First Time Killer (15 page)

No, first time in chat room.

DSTUDROCKS: lol, man. What’s ur take on RJ’s departure? Show better or worse now?

RJ? They called him RJ? He typed back:
What do you think of RJ?

DSTUDROCKS: RJ rocks. Tin Man ok too. Some good shit, some not. Wish RJ return.

PRTTYGRL8: U know it, D. RJ, good. Tin Man, bad.

DSTUDROCKS: Good to see ya, GRL. not a TM fan? Must not have liked today.

PRTTYGRL8: Not good. Spiral continues. If RickBoy doesn’t come back, there’s no hope of sat. And I’ll be stuck making luv to my iPod.

DSTUDROCKS: I hear ya. And all my hard work, down the drain. What will I do with my site? Waaa!

Rick pieced it together. Dimitri must be DSTUDROCKS. Made sense he’d been in the chat room. Probably lived there. He thought back to the meeting of the misfits. Dimitri really took his unofficial role with the
Circus
seriously. Rick typed:
r u Dimitri?

DSTUDROCKS: im DSTUDROCKS. Can’t u read?

He’d hit a nerve. Rick wasn’t used to the chat room protocol.
Sorry.
Hey, what are your theories about First Time Killer?

PRTTYGRL8: Sick twisted f

DSTUDROCKS: Whattya think, Yak?

Rick’s fingers rested on the keys. What
did
he think? He tapped in his opinion, sent it off into cyberspace.
Psycho loser. Cops’ll get him soon

DSTUDROCKS: lol. U funny, Yak. First Time probably is station GM. Paying off the cops. Killing people makes good ratings.

PRTTYGRL8: If true, D, u should join in. Keep yo thing going.

DSTUDROCKS: i admit im obsessed, but im no killer. U know what they need? RJ need to come back. Then he could go toe to toe w/First Time. Try to get him to surrender. Ratings go up, sat deal goes thru, we get to hear
Circus
for the rest of our pitiful lives.

PRTTYGRL8: Amen. Don’t u have a direct line to RickBoy? Aint u pals? U call him enuf on air ;)

Rick typed,
I am really Rick Jennings
, but didn’t hit the enter key.

DSTUDROCKS: lol. We r pals, but I don’t call him at home. Not kool.

Rick hit the backspace key until his line was empty. Then he typed,
If you were Rick, what would you do? Exactly?

DSTUDROCKS: If i were RJ i would kiss Celia’s ass and get my job back. Then I’d try to flush out First Time.

PRTTYGRL8: U’d like to kiss Celia’s ass. Why don’t u cum kiss mine? I think I’d like that.

DSTUDROCKS: promises, promises, GRL.

PRTTYGRL8: uh oh. Dad’s coming. Told him I was studying for SAT.

DSTUDROCKS: go GRL. Cya.

The SAT? PRTTYGRL8 was in high school? Rick’s stomach lurched. Whenever he thought about kids listening to Tin Man he felt a little queasy. He had a part in it, too, he knew, and that wasn’t making him feel any better. Would Livvy stay up late, conversing with weirdos in strange chat rooms when she was older? God help him.

DSTUDROCKS: Still there, Yakman?

Yeah,
Rick typed,
still here.

DSTUDROCKS: So? What’s on your big bad brain?

What you said earlier. About flushing First Time out.

DSTUDROCKS: yeah?

How would you? Flush him out, I mean?

DSTUDROCKS: just musing. First Time seems like a whiz to me. Evil genius. tough to catch. Prob a serial killer. RJ could try, but he’ll have his work cut out for him. Guess that’s why he gets the big bucks.

F
IRST
T
IME COUGHED
. Raspy and wet. A wad of phlegm had rooted in his windpipe, and he’d been hacking for three minutes trying to expel it. Just like the other annoyances in his life. But it figured. Every time he fired himself up to do something momentous, every time he stood on the precipice gazing down upon a new adventure, something would arise and he’d get knocked from his perch. How dare Rick Jennings quit, right out from under him?

First Time stared down at his magazine.
Time
. Some towelhead on the cover, spouting anti-American rhetoric. Clamoring about the harm done to his country by the infidels. First Time didn’t care.
Not my problem, man
. He couldn’t care less about what happened to other people, especially foreigners. Irrelevant. Inconsequential. All around him, people bustled. Americans and foreigners. Hard to tell the difference sometimes. The truth was, he didn’t care about Americans much either. People were rude everywhere.

The sounds assaulted him. Talking. Shouting. Musical cell phone ringtones. The food court at the mall was always jammed at lunchtime. Nothing people liked more than cheap, greasy food. And lots of it. He’d finished his Whopper already, now content to glower at anybody coming up to his table, searching for a place to eat. When some slob hovered for a moment to see if he was leaving, he shifted in his chair and began to get up, then sank back down. Sucker! Let him find his own spot. Couldn’t the jerk see he was reading?

Although he wasn’t reading. Not really. He’d been on the same page for the last ten minutes. He was thinking. About his first killing. That pretty-boy intern. As hard as he tried, First Time couldn’t remember all the details of that night. Only colors and shapes and sounds. Black and red. The silvery shimmer of shiny steel slashing. More red. Shrieking. Blood on his hands, in his hair, on his cheeks. Sticky. Nasty. Exhilarating. As soon as pretty-boy stopped moving, First Time had regained control. Slowly his senses had returned to normal. He remembered gazing down at the face. Untouched. Sleeping. At peace. Except for the second smile he’d carved into pretty-boy’s neck.
Not so pretty, now,
he’d thought.

The crowd thinned. Workers back to work, mall salesclerks back to their shops. Moms back to the ranch so their kiddies could nap. First Time remained, though. He was on a mission.

The sounds of a radio drifted from one of the food stalls. Deejay patter. Quippy, sarcastic, inane. Just like that a-hole Tin Man. Making fun of him. Having a chicken contest. Inviting listeners to recite poems ridiculing him. Some nerve. He wasn’t a chicken. On the contrary. You had to have some large gonads to do what he’d done. What he was going to do. They thought they were safe, hiding behind their little microphones in their little soundproofed room. He’d show them. No one was safe from First Time. No one.

Every thirty seconds or so, he focused on the store directly across from his table, Tops ’N Bottoms. Slim mannequins with large, impossibly shaped breasts cavorted in the windows. All dressed in the latest, hippest fashions. Tangerine and teal, mauve and taupe. The colors seemed chosen based on their clash factor. Inside, he scoped out two sales clerks joking around with each other as they studiously ignored their customers. But First Time only cared about one of the sales wenches.

The little cunt who ripped him to shreds on national radio.

The one with the yellow bikini.

Ashlee.

T
WO MORE BLISSFUL
days passed as Rick ignored the gathering storm clouds. He and Barb bantered and joked, chatted and chuckled. Never acknowledging the albino donkey in the room. And that’s how Rick felt half the time—whenever he thought about the radio business. Like an old, freakish beast of burden that’s outlived its usefulness. Couldn’t live with it, couldn’t kill it. His style, his sensitive and caring approach, had been passed by for outrageousness in the pursuit of ratings.

Barb had dropped Livvy off at school and then gone grocery shopping. He’d offered to come and help, but Barb didn’t want him tagging along. On her way out the door, she’d muttered something about his help making the task last twice as long. So Rick decided to spend the morning channel-surfing. See what surprises TiVo had for him today.

Before he could even locate all the remotes, he heard a knock on the door. Two seconds later, the bell rang. He padded to the front door, still in sweats and socks. Peered out the peephole. He wasn’t surprised, knew it was just a matter of time until they gave up the phone calls and adopted a more proactive strategy.

Brewster Landis and Celia Perez, come-a-calling. Live and in-person. He pulled the door open part way and leaned his head against it.

“Good morning, Rick.” Brewster’s deep, patronizing voice sounded out of place on Rick’s doorstep. Like a car horn in the woods.

“Rick.” Celia gave him a curt nod. Businesslike.

“Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” Rick said, gazing at his visitors. “What brings you to these parts?” He made no move to invite them in.

“Can we talk to you?” Celia asked.

“Sure,” Rick said. He maintained his position, leaning against the edge of the door.

“Inside?” She asked. “Please?”

Rick could feel the pain in her voice as she had to plead with him.

“Yes, of course. Please come in.” He swung the door open wide.

Rick led them into the living room, one of the few rooms in the house not festooned with Livvy’s toys. He took a wing chair and offered the couch to Brewster and Celia. After they were all settled in and the pleasantries out of the way, Rick leaned forward. “So? Want to watch some TV with me? I think the
Price is Right
is on.”

Brewster cleared his throat. “Rick, we’d like you back. We’re sorry about what happened, and we’d like to put it behind us. You’re a valuable member of the team and we need you.” It came out smooth and smarmy. Practiced and polished. CEO-speak all the way. Rick would have been disappointed if it was any other way.

Rick nodded, pursed his lips. He knew it was coming, so there was no surprise on his face. But even though it was expected—and had been for days—he still didn’t have an answer. He turned to Celia. “You feel that way too?”

Celia opened her mouth to answer, but Brewster’s voice filled the room. “Of course she does. Celia wants to do what’s best for the show. And this is what’s best. Isn’t that right?” He reached over and patted Celia’s knee. Celia stiffened for a second, then relaxed, and Rick sensed a jolt of electricity pass between the two of them. Rick knew right then the rumors were true; Brewster was sleeping with Celia.

Celia recovered. “Yes. Yes, of course. We need you back, Rick.” She clasped her hands, put them in her lap. Tried to fix her gaze on Rick’s face, but it strayed. Avoiding the truth. Going along with the boss.

Rick leaned back, pretended to think about things. “I don’t know. I’ve been pretty happy this past week.”

“Have you been listening the past few days?” Brewster asked.

“No. Not once. Can’t say I’ve really missed it either.” Rick didn’t tell them about his chat room session.

“Well, it hasn’t been pretty. Those two head cases are fine for a couple of hours, but when they try to fill the entire show, well…Let’s just say it isn’t working very well,” Brewster said, and Rick saw Celia swallow hard, taking things personally. The two head cases were her boys, after all.

“Maybe they just need some time to get used to things,” Rick said.

Brewster leaned forward. “The ratings are diving. Celia’s polling firm’s been on the phone and what they’ve discovered isn’t good. If you’re not behind the mic, too many people don’t want to listen. The fans want you.”

Celia looked like she might be sick.

“I find that a little hard to believe,” Rick said. “Tin Man has fans. I’ve seen them and I’ve heard them.”

“That’s true. That’s why we need both of you. We don’t have much time. What do you say, Rick? Think about it?” Some of the snakeskin oil had evaporated from his words. If Rick didn’t know better, he’d think Brewster actually was displaying some real emotion.

Celia said, “Plus, the listeners seem to like how you handled the whole First Time thing. They think you can relate to him better than Tin Man can.”

So that was it. They wanted him back to attract First Time’s calls. To sensationalize things. To rev up the listener base. To boost ratings. He hadn’t even gone back yet and they were already starting in on him. “I think I’ll pass. Since I left, my whole body has felt relaxed. My head’s been clearer. I think maybe the stress of the show was getting to me. You know, with the whole First Time Killer thing.” Rick started to get up. “Thanks for coming by. It was—”

Brewster interrupted. “Rick, do you have a garden?”

“Uh, yeah. But it’s the middle of winter, it’s not—”

“That’s okay. Celia likes gardens year-round. A real garden aficionado.” Brewster turned to Celia. “Why don’t you check it out? See what he’s done with it?”

Celia’s cheeks turned crimson. To Rick, it looked like she wanted to protest, then reconsidered, all in a split-second. “Okay. Sounds…lovely.” She rose tentatively, held up a hand. “Which way?”

Rick pointed. “Straight back. Through the kitchen door. The garden is off to the left, by the fence.”

She left the room for her garden tour.

“Take your time, Celia. No hurry,” Brewster called out to her back, then waited until the door slammed before speaking to Rick. “Okay. Let’s get down to it. Mano a mano.”

“Sure. But where’s Marty?”

“At the station. Someone’s got to keep things running.” Brewster crossed his legs. “I think I can be a little more persuasive. We want you back. We need you back. Tin Man and Tubby are struggling, and I’m afraid our ratings will slip so far we’ll never recover. And if that happens, I think we can kiss our satellite deal goodbye.” Brewster shifted positions, recrossed his legs. “And none of us want that. Lot of money at stake.” A cheery ring tone chirruped from his pocket. “Oh shit. Excuse me.” He pulled out a cell phone and started talking. Some sales-related matter. Somebody was pissed-off, no doubt.

Rick zoned out, thought about the money. When he quit, he gave up his salary, which was not inconsequential. But because of the way the equity agreement was structured, it didn’t matter if a shareowner still worked at the
Circus
. In fact, the shareowner didn’t even have to be alive; the Rhino’s share had been divvied up between his three ex-wives. So Rick’s stake was not in jeopardy if he refused to return. Unfortunately, if the ratings kept tanking, the stake would be worthless.