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Matt and his “serious” talk show was supposed to be the heavy hitter; the real counselor. But it was hard for Matt to take the emotional scratches and contusions of callins to WCOO-AM seriously after months of handling hotline counseling for ConTact. There the daily owies ranged from domestic violence to drug overdose to suicide, life-threatening problems that were sometimes still in progress.

Still, he had debuted on this station to handle an almost-infanticide, and he’d rather help apply Band-Aids than perform CPR any day.

“So what d’you think, Mr. Midnight?” the tentative female voice was asking for all the world to hear. “Should I ditch Spencer and stick with Kirby?”

Given names nowadays! Hard to imagine what a St. Spencer or a St. Kirby would be like. As for a St. Tiffany…

“Tiffany, it’s your life. You’re only sixteen. You don’t have to choose anyone yet. You have a right to tell both guys you want to play the field. You have a right to pick one, or neither. What you don’t have a right to do is be dishonest with them, or yourself.”

“Right.” She didn’t sound like the road had become clear and straight ahead of her, or ever would. “I know! Maybe I should find a third guy. That way neither one can blame the other, or me.”

“You could try life without a boyfriend for a while.” “Really? I never thought of that.”

“Maybe you don’t need to know more guys. Maybe you need to know yourself a little better so you can figure out what guys are right for you.”

“Oh, that is such a radical idea, Mr. Midnight. Guess what I’m gonna do? Nothing. I’m gonna stay home nights and listen to your show, and figure out what everybody else is doing. It’ll be like going to school, right?”

“Maybe.” At moments like this, Matt longed to simply end the conversation with some schmaltzy song, as Ambrosia did. With a voice as warm and mellow as her cafe-au-lait skin, “Ambrosia” was producer Leticia Brown’s seven-to-midnight alter ego. Mr. Midnight, unfortunately, sang a cappella. “Whatever you do, do it for yourself first. If you don’t know who you are, you won’t be able to tell who anyone else is.”

“Oooh. That is so right on. Thank you, Mr. Midnight.

I’ll be here, listening to you.”

That’s what Matt was afraid of. In the commercial radio counseling game, it seemed that the messenger, not the message, was the big attraction.

Radio was an anonymous medium, but it wasn’t a private one, like the hotline. Matt still felt uneasy about the difference.

In the control booth, Ambrosia/Leticia was giving him the thumb’s-up sign. Her beautiful, upbeat face was his lifeline. She didn’t have to stay after her gig, but she had hired him. She planned on babying him along, especially after his spectacular debut.

“Great, Matt,” her deep voice, so like a cat’s that had swallowed a brandy Alexander, purred over the headphones. “You’re developing quite a teenybopper following.”

“That’s good?”

“That’s very good. That’s the groove the advertisers crave.”

And that’s what was happening while they talked: commercials were playing, paying his salary.

Leticia lifted a forefinger like a chorus director. When it descended, another voice was humming in his ears, male this time.

“This, ah, that midnight talk show?”

“Certainly is. The Midnight Hour on WCOO-AM: talk radio with heart.” Matt delivered this corny line with as much heart as he could muster.

“I’m just sittin’ here, and I heard your last caller.

There sure are a lot of lonely little girls out there.” “Tiffany wasn’t exactly lonely; that was the point.”

“Yeah, well, I got a lot of sympathy for kids these days, with all the drugs and bad folks that are out there. We really oughta do somethin’ about that.”

“We keep trying. So, what can I help you with tonight?”

“Me? I just wanta help other people. I’m in a position of some influence, you know.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Bein’ an entertainer and all. Folks look up to you. Sometimes, though, it can be a pain in the butt. They just gotta come around and get all that attention. I try to give ‘em as much back as I can, but it’s endless. Just endless.”

“Is that your problem?”

“Hell, it’s not a problem, son! It’s success.”

“Seems to me success has been a problem to a lot of people, especially some of those whose acts have played this town.”

The man laughed, deep and easy. Matt was having flashbacks to another Vegas celebrity he had unwittingly counseled at ConTact. A light sweat prickled his skin as he remembered that man’s manipulative dark side. Their conversations had become antagonistic and deeply personal. Matt wanted to avoid that sort of game on live radio at all costs. It catered to the caller’s egocentric needs and did him no good. And it did Matt’s psyche not a bit of good either. It was like dueling Lucifer, a being of pride and power and incidental evil. Matt’s past as a priest made him all too open to other people’s spiritual ills.

“Well, now, see, I’m not just your ordinary performer.

I put my whole soul into my shows. And my fans, man, they put their souls right out there, in the palm of my hands. I’m just a wringin’-wet rag when I come off that stage. Hell, I gotta have guys onstage to wipe my brow and bring me water.”

Matt was scouring his brain. Who could this be? Who that big was playing Vegas right now? Who that big would call a dinky show like the Midnight Hour?

“These big Vegas shows sure are marathons of endurance,” Matt said sympathetically, playing for time.

“En-dur-ance. That is the word, son. I can’t hardly sleep until dawn after one of these babies. I can’t hardly sleep ever.”

“The adrenaline of performance can be pretty hard to burn off afterwards,” Matt said, remembering that Temple had often stayed up with Max Kinsella, the magician, until he “came down” after his two evening shows. Even Matt was experiencing trouble sleeping now that he had a midnight performance date every Wednesday to Sunday. “Maybe you need someone around to help you come down.”

This time the laugh went on as long as an aria. “I got somebody. I got truckloads of somebodies; always had, always will. I am not alone unless I wanta be. And when I don’t wanta be alone, I just snap my fingers and I got people to do whatever I wanta do when I wanta do it: play pool, play football, play footsie and a lot more.”

“Sounds like you could do more to do what the people around need and want, instead of just indulge yourself.”

“I work my ass off, and they get a lot of privileges workin’ for me. It’s a rough schedule, two shows a night, night after night. And these shows are all me. I’m not as young as I usta be, gotta have a doctor travel with me, to tend my needs, you know? I give those guys and girls plenty. Least they could do is what I want, when I need it.”

“I understand. I’m just saying it might not be good for you to have everyone in your life arranging theirs totally around you, no matter what you pay them. You can’t buy love.”

“Hey, what’re you sellin’? A song title? Been done, son. And you’re wrong. You can buy love. I’ve done it.” A pause, for the first time. “Loyalty, though. You can’t buy that. I been burned there. All those guys and girls, all blowin’ off their mouths after they left me, tellin’ the inside story on this and the inside story on that. Makin’ me look like a pitiful fool. Makin’ money off me even when they’re long off the payroll.”

“People can betray you,” Matt agreed. He glanced at Leticia, wondering if he should lose the guy. She’d like the idea of a celebrity performer calling in, but this guy could be doing standup comedy in some fringe club, for all Matt knew. And his voice was slurred with sleep, or with something stronger.