First Time Killer (14 page)

Rick waited for her to continue. When they’d gone another ten paces, he realized she’d said all she would without further prompting. “But?”

She pushed the hair from her face, but the wind made her efforts futile. “I don’t think you’ll be happy out of radio. It’s in your blood.”

“Who said anything about getting out of radio?” Rick asked. To their right, the banks of the path dropped off, descending into the marshy fringes of the lake. He never understood why people called it a lake. It was barely a good-sized pond.

“I love you, Rick. But if you quit because you can’t get along with your boss—no matter how bitchy she might be—people are going to stop hiring you.” She stopped and took Rick’s hand, looked up into his face. “Was I too blunt?”

“No. I can take blunt. Prefer it, in fact. I don’t think you’re right though.”

They resumed their trek. In the summer, Rick often brought Livvy here, and they would tote along bread to feed the geese. Sometimes they’d go through two or three loaves before Livvy got bored. The big geese, honking and pecking, made Rick nervous. He was always ready to spring forward and rip off their squawking heads if they hurt his little girl. For some reason, the geese never seemed to bother Livvy.

They reached the opposite side of the lake, about a half-mile from where they’d started. They decided to take a break on a wooden bench someone had the foresight to install along the trail. From their vantage, they had a clear view of the entire lake. In the distance, on the part of the trail yet to traverse, a man was walking a big white dog.

“Think we should get a dog? For Livvy to play with?” Rick asked.

“I talked to Rita Wescavage this morning.” Barb stared straight ahead at the lake, hands in her lap.

Rita was Barb’s old boss. “And how are things at Stensky, Williams, CPA?” Rick tried to keep the tension out of his voice. With all the practice he got from his years in radio, he knew he should be better at not revealing the emotions in his tone.

“She wants me to come back.” Barb looked out over the water. Didn’t meet Rick’s eyes.

“Really?” Rick stood and stepped toward the water. Then he crouched and picked up a smooth, flat rock. With a little wind-up, he side-armed it across the water. A three-skipper. Barb had dropped out of the rat race when Livvy was born, with his full support. Although Barb might say it was more encouragement than support.

He sensed Barb’s presence next to him, then felt her hand on his coat sleeve. “I didn’t say I would. I told her I’d mull it over.”

He hadn’t even been out of a job for forty-eight hours, and his wife was making plans to become the breadwinner. “She called you?”

“Actually, I called her. I’ve been thinking about it anyway. Next year, Livvy will be in school all day. What am I going to do with myself?” She took his hand in hers and squeezed, glove to glove.

Rick liked holding hands but missed the skin-to-skin warmth. He knew Barb must be feeling pressure after he quit with no prospects on the horizon. When he’d taken this job, he’d made a promise to himself to stick it out, for Barb and Livvy, no matter how unpleasant things became. And now he’d reneged. He knew things changed, but once again, he felt like he’d taken the easy way out.

“You don’t think I could go out and get another job tomorrow?” Rick asked. A little too loudly, perhaps, but his mouth was cold, and it was hard to speak clearly.

“I wish I could say, yes, absolutely, you can write your own ticket. But you can’t take another job in this market for eighteen months. Remember?”

Rick had a no-compete clause in his contract. “We could try a different market.”

“I don’t want to move again. Livvy’s happy here. She’s got school, friends. We can’t disrupt her.”

“No, you’re right, of course.” Rick didn’t want to disrupt anyone. He simply wanted a good job, doing decent work. Nothing outrageous. Was that too much to ask? Maybe it was in the radio business. And maybe that was the saddest thing of all.

“What if you couldn’t work in radio? What would you want to do? If you could do anything?” Barb still held on to his hand.

Rick remembered playing the “if you could do anything” game in college with his roommates. The answers were exotic and exciting: race car driver, professional gambler, movie star. Now, the question was the same, but the answers needed to bear a closer relationship to reality. Movie star wasn’t an entry-level job. “I don’t know. I just always assumed I’d be working in radio.”

Barb tilted her head up at him. “I know. Radio is your life. You can’t even fathom doing anything else. That’s why I think—” Barb stopped and ducked her head, as a gust of wind blasted across the surface of the lake and into their faces. To Rick, it seemed like the stiff breeze had stolen her words and scattered them among the trees, leaving the sentences hanging off the limbs like tinsel. Ripples danced on the surface of the lake.

“What?”

“I said, ‘I think you should ask Celia for your job back.’” Barb was yelling, so she could be heard above the wind.

Swallow his pride? Sell his soul to work in a business he once loved? Or did she see it as sucking it up to support his loved ones? Maybe he should give up and find a joe job in an office somewhere. Where he could be anonymous and boring and uncontroversial and never have to deal with grieving parents or psycho murderers or bosses willing to destroy others’ lives to get ahead.

He clapped his hands together. “You know, it’s damn cold out here. Why don’t we head back? Okay?”

R
ICK POSITIONED THE
worklight closer to his task. Strewn on the bench before him were the innards of a rice cooker Barb’s aunt had given them the previous Christmas. Even when it was new, it hadn’t worked very well, but now it had fizzled out completely. With the extra time his unemployment gave him, Rick was whittling down his backlog of household chores.

Nothing appeared out of place in the rice cooker. All the wires were tight. Nothing seemed fried. He didn’t know much about appliances, but he hated throwing things away, a sentiment not shared by his wife. She’d wanted to chuck the thing right into the trash two days after they got it. Said they didn’t need a rice cooker, all they needed was a pot with a lid. Rick had scoffed. If that was true, why did they make rice cookers?

Yesterday, he’d been tempted to flip on the radio and see what was happening on the
Circus
. But he hadn’t. Was afraid he’d get sucked back in. Afraid he’d realize something he could do or say to improve the show. Afraid he might pick up the phone and call in, like one of the many loyal listeners who had followed him over the years. Cold turkey was best.

It had been four days since he walked away from the
Circus
. Four glorious days of puttering around the house, spending extra time with Livvy. With Barb. Eating dinner with the family and watching the evening news. Catching up on his reading. Things he hadn’t done in a long time.

On his first day of freedom, Celia had called four times and Winn had called twice. On the second day, Winn had called four times, Celia three times, and Marty had joined the effort with two calls back-to-back. Each time, Rick watched the name scroll by on the caller ID and listened to the message on the machine. He hadn’t called any of them back. Celia and Marty could rot in hell, for all he cared. And Winn would understand his self-imposed isolation.

Thankfully, the hounds had taken Sunday off. But they were back on the trail this morning. The big dog himself, Brewster Landis, had called. Rick had ignored that one, too.

Barb was right. They didn’t need a rice cooker. A pot with a lid was enough.

She hadn’t said anything else about his future. Hadn’t talked any more about going back to the accounting firm, either. But he knew it was only a matter of time. One day—very soon—he’d come down to the kitchen for breakfast and find her sipping her coffee, reading the Wall Street Journal, dressed in a smart-looking DKNY suit. Ready for the rat race. She’d kiss him goodbye, snatch up her leather briefcase, and rush off to work, leaving him to do the dishes, vacuum the rugs, and meet Livvy when the kindergarten bus arrived at 11:55.

Rick picked up the carcass of the rice cooker and stuffed it into a green garbage bag. Cinched it up and walked over and hefted it into the big blue Toter. The rice cooker had turned out to be just another disposable appliance. Didn’t work very well to begin with, then quit unceremoniously. Finally discarded without much of a second thought. He allowed himself a small smile at the irony. He could sympathize. It was a large drop-off from Ringmaster Rick to Rice Cooker Rick.

That night, after dinner and after he’d read to Livvy, he and Barb watched
The Godfather
for the tenth time. He loved how Jimmy Caan went berserk. After the movie, Barb had gone to bed, and Rick holed up in the den. He had some research to conduct.

Early in his career, Rick made a pact with himself. He’d give the show his all during working hours. He’d prep for guests diligently, prepare his segments carefully, and make every effort to provide his listeners with the best entertainment he could possibly deliver. But after coming close to burnout a few times, he found he couldn’t turn his life over to the show 24/7. He needed his down time, needed the break so his head could clear and his batteries could recharge.

So when he was home, he didn’t talk to his co-workers—except Winn. He didn’t read trade mags or prepare interviews or outline upcoming shows. And he didn’t visit Dimitri’s
Afternoon Circus
website.

But now that he was “retired,” he found himself tempted to see what people were saying about him. He Googled “
Afternoon Circus
.” A list of twenty sites popped up, twenty out of 12,043. He clicked on the link to Dimitri’s site.

The
Afternoon Circus
site wasn’t your typical homegrown website. It was obvious Dimitri possessed some serious web design skills. Animated graphics welcomed visitors. In big letters, centered on the page, was a plea to listeners to call in to the station to demand they rehire Ringmaster Rick. The station’s main phone number was listed, along with extensions for Marty and Celia. Even Brewster Landis’s number was included. Rick found it a little touching. And more than a little bit hinky.

From the home page, you could branch off and read bios of all the hosts. Past experience, photos, interesting tidbits, not all of which were correct. Rick was surprised to learn his favorite book was Silas Marner and lemon chiffon pie was his favorite dessert. He couldn’t recall ever having tasted lemon chiffon pie.

Farther down the page, he saw a paragraph mentioning Barb and Livvy. An odd mixture of anger and relief surged through him. Anger at the intrusion in his life, but relief when he realized J.T. had probably been right about the Nazi Hunter. He wasn’t a crazy stalker.
Just
a fan of the show who’d visited the site.

Rick closed his eyes for a moment to calm down, then returned to his research. Dimitri didn’t limit his “exposés” to the on-air talent. Backgrounds for the behind-the-scenes crew, the interns, and some members of the sales staff were all laid out. Even bios of some of the other regular callers—Ertel the German, Lap Dog, Whizzer, and Johnnie Ray—were posted. Rick shivered as he thought about the thousands of people who came to this site and felt they were bonding with him. Maybe some of them were even more unbalanced than the Nazi Hunter.

As he read about Celia’s past, he wondered how much of it was true, and how much of it was fabricated. She’d gone to the University of North Carolina, graduating with a degree in Sociology. Then she’d married and gotten divorced within a year. Rick turned away. Had everyone else in the show already read this stuff? Was he the last? Every so often, J.T. would go on about something he saw on the website. Maybe the others treated it as just another immutable aspect of being part of a national radio show.

After reading about Celia, Rick discovered a tribute to the late Rhino. An eloquent eulogy, in a fancy font, covered the entire page, below the Rhino’s glossy publicity photo. Head shot for a headstone. Reading this, you’d think the Rhino belonged right up there with JFK, RFK, and Martin Luther King. Four champions of human rights.

He left the bio pages, clicked on the Tin Man logo, got directed to a page devoted entirely to his outrageous shtick. Pictures of a bikini contest he’d held for full-figured women took center stage. The winner weighed 340 pounds. Next to that, Rick read a transcript of an interview Tin Man had conducted with the curator of the Sex Toy Museum, complete with photos of some of the exhibits. And there were lots and lots of uncensored quotes from Tin Man himself. Where did Dimitri get all this stuff?

Rick tooled around the site for a while, amazed at the depth and breadth of information about the
Circus
. A complete show history. A page outlining the proposed SatRad deal. MP3 sound bites. If Dimitri had the phones bugged, he probably wouldn’t get any more detailed stuff. Some people had way too much free time on their hands.

At the bottom of the home page, on the left, was a flashing button marked CHAT. He clicked on it and watched as a chat room page slowly formed. Three people were signed in. Rick clicked on the sign-in box.
Enter chat name
. He typed in Yakman7.
Welcome, Yakman7. Enjoy your chat session.

Rick glanced behind him. The door to the den was closed, but not locked. What would Barb say if she caught him in a chat room talking about his own show? He didn’t know why, but he felt dirty. Might as well be scouring the net for porn, as guilty as he felt.

DSTUDROCKS: Welcome Yakman. Nu here?

Rick’s heart skipped. Someone was talking to him. He clicked on the Windows Start menu, ready to shut down, but froze. No one knew who he really was. Why not have a little fun? Or at least see what people said about his quitting the show.

He typed.
Yes, nu. First time.

DSTUDROCKS: Oh, u want to talk about First Time. Who don’t?