Bad Stacks Story Collection Box Set (39 page)

I could see the switchboard lighting up like a Christmas tree. WKIK's phone system could handle eight lines, and every one had a caller on the end. Apparently, word had trickled out like electricity. I'd been searching my whole career for something to strike the audience's nerves, and it seemed death did the trick.

“Night Owl, some of our audience would like to talk to you. Go ahead, caller one...” I potted up our auxiliary phone link so we could have a three-way conversation.

“Thank you for bringing joy to my life,” a woman's cigarette-scorched voice came over the monitors. “I've been married to a slob for eighteen years, and suddenly he's turned into Mr. Clean, minus the earring. He heard about you down at the Pump-And-Pay, and he figured he'd better get his act together, because you never know who's going to turn into a copycat killer. Keep up the good work, girl.”

I punched up another. It was Wayne, my main man. Maybe he had something bright to say for once. He stuttered a couple of times before starting. “Hey, Miss Night Owl lady, I dig your style. I know us men can be, like, pigs and stuff, but don't you think killing's a little harsh?”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Night Owl said. “I think thousands of years of male-dominated society are enough, don't you?”

“Well, uh—” Wayne was at a loss for words. Maybe he'd used up the dozen he knew. But he coughed and continued. “I guess there's some bad guys, but it's not, you know, a total washout with us dude-types.”

“Oh, there are a few good men, and believe me, they're not in the Marines. Take our Mickey, for instance.”

“Thanks, Night Owl.” I was beginning to wonder if I knew this woman. I'd always had a soft spot for sweet psychos. “Do you have time for another caller?”

Wayne
cut in like a cowboy at a line dance. “Would you like to, like, go out or something, Night Owl?”

“Well, you definitely sound like my type. My type of victim, that is. Who knows, maybe we'll meet. I'll keep one in the chamber, just for you.”

I punched up another caller. It was a woman.

“I'm right with you, honey. I dated a clown for seven years, and ever doggone time I brought up marriage, he'd say, 'Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?' Well, I put a good dose of digitalis in a cherry cheesecake—do you bake? I got some good recipes. Been in the family for generations—well, the idiot ate it. He was grinnin' like a turtle eatin' saw-briars the whole time. Fell over dead right there at the kitchen table. Had a weak heart, I told the police. Well, I may be the cow, but he's the one who kicked the bucket. And I got you to thank for gettin' up my nerve.”

“Another blow for freedom, my dear,” Night Owl said. “Keep that oven warm. Sounds like you're a real killer cook. Well, folks, got to run. There's nothing I hate worse than being a cold-blooded murderer, so I try to leave before rigor mortis sets in. Bye, Mickey, smooches to you.”

As she hung up, I felt like I was in a vacuum. I was annoyed by my attraction to her. I was beginning to understand the audience's fascination with Night Owl. I punched up another caller.

We filled the air of the black Kansas sky with talk about the Equal Rights Amendment, the best methods of undetected murder, and even shared a few culinary tips. The switchboard stayed full most of the shift. I slipped in a few hard rock tunes and a couple of ads without losing talkers. The night flowed by like warm honey.

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.