“Haskell, Devlin Haskell,” I reminded, with a smile.
“We’re the last line of defense before the damn train goes off the rails.”
“Meaning?” I was beginning to think Thompson was a legend in his own mind.
“Meaning we’ve hit a nerve, sir. They know we speak the truth and they can’t stand that, the truth.”
In for a penny, in for a pound I thought.
“So you’d like protection, here, at your office?”
“Our station, and yes, here, while we broadcast,” Thompson said.
“It’s when we’re the most vulnerable, when we’re on the air.” Farrell added.
“Like I said before, I haven’t been able to listen as often as I would like, remind me what your hours are,” I said.
“We’re on from ten to ten-fifteen in the morning, noon to twelve-fifteen, three to three-fifteen and then the drive home hour, five-thirty to five-forty-five.” Thompson squeaked back in his office chair and look like he’d just won the lottery.
“We tape our message the day before, then play it four times the following day,” Farrell said, he exhaled another long blue cloud.
“It’s a well known fact people have to hear something four times within twenty-four hours before they begin to pick it up,” Thompson expounded.
“You guys have any sponsors?” I asked.
They looked back and forth from one another again, eventually Thompson said, “I really don’t feel comfortable divulging that information at this time. Suffice to say we do have sponsors and are enlisting more everyday.”
I’ll take that as a no, I thought.
“When would you like me to start?”
“The sooner the better,” Thompson said, then looked at his watch.
“It’s time I got into the sound booth,” Farrell said, gave a raspy cough and then followed it with a long drag on his cigarette that burned down to his nicotine stained fingers.
“Does a nine forty-five start suit you?” Thompson asked.
“I can do that, I’d better get going, I’ve got some schedules to shuffle around. I’ll see the two of you here, tomorrow, nine forty-five.”
“You’re just what we need,” Thompson smiled, and held out his hand for another limp, dead fish shake.
I followed Farrell out, heard the electric typewriter start up again as we walked past the plastic crates of obsolete equipment. Out in the front office, or whatever they called it, Farrell said, “Appreciate you taking our case on, Mister Haskin. We’ll all sleep a little better tonight knowing you’re on the job.”
“Haskell, H-a-s-k-e-l-l,” I spelled it for him.
“Right,” he half chuckled.
“I’ll be here at nine forty-five tomorrow. Just keep a close eye out on your way home tonight and back in tomorrow. Let’s just have you guys keep a low profile, until we get things sorted out, okay.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
“See you tomorrow,” I said and left.
Chapter Three
I was buying another round at The Spot. I’d been buying all night. I was beyond the point of caring and was holding court on a bar stool dangerously close to two drunks throwing darts.
“One of your deadbeat clients finally pay up?” Jimmy asked as he filled the glasses with the next round.
“Even better, I got a job where I don’t have to work,” I laughed.
“So what’s new ‘bout that.”
“No, I mean, I just have to sit around. Someone pulled a joke on these clowns and they bought it. Hired me for protection,” I said, then washed that down with a healthy couple of swallows.
“You for protection, that is a joke,” Jimmy laughed.
“Yeah? Well, you ever hear of a radio station called craze?”
“Craze, you mean like nuts, what is that some weird punk rock, kid thing?”
“No, K-R-A-Z, supposed to be something right with American thing or, I don’t know, I’ll take another, Jimmy,” I said and drained my glass.
“You driving?”
“Yeah, but not all that far, so relax.”
Over the course of the evening I asked around, no one in the bar had ever heard of KRAZ. The next thing I knew it was closing time, Jimmy locked the door, let me finish my beer, but wouldn’t give me another. I apparently made it home all right because I woke up on my couch at about six-thirty the following morning. I stumbled to the kitchen, put some coffee on and curled back up on the couch. When I next looked at the clock on my microwave it was nine twenty.
I threw a semi clean shirt on, gobbled some mints, raced out the door and over to KRAZ.
Farrell was sucking the last inch of life from his current cigarette when I bounced the office door off the front desk. I was still a little breathless and red in the face from rushing to make it modestly late.
“You guys ought to move that thing,” I said, nodding at the front desk.
He exhaled, sipped from his coffee mug, smiled, but didn’t say anything.
I saw Thompson through the doorway. He was standing next to the stacks of red and blue crates. It was the first time I’d seen him standing, at least I think he was standing. I put him at about five foot three, on a good day.
He glanced at his watch, raised an eyebrow then shook his head.
“I believe our agreement was nine-forty-five,” he called.
“It was, I got here early, strolled around the building and the parking lots checking some things, making myself familiar with the area. Nice to know what I’m dealing with, first line of defense is out there, not in here.” I had to admit that sounded so good even I half believed it.
Farrell looked surprised. Thompson looked like he wasn’t sure. I seized the opportunity.
“Anything seem out of the ordinary, another note, a phone call, someone following either of you?”
They both shook their heads.
“Okay, you’re on the air shortly?”
“Twelve minutes,” Farrell said, then lit up another cigarette.
“Mind if I watch?”
“Be my guest,” he exhaled.
By this time Thompson had returned to his lair.
Eleven minutes later I was standing behind Farrell in a converted closet. We had to hunch over because of the shelf that ran across the top. There was a bare light bulb in the ceiling with a string attached to turn it off and on. Fortunately someone had the foresight to remove the pole and clothes hangers.
Farrell wore a set of headphones. He was seated at a tiny desk at one end of the closet with a laptop in front of him. The dusty screen on the laptop displayed a digital readout ticking down the minutes before broadcast and then the last sixty seconds. The final ten seconds clicked past furiously in increments of a tenth of a second. With three seconds left Farrell slowly, deliberately raised his index finger and pushed the enter key on the laptop. Then he leaned back and listened for a moment before he removed his headphones.
“There you go, we’re on the air,” he said and pushed back his chair.
Still hunched over I had to back up to exit the closet. Farrell took a final drag then fired up a fresh cancer stick and backed out.
“We record the word, as we like to call it, the night before. Then upload it and we’re set to go. We could set the download for any time, but I like to do the manual play, gets me into the groove if you know what I mean.”
Actually I didn’t, somehow Farrell ‘in the groove’ didn’t seem to compute.
“So that’s it until noon?”
“Well, we stand by, answer the phones, sign up volunteers, get people organized, that sort of thing.”
“Oh, so listeners call?”
“Well they could, I mean that’s what we’re hoping will happen, sometime, anyway.”
It didn’t happen.
The routine was the same at noon, three and five-thirty, only even more boring. I walked around the building and the parking lot a few times just to stay awake. At six I drifted into Thompson’s office, he was pounding away on the future of America, his electric typewriter.
“You feel comfortable with me leaving for the day?”
He stopped hammering the typewriter keys, squeaked his chair around and nodded with a determined look across his face.