Bombshell (Devlin Haskell 4) (35 page)

“Sorry about that, can never be too careful. Tomorrow’s broadcast, do that on the computer and there’s no telling who’ll get hold of it, use it for their own degenerate purposes. Alright then, who do we have here?”

“This is the fella I was telling you about, the private investigator, Dennis Haskell.”

“Devlin, Devlin Haskell,” I corrected.

“Thompson Barkwell,” he said holding out his hand.

I had to get up off the couch and take two steps to grab it. He gave me a limp shake for the effort.

“Nice to meet you, Mister Barkwell.”

“Please, call me Thompson, we get to know one another better and you can call me Tommy. But, let’s keep it at Thompson for right now, shall we?”

Fine with me jerk, I thought, smiled and nodded,
“Yes sir, I look forward to getting to know you much better.”

“Farrell bring you up to speed with our situation?”

“Not really, what seems to be the problem?”

They looked back and forth for a long moment. Eventually Thompson took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair and said,
“Here at K-R-A-Z we like to think of ourselves as the voice of the American future. A right thinking
America
. We….”

The future of
America
is the electric typewriter? I was wondering why I should even be surprised? After all they got my name from that knife wielding lunatic, Kiki. I wondered if she’d calmed down yet? Then I remembered her breasts bouncing up and down while she swung the knife at me. Wondered if maybe it had just been a one time sort of melt down and maybe we could …

“… view us as a threat to their socialistic ways, and therefore intend to deal with us accordingly.”

They sat and looked at me, waiting for a reaction. I tried to erase Kiki from my mind.

“So what do you think?” Thompson finally said.

“Give me that last part again.”

“Not much to it. The note said that we were a threat to their socialistic ways and therefore they intended to deal with us accordingly.”

“So many questions,” I said, stalling for time.

“Would you care to share them?” Thompson asked.

“Well first off, tell me about the note. How did it come to you? Where is it now? Did you inform the police?”

“Like I said, it was shoved under the door when we arrived yesterday. Yes, we did call the police,” Thompson said.

“They’ve got the note now,” Farrell added.

“I see, I see,” hoping to sound like I did.

“Of course they’re probably worried about equal rights and the other nonsense that’s become the left’s mantra. While patriots like us just soldier on, moving forward, constantly under fire,” Thompson said.

“So you consider this a threat, the note? You don’t think someone might just be pulling your leg?”

“Pulling our leg? You’ve got to be kidding? No, we’ve struck a nerve, probably more than one. No doubt you’ve listened to our broadcasts, you know how they are.”

“To tell you the truth I don’t listen as often as I’d like to.”

“Which was your favorite?” Thompson asked.

Farrell exhaled another blue cloud and leaned forward on the couch.

“Oh, it would be tough to pick one,” I dodged.

“But, you must have a favorite.”

“I really like them all, no, no, too tough to narrow it down to just one. Honest.”

“I know what you mean,” Thompson said, looking thoughtful.

Farrell nodded, fired up another cigarette using the butt of his last one.

“Okay, so we’re working with what, a death threat?” I asked.

“Exactly,” replied Thompson.

“Yeah, death threat, definitely a death threat,” Farrell chimed in.

“And what, exactly, would you like me to do?”

“Well first and foremost, protection, that’s paramount. Something happens to either one of us and the movement dies, right here, right now.” Thompson struck the desk top four times with his index finger in perfect time to ‘right here, right now’.

“Then, when you’re not protecting, we’d like you to get to the bottom of this. Find out what sort of pinko, commy group of misfits uses murder and intimidation as a logical consequence of open dialogue.”

“What about the police?” I asked.

“Can’t be trusted?” Farrell said.

Thompson nodded his head in agreement.

“What sort of protection do you want?” I asked.

“You carry a gun don’t you?”

“Yeah, I’m licensed.”

“For the love of…, hell we’re all licensed, if that’s what you want to call it. Part of our second amendment rights. But we need some extra firepower. These folks will stop at nothing.”

“Look no offense, but so far all you’ve got is a note slipped under the door. You’ve given that to the police, they’ll check it out for you. From what you tell me it sounds like it could be as simple as a college prank.”

“A college prank? You can’t honestly believe that threat represents a college prank. Although given the state of what passes for education now-a-days...” Thompson seemed to drift off somewhere distant, then slapped the top of his desk. “No, I’m afraid we don’t have the luxury of living in such a cavalier fashion, Mister Haskin.”

“Haskell, Devlin Haskell,” I reminded, with a smile.

“We’re the last line of defense before the damn train goes off the rails.”

“Meaning?” I was beginning to think Thompson was a legend in his own mind.

“Meaning we’ve hit a nerve, sir. They know we speak the truth and they can’t stand that, the truth.”

In for a penny, in for a pound I thought.

“So you’d like protection, here, at your office?”

“Our station, and yes, here, while we broadcast,” Thompson said.

“It’s when we’re the most vulnerable, when we’re on the air.” Farrell added.

“Like I said before, I haven’t been able to listen as often as I would like, remind me what your hours are,” I said.

“We’re on from ten to ten-fifteen in the morning, noon to twelve-fifteen, three to three-fifteen and then the drive home hour, five-thirty to five-forty-five.” Thompson squeaked back in his office chair and look like he’d just won the lottery.

“We tape our message the day before, then play it four times the following day,” Farrell said, he exhaled another long blue cloud.

“It’s a well known fact people have to hear something four times within twenty-four hours before they begin to pick it up,” Thompson expounded.

“You guys have any sponsors?” I asked.

They looked back and forth from one another again, eventually Thompson said, “I really don’t feel comfortable divulging that information at this time. Suffice to say we do have sponsors and are enlisting more everyday.”

I’ll take that as a no, I thought.

“When would you like me to start?”

“The sooner the better,” Thompson said, then looked at his watch.

“It’s time I got into the sound booth,” Farrell said, gave a raspy cough and then followed it with a long drag on his cigarette that burned down to his nicotine stained fingers.

“Does a nine forty-five start suit you?” Thompson asked.

“I can do that, I’d better get going, I’ve got some schedules to shuffle around. I’ll see the two of you here, tomorrow, nine forty-five.”

“You’re just what we need,” Thompson smiled, and held out his hand for another limp, dead fish shake.

I followed Farrell out, heard the electric typewriter start up again as we walked past the plastic crates of obsolete equipment. Out in the front office, or whatever they called it, Farrell said, “Appreciate you taking our case on, Mister Haskin. We’ll all sleep a little better tonight knowing you’re on the job.”

“Haskell, H-a-s-k-e-l-l,” I spelled it for him.

“Right,” he half chuckled.

“I’ll be here at nine forty-five tomorrow. Just keep a close eye out on your way home tonight and back in tomorrow. Let’s just have you guys keep a low profile, until we get things sorted out, okay.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

“See you tomorrow,” I said and left.

I was buying another
round at The Spot. I’d been buying all night. I was beyond the point of caring and was holding court on a bar stool dangerously close to two drunks throwing darts.

“One of your deadbeat clients finally pay up?” Jimmy asked as he filled the glasses with the next round.

“Even better, I got a job where I don’t have to work,” I laughed.

“So what’s new ‘bout that.”

“No, I mean, I just have to sit around. Someone pulled a joke on these clowns and they bought it. Hired me for protection,” I said, then washed it down with a healthy swallow.

“You for protection, that is a joke,” Jimmy laughed.

“Yeah? Well, you ever hear of a radio station called craze?”

“Craze, you mean like nuts, what is that some weird punk rock, kid thing?”

“No, K-R-A-Z, supposed to be something right with
America
thing or, I don’t know, I’ll take another, Jimmy,” I said and drained my glass.

“You driving?”

“Yeah, but not all that far, so relax.”

Over the course of the evening I asked around, no one in the bar had ever heard of KRAZ. The next thing I knew it was closing time, Jimmy locked the door, let me finish my beer, but wouldn’t give me another. I apparently made it home all right because I woke up on my couch at about six-thirty the following morning. I stumbled to the kitchen, put some coffee on and curled back up on the couch. When I next looked at the clock on my microwave it was nine twenty.

I threw a semi clean shirt on, gobbled some mints, raced out the door and over to KRAZ.

Farrell was sucking the last inch of life from his current cigarette when I bounced the office door off the front desk. I was still a little breathless and red in the face from rushing to make it modestly late.

“You guys ought to move that thing,” I said, nodding at the front desk.

He exhaled, sipped from his coffee mug, smiled, but didn’t say anything.

I saw Thompson through the doorway. He was standing next to the stacks of red and blue crates. It was the first time I’d seen him standing, at least I think he was standing. I put him at about five foot three, on a good day.

He glanced at his watch, raised an eyebrow then shook his head.

“I believe our agreement was nine-forty-five,” he called.

“It was, I got here early, strolled around the building and the parking lots checking some things, making myself familiar with the area. Nice to know what I’m dealing with, first line of defense is out there, not in here.” I had to admit that sounded so good even I half believed it.

Farrell looked surprised. Thompson looked like he wasn’t sure. I seized the opportunity.

“Anything seem out of the ordinary, another note, a phone call, someone following either of you?”

They both shook their heads.

“Okay, you’re on the air shortly?”

“Twelve minutes,” Farrell said, then lit up another cigarette.

“Mind if I watch?”

“Be my guest,” he exhaled.

By this time Thompson had returned to his lair.

Eleven minutes later I was standing behind Farrell in a converted closet. We had to hunch over because of the shelf that ran across the top. There was a bare light bulb in the ceiling with a string attached to turn it off and on. Fortunately someone had the foresight to remove the pole and clothes hangers.

Farrell wore a set of headphones. He was seated at a tiny desk at one end of the closet with a laptop in front of him. The dusty screen on the laptop displayed a digital readout ticking down the minutes before broadcast and then the last sixty seconds. The final ten seconds clicked past furiously in increments of a tenth of a second. With three seconds left Farrell slowly, deliberately raised his index finger and pushed the enter key on the laptop. Then he leaned back and listened for a moment before he removed his headphones.

“There you go, we’re on the air,” he said and pushed back his chair.

I had to back up, still hunched over, to exit the closet. Farrell took a final drag then fired up a fresh cancer stick and backed out.

“We record the word, as we like to call it, the night before. Then upload it and we’re set to go. We could set the download for any time, but I like to do the manual play, gets me into the groove if you know what I mean.”

Actually I didn’t, somehow Farrell ‘in the groove’ didn’t seem to compute.

“So that’s it until noon?”

“Well, we stand by, answer the phones, sign up volunteers, get people organized, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, so listeners call?”

“Well they could, I mean that’s what we’re hoping will happen, sometime, anyway.”

It didn’t happen.

The routine was the same at noon, three and five-thirty, only even more boring. I walked around the building and the parking lot a few times just to stay awake. At six I drifted into Thompson’s office, he was pounding away on the future of
America
, his electric typewriter.