“Isn’t that selfish?”
“No. That’s self-knowledge. We’re all working on it. Every day in every way. We don’t always get it right. Making mistakes is how we learn.”
“Have you made mistakes, Mr. Midnight?”
“Many.”
“But here you are, rich and famous.”
“Not so much of either, but more than I ever thought.”
“ ‘More than I ever thought.’ Maybe that’s it. Being more than you ever thought. Hey, thanks. And say ‘Hi’ to Elvis for me.”
Matt shook his head at her parting shot. A regular listener, there even when “The King” or a darn good imitation had called in a few times. This was Las Vegas. What do you expect if you hang out a counseling shingle on the airwaves? You are going to get what you asked for. The lonely, the lost, the Elvis freaks.
“Only the Lonely.” Was that an Elvis song? Maybe, maybe not, but clearly Elvis had been so lonely he had never been alone until he died that way in his own throne room.
The next caller was a crank, insisting that aliens had taken over the famed Area 51 outside Las Vegas and were all masquerading as Elvis impersonators.
God save him from Elvis freaks.
Another caller was back in the all-too-real world. She was, she said, a devout Catholic widow. But the Social Security system screwed seniors out of their earned benefits, so she was going to live without benefit of matrimony with Stanley, who wasn’t Catholic and had no problem with it, so they’d both collect the SS they needed to underwrite their monthly prescription-medicine bills.
Both of them had distant adult children they would tell they were married. They hated lying to the kids, but wait until the juniors found out what prices the seniors had to put up with.
Matt heartily encouraged her. To live so long and still find the courage to bond and then pay a survival-threatening penalty struck him as the heart of social injustice.
He couldn’t believe how much this job forced him to endorse positions contrary to Catholic doctrine. He was out in the real, secular world now, not within the enchanted circle of a parish. He had faced a true ethical dilemma, and come out of it more uncertain and confused than ever. Was Miss Kitty winning? Or was he coming to terms with things he had been able to avoid in his vocation? He wouldn’t know until, like his first caller, he went through the process, took action, found himself.
The phone line clicked as another caller came on. “Mr. Midnight.”
The clock said eight minutes to go on his expanded two-hour stint.
“I’m here.” It had become a catchphrase for his show.
The station had commissioned new billboards around town with those two words. Mr. Midnight is here for you. (Even if he isn’t here for himself, Matt would add whenever he drove past one of the billboards.) They ran spot ads on radio stations the nation over, wherever his program was syndicated. “I’m here.”
That’s why he had to be here, tonight, the hardest time he’d ever put in. He should have been somewhere with Vassar, even if it was at the city morgue. Ashley Andersen, she had told him, finally, last night. Confessed her true identity. Ashley Andersen from Wisconsin. On scholarship to Vassar and never fitting in. And look at her now. Glamorous. Well-off. Scandalous. Dead.
I’m here. Sometimes. Strictly by schedule.
“Play ‘Misty’ for me.”
Of course she would call back. Especially now. “You’re dialing the wrong show. Ambrosia’s off the air. I don’t do music, just chat.”
Ambrosia was making frantic throat-cutting motions, but he shook his head just as definitely. Vassar’s death had made him angry for her, and ultimately, wonder of wonders, for himself. Let the games begin.
“Just chat.” She repeated, laughing, with a lilt.
Her voice had the loveliest trace of an Irish brogue. Nothing stage-Irish or exaggerated. Just a faint mist of musicality. Hearing her, one could almost love her instead of loathe her.
Matt held to that idea. Had Kitty the Cutter been lovable once? Or never? Was that what had shaped her?
“What’s your trouble?” he asked, emphasizing the word for the Irish political conflict, The Troubles.
“Ah. It’s about a man.”
“Of course.”
“I gave him everything. Or the chance at everything.”
“And he failed you. Just like a man.”
“Well, no. He was a man. He betrayed me.”
“My gender takes a beating on this program.” Matt could never bear to call it a “show,” though sometimes it was. “Another gal done wrong by some heartless cad?”
“Not heartless. Too much heart. No balls.”
He glanced at Ambrosia. Games he could play on his own time. Raunchy language that could lose the station its license was another matter.
She shook her head, disowned any say-so on program content. This was too vital.
Matt had long since disowned the issue of cowardice. Martial arts had built up his self-esteem in that area, if not others. He had abandoned every precept of his youth and vocation to meet Vassar. Even she had understood and respected that. As he had come to respect her. Yes. That was his weapon. His assignation with Vassar had been a meeting of the minds, even the soul. Who would have thought it?
“A coward,” Matt said. “Fickle. Anything else?”
“Only that he went to a common whore, snuck around on me. Thought I’d never know.”
“Maybe he knew you’d know, wanted you to know, wanted you to get the idea, and get lost.”
“Wanted me to know? Snuck around, I said. Danced in and out of casinos all along the Strip so no one could trace his path.”
“Apparently you did.”
“Well, a woman knows.”
“So, forget him. You really want that kind of sneaky rat?”
“Hmmm. I had hopes that he would have some morals. His history certainly indicated that.”
“So what are you going to do? Moon over this no-good guy? Confront him? He’ll Only lie.”
“You’re right. The only thing to do is to wash my handsof him. Wash that man right out of my hair. Wash my hands of him, like Pontius Pilate.”
Matt felt a chill. She knew her Scriptures as well as he did. He was to be crucified, was that it?
“Maybe,” he said, “you should consider yourself lucky. This is Las Vegas. You can get a lucky break here. He obviously wasn’t worth your attention.”
“Obviously. He obviously was a lot more sneaky than I thought. I guess I’ll just leave him alone all by himself to pay the price. There will be one, won’t there?”
“For every action and reaction, there is always a price.”
“Right. So this is my declaration of independence. He’s off my hook. I want nothing more to do with him. Let him stew in his own juices, if he has any. I’m outta here. Will you tell him for me?”
“I think you’ve done it yourself, very well.”
“Thank you. It’s been fun. And, if you really want to do me a favor, play ‘Misty’ for me.”
Matt was surprised to find Ambrosia “breaking” into the studio, shattering the “fourth wall.” That’s what actors called the invisible divide between them and the audience, and it pretty much applied to radio too. Both mediums offered ersatz intimacy.
Before Matt could answer, Ambrosia punched some buttons on the console.
The Midnight Hour closed for the first time with music, not talk: Johnny Mathis crooning “Misty.” His voice was as caressing as ever. Matt couldn’t believe this was the swan song to Kathleen O’Connor’s obsession with him.
Once the words and music were launched and the mike was dead, Ambrosia glared at Matt. Not at him, on his behalf. “Sorry, my man. I really wanted to give that girl what she had coming to her. And that was not a last word from you. She don’t deserve that.” She smiled suddenly. “Oh, that Johnny is one mellow fellow, isn’t he?”
Would that Mr. Midnight were one too.
Chapter 19
… Max Outed
Not many people, especially security, carried firearms that required cocking anymore.