First Time Killer (3 page)

Rick opened his mouth to respond, but Celia kept talking. “The recipe for that is simple. Listeners want conflict. Raw emotion. Sparks. Don’t treat your callers like people. They’re actors, looking for their fifteen minutes in the spotlight. Make ’em pay for the privilege. Make ’em squirm. That’s how you get good theater.”

“I think I’ll leave that for Tin Man. Humiliating callers is his shtick.”

She glared at him. “It’s what they want, you know. The attention. That’s why they call.”

Rick just shook his head. There was nothing he could say to Celia to make her understand. “Why did you bring me to the
Circus
? I was doing fine with my pedestrian little lunchtime show talking to normal people.”

“That’s
exactly
why. You’ve built up a solid following. Good ratings.
Very
good ratings. You’ve seen the book. We need to bring those listeners along, get them hooked on the
Circus
. I know having you and Tin Man share the stage—as it were—is unorthodox, but sometimes a fire and ice thing works beautifully.”

“Not this time,” Rick said.

Celia crossed her arms across her chest. “Trust me. We need to focus all of our firepower. I’m willing to throw the rest of the shows under the Metroliner if it will help the
Circus
.” She tilted her head. “Right now, we need every set of ears we can get. Too bad a murderer can’t call in every day.”

It took every once of control Rick had to keep his lips sealed. No sense getting into another shouting match with Celia.

She lowered her voice and glanced around, although they were alone. “You and I both know what happens if we can’t get the
Circus
ratings up. SatRad won’t buy our show. And then the equity we own will be worthless. We’ll be stuck working the daily grind for the rest of our lives. Can’t you put aside your precious ideals for a few million dollars?”

Rick splashed cold water on his face. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand it. The pressure, the financial uncertainty, Celia, the Boss Bitch. Things were slowly building to a crescendo, and he was afraid he might go ballistic any day, like one of his crazy callers. He stared into the mirror, trying to picture how he looked twenty-odd years ago, when he was getting started in the business, back when the politics, back-stabbing, and double-dealing were all things to look forward to. There would have been fire in his eyes. Now, all that stared back at him were the cold eyes of a dying ember.

The door of the men’s room swung open and WTLK News Director Winn Hummel ambled in, newspaper under one arm, canary struggling to escape his mouth. “Hey, Rick. Doin’ okay?” he asked, in a baritone that rivaled Rick’s.

“You heard?” Winn was off yesterday and missed the killer’s call.

“Oh, yes. How could you not hear? Fruitcake. Sounded like you did the best you could.”

“Not sure about that. Got into it with Celia.”

“Oh? Walk out again?” Winn smoothed his droopy white moustache with two fingers, obscuring the hint of a smile. He reminded Rick of a slightly acerbic, distinguished-looking walrus.

Rick had walked out in protest several times during the past couple months, each time after—or, more accurately, during—an argument with Celia. Always came back, though. “Yeah. Sort of. Never got out of the building, so maybe it doesn’t count.” A grin slowly grew on his face. “I’m calmer today.”

“Good.” Winn leaned against the sink next to Rick’s. “Don’t let her get to you. We’ve seen dozens of clueless PDs like her. Dozens. They’re hard charging types, but they’ll burn out soon enough. They all do.” Winn turned toward the mirror and began picking at something in his teeth.

Rick dabbed at his face with a paper towel. How had he gotten into this position? Not too long ago, he was happy hosting his sedate talk show. Handling listeners’ day-to-day problems with thoughtful, caring solutions. Then the previous afternoon jock, the Rhino, overdosed, leaving the
Circus
rudderless. With a mega-million-dollar satellite deal hanging in the balance.

Rick felt Winn’s hand on his shoulder. “You can do it, Rick.”

“What?” Rick wasn’t sure where this was headed, wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Beat that jerkoff Tin Man. He deserves to get his ass whipped.”

“He’s built up a pretty good audience so far. Maybe the listeners have changed. Maybe they really do want over-the-top shenanigans.” Rick shook his head. Shock jocks had been a staple on the radio scene for twenty years, but it seemed like they were multiplying faster than ever recently.

“Shock jocks are like ticks. Disease-carrying little buggers, practically indestructible. After the nuclear holocaust, it’ll be the shock jocks left crawling around.” Winn stroked his moustache. “Tin Man will go too far, mark my words. Do something incredibly stupid. Or illegal. Just give him a little time. In the meantime, don’t do anything stupid yourself.”

“Not planning to.” Rick sized up his old friend. He seemed more weathered than usual. And that was saying something. “You know, even if Tin Man beats me—and the ratings are good enough—the SatRad deal will go through…” Rick trailed off. His equity stake in the deal could be worth something in the five- to ten-million-dollar range, depending on who was doing the estimating. Not chump change.

“Ah, yes. Satellite Radio. The Holy Grail. Would be nice.”

“That’s an understatement, old man.” Rick wasn’t the only one who would make out. Others at WTLK found themselves looking at big paydays, too. A what-should-I-do-now-with-my-life kind of payday. All contingent on the SatRad deal going through. And it wouldn’t, unless Rick or Tin Man pulled some huge numbers.

“I’m just hoping I can make it three more years until I retire.” Winn looked back at Rick. “What do you think? Do I have three more years left in me?”

“Try thirty more years.” Rick remembered meeting Winn, at his first station in New Haven, on his first day. The aura of authority, the confidence of a professional. Rick was awed from the beginning. The older man had drawn him close and taught him the business, pointing out the landmines and secret passages along the way. But that was many years and three or four stations ago, and the business had changed. Drastically, in places.

Next to Rick, Winn ran a wet hand through his gray hair, slicking it back. Then he picked up his folded newspaper off the edge of the sink and tucked it under his arm. “Want to catch a cold one at the Belly Up after the show?” Winn asked.

“Not tonight, buddy. Rain check?”

“Sure thing.” Winn glanced at his watch. “Have a good show today,
Ringmaster
.”

S
HOCK JOCK
T
IN
Man leaned back in his chair and inhaled, savoring the smell of the studio. Sweat, stale coffee, the faint, yet distinctive, odor of electronic equipment. No place better in the world, nothing he’d rather be doing. Where else could he get paid big bucks for calling listeners ho’s and dorks, losers and f-tards? And few things were more intoxicating than being mobbed at an appearance by adoring fans, eager to speak to him or get his autograph or touch his skin. Only one thing better—being on satellite so more people could appreciate his genius.

He surveyed the studio as the spots played. Bigger and nicer than the one he had in Trenton, even if the beige cinder block walls reminded him of a prison cell. On his first day, to mark his territory, he’d plastered a bumper sticker on the back of the studio door so every deejay in the studio would see it, during every minute of every show. Red letters on a black background.
Tin Man: America’s Favorite A-Hole!
He’d had ten thousand printed, on his dime, and he passed them out every chance he could. At appearances, at parties. One day, he even paid a kid to put them under the windshield wipers of the cars at Safeway.
America’s Favorite A-Hole!
Something to aspire to. The more outrageous he was, the better his listeners liked him. And the better he liked himself.

Four months ago, he’d been the swinging dick at a small Trenton station. They’d promoted him with a
Tin Man Takes Trenton!
campaign, and he’d enjoyed a steady climb in the ratings. But Trenton was a small radio market, barely cracking the top 150, and there’d been no chance of syndication. Then came the lucky break. One of his idols, the Rhino, checked out, and WTLK came knocking. Washington, D.C. A top ten market. More importantly, the show was syndicated nationwide. It hadn’t taken much wrangling on Celia’s part to get him to run away and join the
Circus
. Hell, he probably would have ditched Trenton without the big salary and a piece of the action.

He glanced at his sidekick, Tubby, staring into space, slack-jawed. Cro-Magnon man. Where had Celia found this guy, anyway? Greeting people at Wal-Mart? Tin Man had insisted on having a straight man, someone who could set him up while not hogging any of his precious airtime. And Celia had come up with a rotund, balding guy with permanent armpit stains, whose idea of haute couture was an old Redskins jersey with the number nine stitched on the back.

Unfortunately, Tubby’s appearance wasn’t his worst quality. The guy was such a milquetoast he hadn’t even blinked at his new radio name. He’d actually said,
thank you
, when Tin Man told him two million people would be calling him Tubby. What a pussy! Even though he wanted someone he could belittle and push around, his partner needed to have at least a modicum of personality. They were doing a radio show, after all. Maybe he could give him some asshole lessons.

“Back from spots in ten, Tin Man.” J.T.’s voice over the intercom ended Tin Man’s internal musings. “Your call is queued up.”

He counted down the seconds in his head. “Welcome back to the
Circus
everybody. This is Tin Man, the Heartless One-der, along with the Tubman. Let’s have a little fun, shall we? I’ve got a few questions for the helpful salesclerks over at Macy’s.” He hit the button on the Gentner phone. “Hello? Macy’s men’s department?”

“Yes, how can I help you?”

Tin Man detected a trace of an accent, but couldn’t place it. Didn’t matter, foreign was foreign was foreign. “This is Tin Man from the
Afternoon Circus
. You are on the air.”

“Um. Okay.”

“How come there are never any shirts in my size?” asked Tin Man.

“Well, we do our best to stock all sizes and styles, especially—”

“Especially ugly rags only foreigners wear.”

“We carry the latest fashions. From the world’s top designers. And—”

“Have you ever tried on women’s clothing in the dressing rooms?” Tin Man asked. In the world of shock-jockery, it was anything goes. And maintaining the proper image from the get-go was vital.

“No. Never. And I don’t see—”

“I find that hard to believe. Isn’t every sales clerk a little light in the Florsheims?” Tin Man asked, glad he found a career where immaturity was prized.

“No. And I resent you—”

“Lighten up, pal. Didn’t you ever drag a saleswoman from the lingerie department into the storeroom and, ah, check out her inventory? Maybe one with big kajongas. All the underwear babes are hot, I hear.” Tin Man turned to his partner. “What do you think, Tubby?”

“You should know, Tin Man. I bet you’ve gotten to know plenty of hot babes. In—and out of—their underwear.” Tubby made a sound that could have passed for a laugh, if you had trouble gauging sincerity.

“As a matter of fact, I have.” Tin Man went on. “I hear the sales bimbos are easy, too. That’s what hanging out in the lingerie department all day will do to you. Rev up your engine.” Celia wanted him to be outrageous, practically begged him to piss people off. He’d be happy to annihilate this guy if it goosed the ratings.

“I think I’d better get back to work now,” the flustered sales clerk managed, amid Tin Man’s chuckling.

“Thanks for your—” Tin Man said, but the clerk had already hung up. He spoke to Tubby. “Well, that was a fascinating call. What’s your take on it?”

“As usual, you had him—” Tubby began.

Tin Man cut him off. “Thanks, Tubman. Very insightful.” Tin Man looked around the studio. “Hey, who’s our server this afternoon? Peter Intern or Janie Intern? I need some joe. Now!” Abusing the interns was part of the show. Making them fetch food, clean-up messes, or just plain make fools of themselves on national radio was entertaining. The interns ate it up, considering it a necessary step up the radio celebrity ladder.

Tin Man scanned the phone queue and hit the button for line two. It was either that, or strike up a conversation with Tubby. An electronic ring-ring chirped, the sound effect he always used right before answering a call. “Tin Man. What’s on your mind today, Ginny?”

“It’s Jenny.”

“Okay then,
Jenny
. What can I do for you today?”

“Well, I wanted to ask—”

Tin Man interrupted. “What’s shaking my little Jenny? Besides your ample booty? I bet you got some junk in the trunk.”

“My butt ain’t big. Not as big as your head, anyway.”

“Ouch,” Tin Man said, silently flipping a half-hearted bird at the mic. Sometimes he needed to give his listening audience the illusion they could take shots at him. Give and take, give and take. “You got anything you’d like to spit out of your dirty mouth?”

“This murderer. Why do you think he did it? And why would he call in to a radio show about it?” Jenny asked.

This wasn’t the first caller who’d wanted to talk about yesterday’s eventful call. Tin Man straightened. “Listen up. There are a lot of wackos in this world, some even live here in Northern Virginia. Could be anyone. He loves listening to his voice on the radio. Don’t we all? Honey, I bet that’s why you called in. So you can hear your sexy voice on the little black box. Am I right?”

“Shut up. That’s not it. The thought of a killer on the loose alarms me.”

“
Alarms
you? Get your boyfriend to protect you. You have a boyfriend, don’t you?” Tin Man asked. He glanced at his partner, who was searching for something in his nose with his finger.