Scott Nicholson - Curtains

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.

"Congratulations, Mick. In three weeks, you've escalated to the top of your time slot. We've got sponsors lining up to take your show. We can pretty much name our price. Freddie in sales is shopping for a new BMW, he's so confident this is going to be his big payoff. This 'death' thing is a stroke of genius. You should go into marketing."

And spend even more time with people like you, I thought. I'd rather eat digitalis cheesecake. I enjoyed having Pudge over the fire, so I rotated the spit a little.

"Well, I think we need to automate the show. People just love spending the night on hold." I was about to fan the flames a little more when smugness crept like a shadow across his doughy face.

"Oh, by the way," he interrupted, with an undisguised note of glee, "there's a policeman waiting in the lounge to see you. I hope you're not into those awful drugs again."

I'd been expecting this. The cops were slow in this town, but even they could follow a beacon like the one my show had become. I flipped Pudge a finger and walked past the studio into the lounge. At the table sat a short, wiry man in a rumpled tan suit. His eyes were beady and intelligent, like those of a field mouse. He was eating a glazed donut.

"You must be Mickey," he said, a jawful of pastry muffling his words. "I'm Detective Dietz from homicide."

He held out his hand for me to shake. My hand came away a little bit sticky.