First Time Killer (30 page)

Winn shook his head. “So, what, First Time was hiding somewhere in the surrounding woods, watching everything? Talking to you as they cuffed the imposter?”

“Something like that. As soon as they figured out they were duped, the cops dashed off into the woods, searching for any sign of him. Probably still there, combing through the leaves and branches, looking for footprints or candy wrappers or whatever else madmen leave behind in the woods.”

“This is fucking unbelievable. Lap Dog is innocent? The cops arrested the wrong guy and we went bonkers like lunatics. Tin Man burning him in effigy. Man.” Again, Winn arched his eyebrows at Rick. “How did Barb take it?”

“About like you’d expect. Scared. Worried. I sent her and Livvy back to Ray’s.”

“I don’t blame her for being upset. She’ll pull through. She’s tough.” Winn kept shaking his head, back and forth. Like he was having a hard time digesting the story.

“What?” Rick asked.

“Celia will go ga-ga. She’s got First Time to kick around some more. Un-fucking-believable. She’ll probably want to wait for the
Circus
to begin before breaking the news. Makes for better ratings. She seems to think we’ve almost got the SatRad deal wrapped up, what with our performance over the past few weeks. She can’t wait to have such a big stage upon which to perform her magic.” Winn checked his watch. “I should probably get this on the air, ASAP. Don’t you think?”

“Well, you’re the news guy. It’s your call, I suppose.”

Winn bit his lower lip. “Maybe I should talk it over with Celia and Marty. They seem to be running this whole First Time thing.”

“Like I said, it’s not my call.” Rick got up to leave. “One thing, though. If you could manage to leave my name out of things, I’d appreciate it. I don’t need the added attention.” He started for the door, then turned back to Winn. Examined him as objectively as he could. His friend seemed weak and indecisive. The creases on his face seemed deeper, the moustache seemed thinner and droopier. Winn Hummel was aging as he watched. Was the stress of losing Bette finally catching up to him? Was it the drinking? All of the above, combined with the tension due to First Time? Rick did an about-face and plopped back down into the chair.

“What?” Winn asked. “Forget something?” He grabbed for his pen.

“No. Nothing like that.” He cocked his head. “You getting enough sleep? You really don’t look too good today.”

“You should talk. You look like shit yourself.” Winn tossed his pen down on the desk, rolled his chair back a few inches. “Rick, my boy. I’m tired. Been tired for months now. I’m tired of all the bullshit, all the stuff radio’s become. I think I want out.” He stared at Rick, set his jaw. “I know I’ve teased about it in the past, but this time I’m serious. I’m going to hang in there to see if we can seal the deal with SatRad, then I’m going to retire.”

Rick didn’t know what to say. Winn had weathered the inevitable storms over a long and successful career. Who was he to try to talk his friend out of retiring? Yet… “Maybe you should take a vacation. Take some time to evaluate things. It’s been crazy around here since the Rhino died. Things’ll calm down. You’ll see.”

“I’m too old. Too depressed. Time to relax. The only question is: will I be relaxing in high style, or will I have to buy a double-wide and spend my remaining days in a trailer park eating Spaghetti-O’s from a can with a plastic spoon?” He snorted. “I really hope the SatRad deal comes through and I can cash out big time. Livvy deserves a godfather who can afford to take her to the arcade once in a while.”

R
ICK TOOK THE
long way to his office, purposely detouring through the bullpen where the interns camped out. No matter what time it was, there were always a few around. Beat going to class or working some dead-end job at the mall. He stopped to say hi and to take the pulse of those not yet beaten down by the business. Spirits seemed pretty high, considering the latest events. Rick muttered a few obligatory comments about First Time, then excused himself, grateful he hadn’t cracked about last night’s park escapade. He’d let Winn handle the news flashes; he was going to concentrate on connecting with his listeners, like he did before the whole First Time thing began.

He reached his office, glanced at a few “urgent” memo slips on his desk—none of which was truly urgent—and turned the ringer off on his phone. Needed some quiet to mull things over. He crossed the small office and flopped down on a ratty couch he’d claimed just as the maintenance men were hauling it off to the landfill. Stuffing leaked from three of the four cushions and the whole thing smelled a little funky, but it was damn comfortable. And Rick liked to think he prized functionality over appearance every day of the week. After all, you couldn’t just throw something aside because it didn’t age well.

The interns’ bright young faces, eager to impress, reminded him of his early days. When the fire burned within, and he couldn’t wait to get to the station. His first boss at WNHR called him a radio rat—an entirely complimentary nickname. Like the gym rat who lived to play ball around the clock, Rick was at the station more than he was elsewhere. Hanging out, doing favors for the deejays, sucking up to the PD and GM. Keeping the receptionist company. Checking out the booty in the prize closet. Going out on remotes and toting equipment for the engineers. No job was too small, no task too menial. He loved every minute of it.

Things were exciting back then. New. Boundless possibilities. The whole business had a different aura. Ratings were important, sure, but they weren’t the only thing. The station was a family. One for all, all for one. Rick missed the camaraderie. He had friends now, but things just weren’t the same.

Rick’s thoughts drifted back to his good friend, Winn. And the events at WNHR. Things sure seemed different when viewed through the filter of time. Would he take the fall now for someone? Doubtful. Would one of the young bucks around here—J.T., for instance—fall on a grenade for him? Very doubtful. The entire world of radio was a different place now. And with satellite, it was about to change yet again.

But some things—and people—were slower to change, and Rick always thought Winn was one of them. Up until Bette died, Rick believed Winn’s drinking had been under control. But what started out as a few drinks to weather the grief right after her death had gotten progressively worse. Now he was drinking a few at lunch, attending happy hours more than on Fridays, and drinking in the morning.

What should he do about it? What were you supposed to do when someone you cared about was being self-destructive? The words of his father echoed in his head.
Loyalty is golden. If they’re your friends, you help them.
Simple words. Not so simple to put into action.

This morning wasn’t the first time he’d spoken to Winn about his drinking. He’d brought it up several times over the past few months. Each time Winn assured him it was “under control.” Rick had gone along, not wanting to create a scene or cause a rift between them, but it was clear now things weren’t under control. It seemed to him that secret drinking at ten o’clock in the morning wasn’t “under control” by anyone’s definition.

Rick imagined an intervention. He, Barb, and a half-dozen station employees gathered in the conference room, each telling Winn how much they cared about him. In his mental picture, though, Winn wasn’t listening. He was sound asleep, chin flopped down on his chest, snoring loudly. No one seemed to notice; everyone kept on talking, warning Winn of the dangers of excessive drinking.

If Bette were still alive, he knew he’d have an ally. She’d been a strong woman, and she’d kept Winn on the straight and narrow for close to forty years. Without her love—and support and guidance and wisdom—it was easy for Rick to understand why Winn felt so rudderless. And alone. Why he’d turned to his friends Johnnie Walker and Jim Beam for companionship.

What about AA? Could he possibly persuade Winn to attend a few meetings? Unlikely. Too set in his ways, denial too loud a voice on his shoulder. If you asked Winn, he was simply a social drinker under a little extra stress. As soon as things settled down, he’d cut back.

Rick wondered what would happen if he unleashed Barb on Winn. He hadn’t expressed his concerns to her yet, hoping Winn would pull out of the funk on his own. He knew she thought of Winn as a hipper version of her own father. She’d probably have some good ideas about how to handle things.

One thing had become crystal clear. Winn couldn’t be allowed to take Livvy out on their “dates” anymore. The niggling thought that had been festering in the recesses of Rick’s brain for the past two weeks had finally crystallized. Last week, Livvy went to a birthday party instead of going out with Winn, so his drinking hadn’t been an issue. But there was no way Rick was going to take a chance with his daughter’s safety. No fucking way. And that clarified his course of action. He’d
have
to tell Barb about Winn’s daytime drinking. Tonight, before tomorrow’s standing date.

Maybe Winn
should
retire, sooner rather than later. But which way would he go, with all that free time on his hands? Would he cut back on his drinking, free of the inevitable stresses of the day-to-day grind? Or would he sink into a deep, dark hole, where alcohol was his only pleasure, his only companion? The answer might depend on Winn’s finances.

The jackpot. The humungous pile of money at the end of the rainbow. If their deal with SatRad came to fruition, Winn would be a millionaire, several times over. He could move to a warm place, Phoenix or San Diego or Key West. Relax without any cares. No one breathing down his neck, no one telling him he’s too old to do his job.

Tropical paradises sounded nice. Rick wondered—not for the first time—what he’d do with his windfall. Barb had always wanted to sail around the Caribbean. Maybe he’d buy a big boat and hire a little crew and make his wife’s wish come true. He’d read a story once about a family that did just that, home schooling their kids during the adventure. In the end, they figured it was the best education the kids would ever get.

Rick exhaled loudly and kicked off his shoes. Settled into the couch. Was he ready for retirement? Every few weeks during normal times—every few minutes since the Rhino died—he’d felt symptoms of burnout. Irritability, anger, sleeplessness. Then something would happen and he’d get reenergized. Attack his job with a renewed vigor. But the repeating cycles were starting to wear him out. Barb always joked she wasn’t ready for his retirement. She couldn’t take him moping around the house, puttering with things that didn’t need puttering with. She was probably right, considering how things went after he “quit” the last time. She’d practically begged him to ask Celia for his job back.

Another idea—more of a selfish one, really—intrigued him. He’d often dreamed about the kind of radio station he’d run if he owned one. It would be a high-class operation, one where the employees would be treated well and compensated extravagantly. And there wouldn’t be any Chicken Killer contests. A few million dollars might be the ticket to turn dreams into reality. He could buy a small station somewhere and nurture it, feed it and tend to it until it grew into a player in its market. Or he could try to start one from scratch. Pick an underserved market and assemble all the components he needed to create his masterpiece. Everything would be under his control, from the personnel to the format to the kind of windscreens covering the mics.

Rick closed his eyes, swung his feet over the end of the couch, up over the arm. Last night had drained him. He thought about closing the door and trying to nap, but he hated the way he felt when he awoke from a midday snooze. Too groggy. Better to fight through the fatigue.

He got up, straightened his clothes. Gave his hair a quick comb-through with his hand. Maybe he should go have a talk with Tin Man. Maybe together they could figure out a way to bring First Time down.

Tin Man’s office was at the other end of the building from Rick’s. He knew the shock jock kept unorthodox hours, but he figured he’d give it a shot. Enough soloing. The more Rick thought about it, the more it made sense. United they stood a chance. Divided, more people might die. Maybe Celia was right about the fire and ice thing.

The office door was closed. Rick rapped lightly on the wood, just above a plastic sign that read Geniuses At Work. No answer. He knocked again, waited a moment, then pushed the door in.

Tin Man’s chair was empty, but Tubby sat at his desk, facing the back wall, feet up. “Hey. What’s up?” Rick stepped in, not wanting to startle him. “Hello? Anybody home?”

No response. Seemed Rick wasn’t the only one who felt like taking a nap. He spoke as he approached Tubby, hoping to wake him gently. “Hey. Wake up. Have you seen—” Rick froze. His mouth opened and he stared, unable to look away.

Tubby’s throat had been cut, an ear-to-ear smile. Blank eyes stared ahead, seeing nothing. Rick found the will to avert his gaze, fighting the bile rising in his throat. What he saw on Tubby’s desk sent the bile gushing forth.

In the bottom of Tin Man’s Giants mug, a pinkish-gray blob swam in an inch of blood.

Tubby’s tongue.

A
S SOON AS
Tin Man heard about Tubby’s death, he threw all his crap into two large duffel bags, drove a few miles south, and checked into another hotel using a new alias. Goodbye, James Munrow. Hello, Jorge Washington.

Spent most of the weekend holed up in his room, watching porn until he was numb. Then he decided to play hooky as Best Of shows aired, while the powers-that-be decided what to do about the
Circus
. He was pretty sure he wasn’t the only non-essential one ditching work.

During those few days, Tin Man didn’t travel far from his new hotel. Donned a wig and went to the movies. Ventured to a nearby Hooters and downed some Buffalo wings in front of a college basketball game. Went through half a book of Sudoku puzzles.