Curtains (3 page)

I was starting to get a little nervous now.
If this girl was acting, she was too good to be stuck in a
Midwestern cow town like Topeka . She was starting to sound too
weird, even for me. Her voice was as sharp and cold as an icicle,
but with a touch of sexiness all the same.

"That's why I called you, Mickey. I've
listened to your show for a long time, and I just knew you'd
understand. You think the boys in blue would believe me?"

I was almost flattered, but a reality check
rose like stomach acid. Sure, years ago I was a morning star in Los
Angeles drive-time, but a little FCC controversy knocked me down
faster than a Mike Tyson punch. I'd bounced around a few AM
stations and tried my hand at ad sales, but now I was just riding
the board until the years of chemical abuse caught up with me.

"Honey, I'm here for you," I said, getting
back in the game. "We love you here at the Kick, and Mickey Nixon
is not one to judge other people. Live and let live, I always
say...to coin a phrase."

Now I could see a row of green lights
blinking on the telephone board. Four callers were waiting to be
punched in. I'd never had more than two, and that was when Lefty
from Promotions had fingered me a couple of White Zombie tickets to
give away. This girl, whoever she was, had the audience
stirring.

"Mickey, men have always disappointed me.
They talk sweet and walk straight until they get what they want.
Then they treat you like a rag doll or worse. Well, I'm fed up.
Now, I'm the one on the prowl for easy meat. Just ask Chuck
here..."

There were a couple of seconds of dead
air.

"Oh, sorry. Chucky can't come to the phone
right now. He's got other things on his mind, and they're called my
feet. Well, Mickey. I've got to go. It's been real, and I'll be in
touch."

I could hear sirens in the background just
before she hung up.

"If you're still out there, remember that you
can talk to me. I'll never do you wrong," I broadcast to the sleepy
world. I punched up caller number two, trying to keep some
momentum.

"Hey, Mickey, that tart's gone out of her
mind. Did you pay a friend of yours to call in or something?" a
drunken voice slurred.

"Yeah, just like I did with you, upchuck
breath." I cut him off and punched up the next caller.

"I just killed a beer myself, and I want you
to know your show rocks, man."

It sounded like a college student who had
seen " Wayne 's World" too many times. But I wasn't choosy and I
doubted I'd be lucky enough to get anyone as interesting as my
death-dealing diva as an on-air guest. What was I expecting, Howard
Stern or the ghost of Orson Welles?

"That chick was really wild, man," the caller
continued, adding a couple of "uhs" into the mix. This show was
billed as the "Talk-n-Toonage Marathon ," but the talk never seemed
to keep rolling.

"Thanks for the input, 'dude.' Gotta go." I
sighed, stabbed the button on the cart machine, and AC/DC started
ringing "Hell's Bells."

The next afternoon, I rolled out of bed and
belched stale coffee. I stumbled through the dirty clothes and back
issues of
Rolling Stone
that served as the carpet in my
one-room bachelor's paradise and elbowed open the bathroom door. I
showered and even screwed up my resolve enough to shave. I felt
displaced and alienated, as if I'd just come back from a long drug
trip. At first, I couldn't figure out what was different. Then it
hit me. I actually felt rejuvenated, as if last night's caller had
given me something to look forward to.

I drove my ragged Honda down to the station
and parked at the far end of the lot. All the other jocks had
personal spaces. I guess the station GM figured one day I'd just
disappear and she didn't want me around badly enough to invest ten
bucks in a lousy plywood sign. Well, no love lost.

I went inside and checked the shift schedule,
then headed for the staff lounge. I was just about to scarf a
couple of donuts when I saw the newspaper open on the table. I
picked it up and searched the front page. No headlines screaming
bloody murder.

I was turning to the crime section when
Pudge, WKIK's answer to Benito Mussolini as well as Program
Director, walked in. His eyes glared from under the caterpillars of
his brows. He didn't bother saying hello. He had a marketing report
in his hand and he waved it like an ax.

"Your numbers are down, Mick. You know the
only reason we stay on during the graveyard shift is because it's
cheaper than locking up and paying security for a few hours. But I
want to lead in every time slot, and you're not up to speed."

Pudge was on a mission to inflate his own ego
until his head could no longer fit through doorways. He gobbled up
credit like it was free pizza, but when it was time to dish out the
blame, he had a list as long as his belt, and his name was on the
last notch. College communications courses taught me that radio was
a personal medium, but Pudge must have skipped those. At every
staff meeting, he argued for total automation of WKIK.

I rubbed my cheek and felt the first blossom
of stubble in the weedbeds of my cheeks.

"Well, Pu—um, Andrew, if you'd give my slot a
little promotion, it might do something. Besides, I've got a loyal
audience."

"Well, your audience's demographic doesn't
coincide with the one our advertisers want to reach. Even at your
low wage, this 'Talk-n-Toonage Marathon ' is barely breaking even.
I'm tempted to change your slot to a satellite feed."

I was barely listening because I was
transfixed by the flapping of his plump lips. He bored me faster
than a dinner date with Andre. I muttered something appropriately
offensive and incoherent and left with the newspaper and a pair of
chocolate donuts. The Honda whined a little before starting, but I
coaxed it home so that I could rest before the night's shift.

As I gnawed a three-day-old slice of anchovy
pizza, I thumbed through the paper. On page two of the local news
section, I found my item.

MAN FOUND DEAD IN APPARENT HOMICIDE

Charles Shroeder, age 29, of 417 Skylark
Place , was found shot in his home last night. Police responded
after a neighbor reported hearing a gunshot. A medical examiner
ruled that Shroeder died from a single bullet wound to the head at
approximately 2:00 AM. There are no suspects at this time,
according to Lt. C.L. Hubble of the Topeka Police Detective
Division.

So my mystery caller was the real thing after
all. I wondered if I should call the police. I didn't have any
solid evidence, if you didn't count a phone conversation, and I
didn't. I decided to wait until she called again. I wanted to hear
her voice, the one of blood and smoke. I only hoped she wouldn't
have to kill again, if indeed she had killed at all, to be
motivated enough to give me a ring.

Four long, lonely nights crawled by. "Wayne "
called once and requested some Beastie Boys, and a handful of
callers asked about the "murder woman," but other than that, the
phone set in its cradle like a cement slipper. I slid into my
regular routine, ignoring the playlist and forgetting to air the
paid ads according to the traffic schedule. My cynicism began to
consume me again, a snake swallowing its tail. Then, on Thursday,
she called.

I knew it was her the moment I saw the light
on the switchboard. I snapped the phone to my ear. "Mickey Nixon at
the Kick."

"Hi, Mickey. It's me again." Her voice rushed
through the miles of cable like a May breeze, warm and fresh.

"You have me at a disadvantage. I don't know
your name."

"That would sort of be like kissing and
telling, wouldn't it? You already know so much about me. But just
call me 'Night Owl.'"

I eyed the digits counting down on the Denon
player and cued the next CD. So she'd given herself a pseudonym.
Not exactly a sign of emotional stability. But, hell, my real name
was Michel D'artagne.

"Well, do you want to tell our audience what
you've been doing with yourself lately?"

"Anything for a thrill, Mickey. Have you
missed me?"

"Sure. It's a lonely life, surrounded by
these cold machines. The music helps, but it's the people that make
it matter. I'm sending you out live now." I potted up the interface
before beginning my introduction.

"Yo, shake out of those dreams, my friend,
Mickey's got the Night Owl here, the one that's to die for, and you
want to twist that dial right on up."

Deejaying was one of the few occupations
where you could get away with referring to yourself in the third
person, along with politics and professional sports. She picked up
on my enthusiasm and jumped right in.

"Hey, out there in radio-land. This is Night
Owl with more good news for the human race. There's one less piece
of dirtbaggage in the world tonight. I just took down number three.
Johnny picked me up in a bar and wanted a double-handful of hot
romance. He got an earful of hot metal instead. Just because he
bought me a drink, he thought he was buying the whole package."

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.