The Shadow Killer (3 page)

I glance at my computer screen. “Loser1121 is getting closer to making the big move. Check your inbox, Nova.”

Nova lowers her eyes to her screen. Over the talkback, I hear her intake of breath.

“Time to call the cops again?” she asks.

“Yes, and this time we've got something for them.”

I look again at loser1121's message:
I've attached a picture of our family carving
knife. My father says that the only one who's
allowed to use it is the man of the house.
Tonight I will become the man of the house.
I open the attachment, and my heart clenches. I'm not an expert, but even I can see that this knife is capable of carving everything the man of the house decides to carve.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he ending of “Cat's in the Cradle” is sweet and sour. The father's wish to have his son grow into a man just like him comes true. The boy who once longed for his father's love has become an adult whose busy life has no place for his father. Long ago, I sent my father a tape of Harry Chapin singing “Cat's in the Cradle.” I wonder if he ever got it.

The newspaper I bought in the drugstore is on my desk. They say a picture is worth a thousand words. The photograph of Evan Burgh tells you everything you need to know about the man. His face is strained by the knowledge that what he wants will always be beyond his reach. No matter how much money or power or property he has, it will never be enough. His only pleasure comes from making the people around him feel small and scared. Evan's a mean son of a bitch, and I would love to take him on, but tonight loser1121 and his carving knife take precedence.

I inhale deeply, reach for my cool-guy-in-charge voice and flip on my mike.
“And
we're back,”
I say.
“You're listening to
‘
The
World According to Charlie D.' Our topic
tonight is fathers. Over two thousand years
ago, the Roman poet Horace said, ‘Rarely are
sons similar to their fathers. Most are worse.
A few are better.' Something to ponder. Our
lines are open. Give us a call at
1-800-555-2333
or
email us at [email protected].

“Our first caller is Evan. So, Evan, what's on
your dad's wish list this Father's Day weekend?”

Evan Burgh's voice is high, pompous and tight with anger.

“Read the papers, Charlie D,”
he says.
“My
father is purchasing his own gift. This Sunday,
he's marrying Misty de Vol. Ms. de Vol calls
herself a model, but for the past three years
she's worked for the Five Star Escort Service.
She's a hooker.”

“A gift that keeps on giving,”
I say.

“A gift that keeps on taking.”
Evan's voice is acid.
“And he's marrying her on Father's
Day—one more way to stick the knife into me.”
Somewhere out in radio-land, loser1121 is testing the blade of a real knife and making plans to use it. Generally, I give callers some time to settle in, but Evan is a maggot, and I've already had enough.

“Let's cut to the chase,”
I say.
“Evan, why
did you call in tonight?”

There is a crispness to Evan's pronunciation, as if he is showing the rest of us how to speak the language.

“Because I want the world to know my
father is an ass,”
he says.
“He's eighty-three
years old. What in the name of God is he going
to do with a twenty-five-year-old sex worker?”

“Come on, Evan,”
I say.
“Somewhere along
the line, Dad must have talked to you about
what consenting adults do behind closed doors.”

Evan's snicker is ugly.

“Thanks to the media, I know only too
well what my father and Ms. de Vol do behind
closed doors. The tabloids have been graphic in
describing the smorgasbord of sexual delights
Ms. de Vol offers her customers.”

“And you think your father is marrying
Ms. de Vol simply to gratify himself.”

“I don't give a damn why he's marrying her.
I'm just curious about the mental capability of
a man who signs a prenuptial agreement with
a whore, guaranteeing her ten million dollars
for every year of their marriage. Until she met
my father, Ms. de Vol's rate was eight hundred
dollars an hour with a two-hour minimum.
From eight hundred an hour to ten million a
year. That's quite a pay hike for a prostitute.”

“Your father is a billionaire,”
I say.
“It'll
take the newlyweds years to run through all
that money.”

“You're missing the point,”
Evan says. His voice is icy with contempt.

I grit my teeth.

“Maybe I am missing the point,”
I say.
“Why don't you help me out, Evan? When I
listen to you, what I hear is a preening turd with
millions of dollars, and more on the way when
Daddy dies, complaining because his father
has found some pleasure in life. If there's more,
tell me. If there's not, take Dad out for a beer,
air your differences privately and let me get on
with what you're paying me to do—help people
with real problems get through the night.”

“You work for me, Charlie. You do what
I tell you to do.”
He spits out the words.

I slam my fist into my palm but remain silent. Nova's back is rigid with tension. Since Evan came on the line, she's been watching me, waiting for a signal. Now I give it. I draw my finger across my throat in the slashing sign that indicates it's time to cut off the caller.

“Fire me,”
I say.
“And Evan, if you call
in again, you're going to have to go to the end
of the line and wait your turn. ‘The World
According to Charlie D' has a policy of zero
tolerance for bullies.”

“You'll regret this,”
he says.

“There's a lot I regret,”
I say, “
but telling
you to take a hike will never be in my top ten.
Now here's a tune for you, Evan—the Beach
Boys with ‘I'm Bugged At My Ol' Man.'”

As the Beach Boys sing about a boy who comes home a little late and is confronted by a dad who grounds him, sells his surfboard, cuts off his hair while he's sleeping, pulls his phone out of the wall and rips up his clothes, I find myself hoping that Evan is still listening. Henry Burgh may be marrying a hooker, but at least he didn't sell his son's surfboard.

CHAPTER FIVE

W
hen I see the name of the next caller, I want to give Fate a standing ovation. Britney is a regular. She's that rarest of adolescents: a teenager whose life is uncomplicated. Brit sent me her school picture, and she's a beauty. She's also smarter than she lets on. And—the cherry on the cheesecake—she's surrounded by people who love her. She calls in to “The World According to Charlie D” because she likes to hear her voice on the radio. We take her calls because her understanding of others is surprisingly solid.

“Hey, wild child,”
I say.
“What's on your
mind tonight?”

Britney's laugh is a waterfall.
“Oh, Charlie,
I love it when you call me ‘wild child'—as if I
ever did anything really wild or even semi-wild.
Anyway, I know you're mad at Evan. He's your
boss—right? All that stuff about firing you?
It's not going to happen. Evan's just upset, and
I know why. Nobody likes to think about their
parents actually doing it. It's just too gross.”

I gaze down at the newspaper photo of the political Rising Star and his tightly wound wife. Hard to imagine those two doin' the crazy. Just as well, because their kids already look as if they're ready to spontaneously combust.

Britney is rattling away.

“It must be supergross for Evan because his
dad is, like, eighty-three. But all the same, if
his dad has found a girl who's willing to…you
know…do it with him, I think it's great.”

I relax.

“
Ah, Brit, you're such a romantic.”

Her voice grows serious.

“I may be a romantic, but I'm not stupid.
I know what an escort is. But if the old
gentleman wants to pay a lady to make him
happy, why not? It's always like that with girls
and guys. It's up to the girl to decide. If a guy
takes me to like a really stellar classic concert—
like, say, Rihanna—he's going to expect something.
It's up to me to decide whether he gets it.
Guys know this and girls know it. What's the
difference? Coming across for Rihanna—which I
absolutely would not do, incidentally—or coming
across for ten million dollars a year…which is
really a lot…”
For a moment, the possibilities of a check with all those zeroes mesmerizes Brit. Her voice trails off.

I bring her back to earth.

“So you're cool with Evan's father marrying
Misty.”

“
Absolutely. My grandma always says, ‘There
are no pockets in a shroud,' and she's right.”
Britney's voice grows solemn.
“I would just
like to say that I wish Henry and Misty every
happiness.”

“You're a good person, Britney,”
I say, and I mean it.

Time to move back into Charlie-D mode.

“
So there you have it,”
I say
. “Our resident
romantic, Britney, has given the soon-to-be
newlyweds her blessing. I'd like to add my
good wishes. Henry and Misty, here's to you.
May you live happily ever after.

“Next up…a first-time caller whose name
is…”
On my computer screen, there's a blank where the name should be. I shoot Nova a questioning glance.

She lowers her eyes and opens her talkback.

“Just take the call,” she says. Nova would never make a poker player. Her tone is no-nonsense, but she can't stop beaming.

I shrug and open my mike.

“
O-kay, so our first-time caller's identity is
a mystery, but hey, life's a mystery. Our topic
tonight is fathers. If you have thoughts on the
subject, give us a call at
1-800-555-2333
or email
us at [email protected].

“So, Caller X, time for you to join the party.
How did you make out in the great Daddy
Derby?”
For a beat there's silence, and then I hear the ear-splitting, surprisingly lusty cry of a newborn.

I open my talkback to Nova.

“Is that who I think it is?” She nods and gives me a bullet-stopping grin.

On the line there is muffled laughter. Then I hear the gravelly voice I've heard through my headset since the night I started at CVOX.
“Hey, Charlie, you were just
talking to my son—Aldo Patrick DeLuca Junior.
The kid's got lungs, eh?”

Again, I find my throat closing—not a good thing in my business. Genuine emotion is the enemy of talk-radio hosts.

“
Yeah,”
I say.
“The kid's definitely got his
father's lungs. For those of you who don't know
him—that's the voice of our technician, Aldo
DeLuca. He's the guy who makes it possible
for you out there and us in here to communicate.
So, Aldo, when did your son make his
appearance?”

“Two minutes ago—he didn't want to
miss his debut on ‘The World According
to Charlie D.'”

“So the kid's a trooper. Speaking of
troopers…how's Ruby?”

“Great. Beautiful. She won't let me take
pictures of her until she fixes her mascara—
which is impossible because she's so happy she
can't stop crying. I'm crying too. So's Aldo
Junior. We're the happiest people on earth.”

I laugh.
“Keep it up.”

“We will. Hey, Charlie, I heard what you
read earlier about how a lot of sons are worse
than their fathers. I just want to say that this
isn't going to happen with me and Aldo Junior.
I'm going to do everything in my power to make
my son a better man than me.”

He chokes, and when he returns, Aldo's voice is husky with emotion.

“
I'm outta here,”
he says.
“When my son
listens to the tape of the night he was born,
I don't want him to hear me blubbering.”

Aldo is a macho guy. He has a great work ethic, but before he and Ruby got together, Aldo and Nova locked horns over his attitude toward women and the mottos on his T-shirts.

Ruby changed everything. She transformed Aldo from a tough guy into Prince Charming. When Nova was pregnant, Aldo treated her as if she was spun gold. When Ruby became pregnant, Nova hovered over Aldo

In the control booth, Nova is mopping her eyes with a tissue. I check my computer screen. Henry Burgh is next on deck. I take out my bottle of aspirin. Too soon for the next dose, but I leave the bottle on the desk. Sometimes even the promise of relief is a relief.

I shoot Nova a glance, but she's busy keying a message into her computer. The glow has gone from her face. Her body is tense. I check my screen. Henry Burgh is a primo caller, but we're not going to him. We're going to music again. We never have two tunes this close together. Something is not right.