Gail Bowen - One Fine Day You’re Gonna Die

The second book in the Charlie D series, 2010

Tonight as I was riding my bike to the radio station where I do the late-night call-in show, a hearse ran a light and plowed into me. I swerved. The vehicle clipped my back wheel, and I flew through the air to safety. My Schwinn was not so lucky. The hearse skidded to a stop. The driver jumped out, sprinted over and knelt beside me on the wet pavement. “Are you all right?” he asked.

I checked my essentials.

“As all right as I’ll ever be,” I said.

The man bent closer. The streetlight illuminated both our faces. He looked like the actor who played Hawkeye on the old tv show M*A*S*H . His brow furrowed with concern when he saw my cheek.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“It’s a birthmark,” I said.

As birthmarks go, mine is a standout. It covers half my face, like a blood mask. Nine out of ten strangers turn away when they see it. This man moved in closer.

“The doctors weren’t able to do anything?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“But you’ve learned to live with it.”

“Most of the time,” I said.

“That’s all any of us can do,” the man said, and he grinned. His smile was like Hawkeye’s-open and reassuring. He offered his hand and pulled me to my feet. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” he said.

He picked up my twisted Schwinn and stowed it in the back of the hearse. I slid into the passenger seat. The air inside was cool, flower-scented and oddly soothing. After we’d buckled our seat belts, the man turned the keys in the ignition.

“Where to?” he asked.

“CVOX Radio,” I said. “728 Shuter.”

“It’s in a strip mall,” he said. “Between a store that sells discount wedding dresses and a place that rents x-rated movies.”

“I’m impressed,” I said. “This is a big city.”

“It is,” he agreed. “But my business involves pick up and delivery. I need to know where people are.”

Perhaps because the night was foggy and he’d already had one accident, the driver didn’t talk as he threaded his way through the busy downtown streets. When we turned on to Shuter, I saw the neon call letters on the roof of our building. The O in CVOX (“ALL TALK/ALL THE TIME”) is an open mouth with red lips and a tongue that looks like Mick Jagger’s. Fog had fuzzed the brilliant scarlet neon of Mick’s tongue to a soft pink. It looked like the kiss a woman leaves on a tissue when she blots her lipstick.

“I’ll pick you up when your show’s over,” the man said.

“I’ll take a cab,” I said. “But thanks for the offer.”

He shrugged and handed me a business card. “Call me if you change your mind. Otherwise, I’ll courier a cheque to you tomorrow to pay for your bike.”

“You don’t know my name.”

The man flashed me his Hawkeye smile. “Sure I do. Your name is Charlie Dowhanuik and you’re the host of ‘The World According to Charlie D.’ I’m a fan. I even phoned in once. It was the night you walked off the show and disappeared for a year. You were in rough shape.”

“That’s why I left.”

“I was relieved that you did,” he said. “I sensed that if you didn’t turn things around, you and I were destined to meet professionally. My profession, not yours. You were too young to need my services, so I called in to remind you of what Woody Allen said.”

“I remember. ‘Life is full of misery, loneliness and suffering and it’s over much too soon.’” I met the man’s eyes. “Wise words,” I said. “I still ponder them.”

“So you haven’t stopped grieving for the woman you lost?”

“Nope.”

“But you decided to keep on living,” he said.

“For the time being,” I said. We shook hands, and I opened the car door and climbed out. As I watched the hearse disappear into the fog, the opening lines of an old schoolyard rhyme floated to the top of my consciousness.

Do you ever think when a hearse goes by

That one fine day you’re gonna die?

They’ll wrap you up in a cotton sheet

And throw you down about forty feet. The worms crawl in,

The worms crawl out…

There was more, but I had to cut short my reverie. It was October 31. Halloween. The Day of the Dead. And I had a show to do.

Late at night, Studio D is a fine and private place. The CVOX offices are empty, and except for the security guy and a technician down the hall, our show’s producer, Nova Langenegger, and I are on our own. After ten years of working together, Nova and I know each other’s moods, and we anticipate one another’s needs.

Tonight Nova anticipates that I need a guest expert on death and grieving to keep me from going into freefall during the show. Halloween is tough for me. I met Ariel, the woman I loved and lost, at a Halloween birthday party. We were seven years old. She was dressed as the sun, and the memory of her shining face surrounded by rays of golden foil still stops my heart.

Nova is not often wrong, but as soon as I walk into the control room of Studio D, I know that we’re in for a rocky ride. The guest expert and my producer are standing toe to toe, and they both look grim. A stranger who didn’t know the combatants would put his money on the guest expert.

Dr. Robin Harris is a goddess. In her stilettos, she’s taller than me, and I’m an even six feet. Her skin is creamy; her eyes are green; her auburn hair falls in luxuriant waves over her shoulders. Her black leather coat is close-fitted to showcase her many assets.

At my request, Nova is wearing the caterpillar costume that she’d worn to a party earlier in the evening. Her six-month-old daughter, Lily, had been dressed as a butterfly. On a good day, Nova ticks in at a little over five foot two. In my opinion she’s a beauty, but these days she’s haunted by the few extra pounds she picked up when she was pregnant.

The tension in the control room is thick, and the body language is hostile. I attempt to defuse the situation.

“Dr. Harris, I presume.” I offer our guest my hand. “I’m Charlie Dowhanuik.”

Dr. Harris pivots on her stilettos. She ignores my outstretched hand. Her eyes are flashing. “I’ve asked your producer to block a certain caller, and she refuses.” Dr. Harris’s voice is the kind of deep rich mezzo that makes my knees weak, but the caterpillar and I have a history.

“We don’t block callers unless there’s a reason,” I say.

“There’s a reason,” Robin Harris says. “Dr. Gabriel Ireland and I were in a relationship. It’s over, and he’s not dealing with it well. He makes threats.”

“Against you?” I say.

Robin Harris shakes her head impatiently. “Against himself,” she says. “He threatens to commit suicide.”

“In that case, he shouldn’t be ignored,” I say. “Maybe I can help.”

Robin Harris’s thrilling voice drips contempt. “I doubt it,” she says.

Nova catches my eye and points to the darkened studio on the other side of the glass.

“You’d better get in there,” she says.

“We’re on air in one minute, five.”

I open the door to the studio and stand aside for Dr. Harris. As she glides past me, I catch her perfume. It’s sultry. We take our places at the round broadcast desk. I point to her earphones.

“Those are yours. Could you say a few words, please? Nova needs to do a sound check.”