My Honda broke down, so I had to catch a bus back to WKIK that night. As I walked to the entrance, I noticed a sign with my name on it. It was a good space, right next to the GM's. I noted with satisfaction that it was a little closer to the door than Pudge's.
It was a little past midnight, so I was late signing on. Dietz and an engineer who looked like a junkie were already on the job. The engineer was splicing into the phone system. Bits of bare wire littered the floor like copper worms.
I checked the transmitter readings and apologized to the jock who had to stay late to cover for me. He had a little acne around his mouth. Probably an intern. He looked at me with a flash of something like hero worship in his eyes.
'No problem, Mr. Nixon,' he said, handing me the playlist. For a second, I thought he was going to ask for my autograph.
I settled behind the console like a pilot about to launch a jumbo jet. Dietz slouched in one corner with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. The engineer held an earphone against his gaunt head and nodded at him. All systems go, prepare for lift-off, I said to myself. I flipped over the mic key and addressed the waiting ears of Topeka.
'Have some fear, Mickey's here, welcome to 'Death Radio,' only on the Kick. Give me a buzz and let me know what's going down in the dark corners of your mind.'
I grinned at Dietz as the board lit up. 'Go ahead, caller. You're on,' I said, cranking up the pot.
A woman with a stuffy nose began talking. 'Mickey, I just wanted you to know how much we love 'Death Radio' here at Floyd's Truck Stop. You don't know how many loafers sit around here on their lazy hind ends soppin' up free refills and listenin' to your show.'
'Glad to have you aboard, honey. So, have you killed anybody lately?'
I saw Dietz wince as she laughed. 'Now, I don't think that girl's as bad as all that. So she shot a few, sounds to me like they had it comin'. And all the guys around here been tippin' real good this week. Been mindin' their manners, and eatin' with their hats off. Ever bad wind blows somebody good, I say.'
'Amen to that,' I said. I was beginning to wonder, and not for the first time, if I was playing to people's fears just to be a big shot. To be honest with myself, I was enjoying the success. Let people die if it was good for the ratings. I was beginning to think like a television news producer. Give the people what they want and damn the consequences.
I steadily punched up callers, and every one had a story about some man they knew who was finally shaping up or had died trying. A few knew, 'first-hand', about somebody who met their Maker over a little marital indiscretion. Dietz was pale, furiously scribbling on a note pad with the stub of a pencil. He hadn't realized just how out of control the show had gotten.
'Folks, I love you,' I said at the end of the shift. 'Thanks for opening your hearts to me, not to mention a few holes in people's heads. Night Owl, if you're out there, fly right and keep your barrel smoking. Tune in again tomorrow, skip work if you feel like it, and deep-six somebody if you must. This is Mickey Nixon, stick a fork in me, I'm done.'
Dietz was as white as a nurse's bra. He would probably be in an all-day powwow with the District Attorney's office, scrambling for offenses to charge me with. Georgie Boy walked in and surveyed the electronic carnage the police engineer had inflicted. I winked at him and poked the Denon machine with my finger. The Cars started playing 'Let The Good Times Roll.'
Three nights passed that way, with Dietz as my co-pilot and the skeletal technician as navigator. The phone lines stayed busy. Other stations were covering my show as a news event, and a few were trying their own Death Shows. But I was the only one with Night Owl. She called that Tuesday at about 4 AM, just after the hourly station ID.
'Hey, Mickey, honey, it's Night Owl,' her voice purred over the speakers.
Dietz jumped up, spilling his coffee and adding another stain to the studio floor. The police tech rolled the tape recorder and watched his meters. I reached a trembling finger to my mic switch.
'Hello, Night Owl, it's good to hear your voice. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten old Mickey here.'
'I'd never do that. Just thinking about you gets me all hot and bothered. I've been listening, and I like what I hear. It seems like murder's the biggest game in town.'
'Yes, but nobody does it like you. Have you done it lately?'
'Well, now that you mention it, I was just with a gentleman who knows how to show a lady a good time. He even did the driving. It's funny how if you walk down certain streets at night, guys just pull over and ask if you want a ride. They'll even try to give you money. But, oh my, the things they ask you to do.'
'What did this one want?' I was excited and scared at the same time. Dietz flicked his eyes from the tech to his wristwatch, then to my sweaty face.
'You know I don't talk dirty over the phone, Mickey. That would be unladylike. Let's just say we wound up on a dead-end road. I could feel the pounding of his cheap heart beneath his polyester suit. He said I could do it any way I wanted. The way I wanted was to put it right between his meaty chins and scatter his pea-sized brain all over his nice, clean upholstery.'
'Way to go, girl,' I said. The switchboard was clogged with callers wanting to talk to Night Owl. There was no time to punch someone in. The tech started nodding down the seconds, his bony head wobbling like a frog on a wire, and I felt dread squeeze my throat.
'Mickey, nobody knows how to treat a lady anymore, except you. Thanks for keeping me going when the rest of the world is going crazy. If only every man were like you-'
I suddenly felt sick.
'Hang up, there's a police trace!' I screamed into my mic, covering it with saliva. I heard a click on the monitors. It was the sound of my world coming to an end, in a stream of dead air instead of the guitar feedback I'd always imagined.
Dietz rushed at me, anger twisting his face into a mask. The tech threw his scrawny arms up in surrender. I leaned back in my swivel chair and stared at the zeroed-out volume meters. 'Good-bye, Night Owl,' I said, to no one in particular.
Everything moved in slow motion after that. Dietz read me my rights and was about to snap on the cuffs, but in my condition, I was about as dangerous as a goldfish. Once he regained his composure, he was kind enough to let me run the board until another jock showed up. They couldn't reach Pudge, but the GM sent in the pimply intern. I signed off with The Who's 'Song is Over.'
I've got a battery of lawyers from the American Civil Liberties Union, and they tell me my case will be tied up for years, years I probably don't have. Night Owl left a message on my answering machine at home.
'Mickey, you said you'd never do me wrong, but you're just like all the rest.' Sadness had replaced the fire in her voice, and her words twisted in my chest like a corkscrew. 'All the joy's gone, but at least I still have my work. I'll see you around. And now I think I'm supposed to say, 'Don't call me, I'll call you.''
I kept my deejay job. There was no one to fire me. It seems Pudge was found dead in his car. Ballistics tests match those of the other Night Owl murders. The GM decided I have just enough notoriety left to draw a few listeners. They've removed the interface from the studio, and all we have is a request line.
So now I sit and wait. I heard there's been a string of shootings over in Council Bluffs, with a familiar M.O., and it's not a long drive to get here. The request line blinks, as lonely as the last morning star. Wayne is on the other end.
'Looks like it's just you and me,' I say.
'Rock on, dude.'
I do.
HOW TO BUILD YOUR OWN COFFIN
Blood and nails, that's all you need.
Larry ran his hand over the wood. Smooth as a baby's ass and a mother's tit. He'd planed the cherry himself, by hand, not with one of those machines. Sure, he'd caught a few splinters, but that was the blood part of this
