Livvy’s eyes lit up. “That was fun. I took all those pictures of the clouds.”
Gotta love digital cameras. Livvy took more than seventy pictures out the window. Forget Paul Revere and Fanueil Hall. Livvy’s memory of her trip to Boston consisted of fluffy white cloud photos.
Livvy stuffed the last bite of brownie into her mouth and pulled her shoes off without untying the laces. “I’m done, Daddy.” Before Rick could comment, she scooted off the bench and darted for the closest jumbo jet. How quickly they became independent.
Rick finished his brownie and wiped his mouth with a napkin. As he was stuffing the trash back into the Mrs. Fields bag, a man stepped up to his bench and jutted his chin at the empty space next to Rick. “Mind if I sit?”
Rick slid over to make more room. “Sure. Have a seat.”
The man nodded and sat. He carried a camouflage jacket and wore a red Nationals cap with a white W inscribed on the front. A small scar began over his left eye, zigzagged up his forehead, and disappeared under the cap. “Busy day here at the mall.”
“Sure is,” Rick said.
The man gazed at the children playing. “Love watching the kids have fun. Makes me wish I was a kid again.”
“I know what you mean. They have lots of energy.” Rick eyed his new friend. Mid-twenties, rugged. Something about him seemed familiar. Maybe his speech cadence.
The guy stuck out his hand. “Name’s Mike.”
Rick shook his hand. It was unnaturally warm and moist, and Mike held on a fraction of a second too long. Rick pulled his hand away.
“Which one’s yours?” Mike asked.
Rick hesitated, then pointed to a pack of kids crawling around a pretend cockpit. “Over there. Blond.”
“Oh. In the blue shirt?”
Rick shifted on the bench. Livvy had on a blue sweatshirt. But how did he pick her out of the group? There were several other towheaded kids. Lucky guess? “Yeah, that’s right.”
“Cute kid. Real cute.” Mike cleared his throat, and the wet, gargling sound unnerved Rick. “You must be real proud.”
“She’s a great kid, all right,” Rick said. “And yours is?”
Next to him, Mike leaned back and stretched his legs out. Dirty jeans and work boots. “Don’t have any kids. Not even married.” He paused. “Just taking a break. Watching these kids cheers me up.”
Rick glanced at his watch. Maybe they should get going.
“What do you do for a living, don’t mind me asking?” Mike extended one arm along the back of the bench, fingers almost touching Rick’s shoulder.
“I’m in media.” On the other side of the plastic runway bisecting the “airport,” Rick spotted Livvy playing follow-the-leader with two other children. Livvy was the leader.
“Media? Hell, media’s a great business to be in.” Mike chuckled. “I love media.” A weird grin settled on his face.
Rick’s creep detector powered up.
“So, what media are you in?” Mike asked. “Radio?”
“Actually, yes.”
“I love radio. You ever listen to the
Afternoon Circus
?” Mike cocked his head at Rick. Waiting for an answer.
“Yeah, I’ve heard it. Listen, I think I need to be going.”
“That’s too bad. Looks like your daughter is having a good time.”
Rick stood. “We’ve got a lot to do. Nice talking with you.”
“Ditto. Give Livvy my best, will you?”
Rick nodded and headed for Livvy, who had migrated to the front of the play area, near the control tower. After five steps, he froze. He’d never mentioned Livvy’s name to Mike. Rick whirled around, heart beating wildly.
Mike was gone.
R
ICK NURSED HIS
beer, waiting for Winn to return from the can. He’d been to the Belly Up dozens of times, but never really examined his surroundings. The Belly Up was a drinking establishment in transition. Had been since he first came years ago. When the owner, Sammy Volusio, bought the bar, his ex-wife had given him shit. Told him he’d be bankrupt in two months. Sammy wouldn’t be deterred. Named the place Belly Up as a fuck-you to his ex and forged ahead, starting ambitious renovations. Once Sammy got a good look at the cash flow, though, he pulled the plug on the construction. Five years later, the only subsequent “renovation” had been to the sign outside. Sammy had squeezed the words, “To The” between “Belly Up” and “Bar.”
The restaurant looked like it had been designed by an interior decorator with a split personality. A seriously disturbed decorator. The left half was decorated in Early Men’s Club: dark wood, leather banquettes, dim lighting. Old, silver picture frames held photos of even-older celebrities, few still alive. The right half had undergone a partial metamorphosis. Blond wood, a few plants in hanging planters, and chrome tables scattered about. Abstract pictures on the walls. If you didn’t know better, you’d think a wall separating the two sections was missing.
Rick relaxed in one of the worn, cracked-leather booths in the old section of the restaurant. He and Winn were regulars but varied their table selection based on their moods. Tonight, no question. Dark side.
Winn returned to their table, talking before his butt hit the seat. “Bullshit, Rick. That’s all it is.” He scooted in and pulled his glass of scotch close. His third. He leaned forward on his elbows, wiped at his moustache.
“Always has been, hasn’t it.” Rick was still nursing his first beer, harboring no illusions of keeping up with Winn. “’Cept sometimes it gets to us more than others.”
Winn’s head swiveled toward the bar, homed in on two redheads. Sitting on stools, sipping glasses of white wine amongst the ferns. Some nights the Belly Up segregated like a junior high school dance. Boys on one side in the dark, girls on the other in the light.
“If the Rhino were still here, things would be better. Count on it.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to the Rhino.”
The Belly Up had been the Rhino’s favorite watering hole, but Rick knew Winn was talking about the bigger picture. With the Rhino, their future would have been satellite-driven. Without him, they might not even have a future. “I’m doing the best I can, Winn.”
“No, no, no. I know you are. That’s not what I mean. It’s not your fault the ratings…” He took a gulp of scotch. “I was talking about the business. In general. Celia. Trampling the listeners to get what she wants. Trampling us, too. Not just her though. The whole new breed. Shit.” He gripped his tumbler tightly, stared down into it, trying to read his fortune in the golden liquid.
“Things change. We need to change with them.”
Winn’s head snapped up. “Do we? Do we really? What happened to decency? We have an obligation. We occupy the public airwaves. We shouldn’t be spewing shit every chance we get.” He coughed, an ugly, phlegmy sound. Wiped at his mouth, took another sip. “How do you think I feel? I’ve been in this business for thirty-seven years. And it’s turned into a shithole. My entire life’s been a waste. I’ve got nothing to show for it. Not even a healthy retirement, if the satellite deal falls through.”
Rick sipped his beer, accustomed to Winn’s drunken condemnations of the radio business. Would he be in Winn’s shoes twenty years from now? Drinking in a dingy bar, bemoaning his life? He didn’t think so. Livvy’s bright face was a portent he wouldn’t be.
A couple of metrosexuals in designer suits swooped in on the two redheads in a well-orchestrated attack. All four began to laugh and flirt, touching arms and patting shoulders. Rick turned back to Winn. Time to change the subject. “I haven’t noticed the furor dying down any, have you?” Ever since Danzler had been identified, his death was all anyone at the station had been talking about.
“Poor kid. I wonder what he did to deserve it.”
“Come on, Winn. Getting murdered wasn’t his fault. He just was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Rick shook his head. Winn wasn’t a very happy drunk.
“I always knew being an intern was a dangerous job,” Winn said. “Good thing they’re disposable.”
“Not funny.” Rick thought back to his younger days. “I loved being an intern. New to radio. It was very exciting. I slept at the station on many occasions, as I recall.”
“Things are different now. Most of the interns don’t even care about radio. They couldn’t give a flying fuck about radio. All they want is to hear their voices on the radio. Show off to their friends. ‘Look at me, I’m a radio hotshot.’ Things have changed, and I don’t think I like what they’ve changed into.” He drained the last bit of his drink, then popped his head up searching for the waitress.
“Come on. Not all of the interns are like that.”
“Shit. Even Damon’s like that. Most of the time, I don’t think he cares a whit about delivering the news. All he wants to do is get famous and rich.” Winn shook his head in disgust.
“Forget Damon.” Rick reached out, touched Winn on the arm. “Got any theories? Why would First Time kill him and then call in to our show? Adams doesn’t think it’s a coincidence.” The detective’s words echoed in Rick’s mind:
Danzler was killed
because
he worked here
.
“Who knows? Wouldn’t surprise me if Celia was behind it all. Killing people to attract listeners. She loves her ratings.” His eyes scanned the bar. “Where’s our girl? Can’t a guy get a drink around here? You’d think with all the business I give them, I’d be assigned my own personal waitress.”
“Maybe it’s time for us to go. Got another busy day tomorrow. Marty’s called an all-hands meeting.”
“Fuck Marty. I want another drink.” He glared at Rick. “Okay? That okay with you?”
“Take it easy, Winn.” Rick lowered his voice, softened it around the edges. “I can stick around a few more minutes. Give you a lift home, too.”
Winn flagged their server and ordered another scotch. Since Bette died, Winn spent more and more of his time flagging down waitresses and ordering scotch. A return to some of the habits that plagued him when Rick first met the man. Seeing Winn home safely was the least he could do. Small payback for the years of mentorship and ongoing friendship. Despite what happened in New Haven twenty-four years ago, Rick owed Winn Hummel quite a lot.
R
ICK WATCHED AS
J.T. drove toward the hoop, then took flight. After spinning a complete 360 degrees, he tomahawked the ball through the basket, hanging on the rim in celebration. Rick clapped as he strode across the parking lot pavement behind the building where someone from a previous radio regime had erected an old basketball hoop. “Terrific. How come you’re here and not playing ball somewhere?”
J.T. smiled, a bashful boy in a tall, muscular body. “Nine-foot rims help. And there’s not much defense.” He picked the ball up. “Didn’t know you were watching.”
“Just came out.” Rick dug his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “Aren’t you cold?”
J.T. wore sweats emblazoned with some NBA team’s logo. A backward baseball cap covered his head. Looked like every twenty-something cruising the shopping malls. “No. Not really. What’s up, boss?”
“Had a few questions.”
“Shoot.” J.T. held the ball against his hip with one hand.
“This whole First Time thing. Got any thoughts?”
“Thoughts? Like what?” J.T. looked perplexed.
“Well, do you think any of our regular callers could be involved?” Rick glanced around the parking lot. Only cars and trucks. No other people.
“That thought did pop into my mind. But…I don’t know. Do you think they are?” J.T.’s eyes widened.
A small smile formed on Rick’s face. “No. But I don’t really know them. You’re the one always chatting them up on the phone. And the Rhino always dealt with the loonies a lot more than I do.” Rick considered the regular nut-case callers a necessary evil. The Rhino had seemed to relish sparring with them on-air.
“Yeah. Let me think.” J.T. stared off into space. He took a moment to organize his thoughts. “Well, I suppose you can divide most of them into three types: simpletons, blow-hards, and psychos. Not real psychos, just guys that have a few screws loose. I don’t think they’re really dangerous.” He shrugged and plowed on, his tone becoming more authoritative now that he was talking about his area of expertise. “Johnnie Ray and Manchild are simpletons. They can barely dial a phone. I’d be surprised if they had anything to do with anything.” J.T. looked at Rick for encouragement. Rick nodded.
J.T. continued. “For blow-hards, you’ve got Whizzer, Lap Dog, and Godman. They just like to hear themselves talk. Although they do spout some pretty harsh bullshit from time to time. But killers? Hard to believe. You know?”
“Yeah. Hard to believe anyone could do this.”
J.T. dribbled the ball a few times, then picked it up and ran his hands over it. “Now your psychos. No telling what they might do.” J.T. paused.
“Go on.” Sometimes it was like pulling teeth.
“Well, I’d put Minnie Mac and Sweet Pete in that group. And Hard Core Harry, definitely. Those dudes are crazy, stand-on-your-head-in-traffic crazy. Nothing they did would surprise me. Make me uncomfortable. In fact, sometimes I’ll give them incorrect times or addresses for our appearances so they won’t show up.” J.T. nodded, as if congratulating himself on his safety precautions. “But still. Murder? That would be hard to believe.”
Rick was glad J.T. hadn’t fingered any listener as a potential suspect. He didn’t want to believe someone associated with the show could be responsible for such a heinous act.
“Hey, I forgot about another category. The groupies.” J.T. sported a wide grin.
“Oh, was that a groupie I saw you talking with in the lobby the other day? You know, the brunette with the t-shirt three sizes too small?”
J.T.’s face shaded, and not from exertion. “That’s Stripper Susie. And I prefer to think her breasts are three sizes too big.”
“Be careful, J.T.,” Rick said. “Celia finds out, she won’t like it. Using your position here in order to get laid. Shameful.”
“I’m just working with her, trying to coax her out of her shell.” J.T.’s grin intensified.
“Right. Just helping her out a bit.”
“Well, I try to lend a hand when I can. You know how it is.” He dribbled the basketball between his legs. Back and forth. Back and forth.