunch rush, so he took a booth by himself instead of sitting at the counter. His favorite waitress approached in her charismatic shamble. “How you doin’, Ruthie?” Rick asked.
“Feelin’ wormy,” she said. “You want mora them Tater wads?”
“No ma’am. I’ll have coffee, grits, and sausage. If that’s okay.”
She poured Rick his coffee and said, “Makes me no never mind.” Then she shuffled off.
Rick huddled over his coffee and thought about whom he should call and what he should say. He figured it made more sense to speak to one of the district lieutenants rather than one of the regional supervisors since the supervisor would just turn around and delegate to one of the lieutenants anyway. Rick thought it best to avoid those in the districts closest to McRae for obvious reasons and the ones in the northern part of the state were too far away. This narrowed it down to the one on the coast or the one up in Jackson. Rick pulled a coin from his pocket and flipped it. It was heads, the guy up on the coast.
The waitress returned with Rick’s breakfast and some more coffee. “Bone appetite,” she said before grousing away. Rick savored the grits and sausage and considered what he might say to whomever he got on the phone. After eating, he went back to his trailer and made the call.
A woman answered. “Mississippi Bureau of Investigation. How may I direct your call?”
“Lieutenant Smith, please.”
“Will he know what this is in regard to?”
“No ma’am.”
She paused. “Well, can I tell him what this is in regard to?”
“Sure,” Rick said. “A dead body.”
“Hold please.”
While on hold Rick was subjected to a Muzak version of a Janis Ian song. Why would you do that, he wondered. Was the original too raucous?
The music stopped when a very serious sounding man came on the line. He said, “This is Lieutenant Smith. Who am I speaking with?”
It hadn’t occurred to Rick that he might have to identify himself and now, suddenly pressured to give up his name, he wasn’t sure if he should go with the truth or not. “Uhh, Buddy Miles,” he said. “Thanks for taking–”
“You don’t sound too sure of yourself, Mr. Miles. You wanna try again or you wanna stick with that?”
Rick was startled by the lieutenant’s confrontational approach. “Uhhh, I’ll stick with that if you don’t mind.”
“I tell you what I mind, Mr. Miles. It’s people wasting my time. Now my assistant said you called to report a dead body. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct. Maybe two.”
“Maybe two? You don’t sound too sure abo
ut that either.”
“Well, I’ve only seen the one.”
“Uh huh. And have you called your local police?”
“No, sir. And I’ll tell you why.”
“Well, that’d be nice.”
“The main suspect is friendly with the local police.”
“Isssaat right? The main suspect, you say. And how is it you have a suspect in mind?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Wouldn’t you know it? And what about your local sheriff, you called him?”
“No sir. I don’t know but the sheriff might be friendly with the suspect, too.”
“So you’re sayin’ all the police up in your neck of the woods’re corrupt?”
“I can’t say, but I didn’t think it was worth taking the risk. That’s why I called you.”
“Uh huh. Where you calling from Mr. Miles?”
“Deckern County,” Rick said.
“That where the body’s at?”
“Yes sir. And I was hoping you might be able to get up here tomorrow to start an investigation.”
“Did you now?”
“Yes sir.”
“Like all I’m dealing with down here is bad checks at the casinos and I’ll just drop everything and scoot up your way based on your ‘uhhhhh, I think there might be two bodies?’”
“That’s not what I meant,” Rick said in frustration.
“Well, just put it out on the porch son, I ain’t got all day.”
“All right, here’s the deal. I’m a private investigator. I’m reporting the discovery of a dead body. I have other evidence and a theory. I believe there are at least three men involved and there’s probably another body to be found. If you’re not interested, fine, just say so. I’ll call someone else, maybe your regional supervisor, maybe the press, and when the story breaks – and it will break – I will be sure to mention your name and your keen lack of interest in the matter.”
69.
“What did he say to that?” Traci asked.
“At that point, Lieutenant Smith made a little grousing noise and said he’d get somebody up here when he could.”
A look of disbelief crossed Traci’s face. “That seems kinda casual, don’t you think? I mean–” The phone started ringing. She held up her index finger then pushed a button on the switchboard. “Dubya-ay-oh-ahhr,” she said. “Mmm. Hold please.” She transferred the call then said, “I mean a guy calls to report a dead body, you’d think there be a little more urgency.”
“You’d think,” Rick said. “I figure I’ll give him a day before calling one of the regional supervisors. It’s either that or just call the sheriff and cross our fingers.”
“Give it a day,” Traci said.
Rick nodded then said, “You want to come over tonight after my shift?”
“Yeah I would,” Traci said. “But I can’t. My niece is spending the night.”
“My luck. Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s good.”
Rick headed for the production room but stopped at the hallway door. “By the way, I meant to tell you last night. You’re remarkably flexible.”
Traci smiled. “Oh that was nothing.” She gave him a little wink. “Just you wait.”
Rick blew her a kiss then walked down the hall wondering how flexible a person could be. He was almost glad he had to wait a night. Rick savored the expectation of events. He believed that one of the most important things in life was having something to look forward to.
Rick walked into the production room and saw stack of production orders, about two hours of work. He grabbed the first one and said, “This week only. Florida pink grapefruit!”
Afterward he grabbed a burger and brought it back to the station. It was seven-thirty. There was no one in the building except Rick and the two jocks in the studios at the other end of the hall. The place was quiet, dark, and depressing.
Rick went down to the employees’ lounge, a grim little space with florescent bulbs that shed too much light on the futures of the people likely to be sitting below. Anyway, that’s how it seemed to Rick as he sat at the messy table in the middle of the room. A red plastic stir stick, chewed at both ends, lay next to a container of powdered non-dairy creamer that had been spilled but not cleaned up. Rick leaned down and blew the gritty white granules off the table. Some stuck. The refrigerator in the corner hummed. The overhead speaker was playing the AM side at a low volume. A syndicated financial adviser whispered investment strategies as Rick ate his hamburger and again wondered, What am I doing here? Here? Hell, why am I still in radio? It’s over. It’s been over for a long time, at least as far as my skills and interests are concerned. I might as well be in the quill pen business.
The overhead financial advisor went to a commercial break. “Are you behind on your bills? Credit card balances piling up? Tired of paying late fees?” Rick tuned it out.
He thought back to Jukebox Johnny Maguire sitting on the sidewalk outside B-Side Vinyl, looking like a sad old gunslinger after law and order had come to town. Rick thought about his years in the business. He’d seen all the changes, from the days when it was still about the music and the community to the moment the consultants knocked down the doors with their reams of research proving that the audience wanted radio to sound more like crap. Rick had watched, wide eyed, as management bought it, as research squeezed the juicy life out of the thing, and as deregulation pissed on the grave. Rick had been a witness to the car crash that was FM rock radio and now. . . now he was sitting in a depressing little employees’ lounge thinking, That’s the way it goes. T’ain’t a bit of mercy in the world and I can’t expect market forces to yield to my nostalgia. He thought of the lyrics to a favorite old Top 40 hit. Bye-bye, so long, farewell.
Rick considered his format for a moment. It wasn’t too long ago that he had high hopes, even genuine enthusiasm, for what he was trying to do. But now he had to admit it wasn’t going to work. It was a combination of things. Gaping holes in the music library. Bush league ad copy for the local spots. And his air staff – well-intentioned and hard working as they were – lacked the experience or polish necessary to succeed without an abundance of personality which they also lacked. Rob, for all his enthusiasm and knowledge of the music, sounded like someone’s kid acting like he knew what he was talking about. He lacked credibility with the core audience. J.C. talked too much and played more heavy metal than a stoned sixties audience would tolerate. And despite all the tutoring sessions, Autumn’s segues remained so jarring that Rick got calls from people asking if he’d hired the deaf girl for equal opportunity reasons.
Could be better, Rick thought. But then again, could be worse. He smiled and took a bite of his burger. On the bright side, I’ve got a date with a very flexible girl tomorrow night and I may be on the verge of sending Clay Stubblefield to prison. So at least there’s something to look forward to.
70.
Rick finished his show that night with a three song set starting with Spirit from The Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus. Over the end of Nature’s Way Rick cross-faded the droning Indian sarod that led to the opening drum licks of On The Road Again. Five minutes later as the Hooker-esque groove gave way to the sarod’s irregular thrum, Rick started his next record. A few halting solo electric guitar licks laid over the end of the long fade of Canned Heat. Then an acoustic piano and rhythm guitar joined the electric and then drums and before anyone knew what had happened, Donovan was singing Barabajagle.
Uncle Victor entered the studio with more praise for Rick’s music selection. “B. Mitchell Reed would’ve been proud,” he said, referencing one of free form radio’s originators.
“You’re too kind,” Rick said as he filed his records.
Uncle Victor cued his first song and put on his headphones. He cleared his throat then opened the mike. “The Jeff Beck Group with Donovan wrapping up the eleven o’clock hour here on WAOR-FM, McRae, Mississippi. Redefining classic rock.” He opened with Blind Faith’s Sleeping in the Ground.
Rick drove home the same way he always did. Since he usually had the county roads to himself at this time of night he couldn’t help but notice the headlights a quarter mile behind him that made the same two turns he did. Dylan’s Isis came on just as he pulled onto the dirt driveway that led to his trailer. He stopped and killed his lights, waiting with his eyes in the mirror. A few moments later he saw a car pass, going well below the speed limit.
Rick shrugged it off and continued to the trailer. Inside he turned on the radio and went to the refrigerator for a beer. He sat down in the Barcalounger just as Uncle Victor went from Dylan into Phil Ochs’s Outside A Small Circle Of Friends. Rick grabbed his cigar box and loaded his little pipe. He smiled when Phil sang the line about how smoking marijuana was more fun than drinking beer. “Yes,” he said to the stereo. “But it’s a close call.” He took a hit off his pipe, chased it with a gulp, and raised the can to the speakers. He leaned back in the chair and listened to the music.
That’s when he saw the white beams of headlights bouncing through the window. Rick brought the chair to the upright position, wondering who was coming to his place at one in the morning. Traci would’ve called if her plans had changed and he didn’t think Captain Jack’s sister would have come back from New Mexico. Clay seemed an unlikely candidate, so the Ted Nugent fan came to mind. Maybe he’d finally discovered that Amboy Dukes record wasn’t worth five hundred bucks after all.
Rick slid out of the Barcalounger. He went to the kitchen to grab his trusty skillet. He stationed himself by the door and waited. A few seconds later there was a hard knock. It didn’t sound like knuckles, sounded more like a bat. Rick thought about throwing the door open into the face of whoever was out there, hoping to stun them long enough to land a few wallops with his Griswold number five. The doorknob wiggled as the interloper checked to see if it was locked. Rick said, “Who’s there?”