Dianne Drake - Playing Games

Roxy turned to Astrid. “Got the name in more.”

“And you’ve got two minutes to do the right one,” Astrid yelled from her glass booth. “Doyle, erase that last mess and get ready for the correct promo.”

“Yeah, Doyle,” Roxy said, grudgingly grabbing the copy from the trash. “Cue me up to do the really good one. The one that will put everybody to sleep.”

Smiling, he gave her the sign, and Roxy read, “This is Doctor Val reminding you to listen to Midnight Special every weeknight at midnight. On Midnight Special we’re full of all kinds of surprises…” She couldn’t help herself. “And on Midnight Special we like to talk real dirty. Lots of sex on Midnight Special. So if you like sex, if that’s what makes you hot at midnight, you’d better tune in and listen to just how hot it can get on Midnight Special. ‘Cause sugars, Valentine gets hot every night on Midnight Special. That’s Midnight Special every weeknight at midnight.” She made a slashing gesture at Doyle and grinned at Astrid. “Seven times, count them. So is that better?”

“After work, the real thing. And Doyle’s locking the doors so you can’t get away,” Astrid grumbled, sitting down in her chair.

“You didn’t really expect me to stick to plain old boring, did you?” Roxy countered.

“Boring pays the—”

“I know,” Roxy said. “It pays the bills, but it doesn’t attract the listeners. And without listeners, there’s no program, and without a program we’re all slapping burgers on a grill somewhere down on the waterfront.” Astrid with her business degree, Doyle with one in engineering and Roxy’s in psychology—the trio couldn’t flip a burger together. But the burger-flipping imagery was good, she thought. “So I do what I have to do to keep us in this job.” She laughed. “And deep down you know I’m right, even though you won’t admit it. So just edit it, okay? Whatever you thinks works.”

“Five minutes,” Doyle said.

Roxy glanced up at the clock, wondering momentarily if Doctor Craig would be calling tonight. For sure he would if her ad-libbed, driving naked promo made it out on the air. Too bad Doyle had erased it.

Then briefly, Roxy imagined Ned Proctor driving naked.

ALMOST MIDNIGHT. He was tempted to turn on the radio and listen to the reigning queen of babble, since his plan to wander across the hall and ask Roxy Rose how her plumbing was doing went down the dumper when she went out a couple of hours ago. Going back across the hall…He’d been wanting to do that for several days now, but he needed some distance between himself and that whole humiliating faucet incident. What was he thinking, anyway, strapping on a tool belt and playing handyman? “Good disguise, Ned,” he muttered, plodding to the fridge for a beer. Three now, on an empty stomach, and he was getting a little buzz. But he didn’t care, since all he was going to do was settle in. “Bet she really bought that handyman bit hook, line and bailing bucket,” he added sarcastically.

He’d been watching Mizzz Rose for the past month, since she’d moved in. Quick glances in the hall mostly. Cute as hell. Sexy, actually. She was like an approaching electrical storm, all full of spark and sizzle. And sure, she was a little off center from normal, in the sense of the women he usually dated, anyway. They were all pretty much run-of-the-mill—good-looking, a lot taller, a whole lot more sophisticated. But Mizzz Rose fascinated him. Had since the day Oswald, the building super, had rented her the apartment across the hall from him and she burst into it like a tornado sweeping through a wide-open Oklahoma plain.

Sure, he’d wanted an introduction to her. Just not the one he’d gotten. There was no turning back from an embarrassment like that one, and no conceivable way to undo it, except maybe switch apartments. Which was as easily said as done, since he owned the building. Unfortunately, it was full right now, with a pretty long waiting list. Nothing open except the boiler room in the basement. So he was staying put for the time being, abject humiliation notwithstanding.

“So do I avoid her, Hep?” he asked his Siamese cat. She was named after Katharine Hepburn—elegance galore with a set of big claws. “Or just pretend it didn’t happen?”

Hep’s answer was a guttural I don’t give a damn growl, as she strutted through the kitchen, back arched, tail up, in search of a fluffed pillow for her nighttime nap.

“You’re right. Just ignore it.” Plodding back into his study with his beer and a bag of chips, Ned looked at the jumble of words on the computer screen, decided to call it a day, hit save then backed it up. No reason killing himself over this one. It wasn’t like he hadn’t cranked out a dozen books just like it before. Pop psychology had a way of bringing out all kinds of issues in people who’d never before had an issue until they read one of his books. To date, twelve bestsellers—the reason he could afford this building. A good investment, his financial guy had told him. Not that he wanted to be a landlord, because he didn’t. But he had to do something with the money he was making. And real estate was as good as anything else. Gave him a place to live, too—an upside that didn’t matter much, since he’d managed to get along for thirty-five years without getting himself too entangled in the usual trappings.

“Well, what will she be doing tonight?” he asked Hep, as he settled into his trusty ten-year-old recliner to listen to Doctor Val McCarthy. Pretty much everything that came out of her mouth was wrong. Bad psychology, bad advice, bad reasoning. But what the hell. She killed a couple of hours, and he sure liked her voice. It was a nice one to hear last thing before he nodded off.

“Welcome to Midnight Special, sugars. Are you ready for something special? Because if you are, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Doctor Val has something extra-specially special for you tonight.”

“That’s what she thinks,” Ned snorted, stretching out in his chair and turning off the floor stand reading light.

“So tell me, what’s on your mind,” Val continued.

“Don’t worry. I always do.” Callers number one, two and three all rang with cheating spouses, boyfriends or both. And Val pretty much rang true with her advice, which was becoming predictable, Ned thought. Same ol’ same ol’. Of course, how many ways could you spin it? You either dump them or you keep them. He chuckled. Or sleep with their significant other’s significant other. That certainly wasn’t a theory he’d seen in any of the books he’d read. Or written!

“Just be true to yourself,” Valentine said, wrapping up a conversation he’d apparently spaced out on. But she was right. Too bad he’d missed it. “There are more big hunks out there for you if you want to go looking. Make sure you’re looking in the right place, though. Someplace without a wedding ring, because if you get yourself hooked into that again, like you did last time, you’ll end up like you are now, wondering why he’s wandering. Now Doctor Val’s gonna go treat herself to something sweet for two minutes. So sugars, I’ll be right back, better than ever.”

“Two minutes, Hep? So she can go look under a rock for more advice?” Chuckling, Ned grabbed his cell phone and punched in the number for Midnight Special. “I have a question for Doctor Val,” he said, when a live voice came on. His Ned voice, only a little higher, because he didn’t want anybody he knew hearing him call that hack. It was a little slurred, too, he noticed, thanks to that beer buzz he had going and a rasp of exhaustion. “But it doesn’t involve a cheating spouse. Do you think she’ll answer my question, anyway?”

“And the nature of your problem is?” the voice on the other end asked. They always qualified the callers. Some made it through, a lot didn’t. He kept his fingers crossed.