"Okay, I guess," Scott mumbled.
"Okay? Is that all? Okay?" Ransberg rumbled, the smile still on his puffy lips. "We're expecting big things from you, Son. That's why I sought you out. That's why I saw to it you were hired. Yes, Sir, we expect big things." He said big things as though he were describing a whale. His tone made Scott more uncomfortable than ever.
"Yes, Mr. Ransberg," he replied, trying not to squirm.
"Yes, Sir. When Myra and I were driving along through your part of the country, Myra's the little Missus, you know, we were listening to the radio in the car. Little station from some hick town, and then your voice came over the speaker."
Scott nodded. He had heard the story twice before, once in his first interview and again right after he was hired. He smiled docilely, wishing once more he had stayed right where he was. It was not as much money, not nearly as much, but he had no hassles, and he had Celia.
"Celia," he had said as soon as he walked into the apartment, "Sit down, okay? We need to talk."
The girl came out of the kitchen, wiping he hands on a towel. She kissed him, and his hands automatically began roaming over her back. She pushed her body against his, her pelvis pressing on his already aroused penis. He took a deep breath and held her at arm's length.
"What is it, Scotty?" she asked.
"Come on and sit down." He led her to the white velvet couch. When the two of them were settled, he said, "I got a call today, from Indianapolis."
"Who do you know there?"
"Nobody, at least I didn't think I did. Actually, I still don't, or that is, I do now, but I didn't before the call came today."
Celia giggled at his confused explanation. "So, who called?"
"A guy named Hal Ransberg. He's manager of a radio station, FM."
"So?" Celia's hand was on his knee, the fingertips of it massaging him slightly. Soon, he knew, she would begin to move upward along his inner thigh, until she could cup his rapidly erecting cock.
"So he was driving through here, and he happened to hear me on the car radio."
"Interesting. What else?" Her hand stopped moving. It was as if she suspected what was coming next.
"He asked me to come to Indianapolis for an interview."
"Interview for what?"
He put his hand on hers. "For a job. They need a new voice for their night programming."
"A job? In Indianapolis? You've got to be kidding."
"You act like you can't believe anybody'd offer me a job."
"No, it's not that, not at all. You know that. It's just that… well, Indianapolis is such an awful place."
"For one thing, I came through there with my folks a couple of times on the way to Florida. It's ugly, and the land all around it is flat. If you built a hill, you could charge people a dollar to climb it and get rich. Besides that, the people there are real rednecks, conservatives."
"Don't you think you're generalizing a little?" Scott was growing angry, and he was not sure why. He had no commitment to Indianapolis. Yet he suddenly felt called upon to defend the place.
"Maybe I am generalizing. All I know is I read it's the headquarters of the John Birch Society, the Klu Klux Klan, and the American Legion. I don't know how much more conservative you can get than that."
"And so, My Boy, Myra agreed with me," Hal Ransberg went on. "It's not everybody KSZX offers to interview. This is your big break. Don't screw it up. I went out on a limb to hire an unknown."
"Yes, Sir," Scott answered mechanically. "It's just that…"
"Just that what?" Ransberg countered, the smile fading.
"I don't know how to make people call in if they don't feel like it."
Ransberg coughed. "That calling in idea's kind of a loser, anyway, don't you think?"
"You seemed to like it fine in the interview," Scott said, flaring. "So did everybody else. Besides that, it works everywhere else in the country but Indianapolis."
Ransberg shrugged his beefy shoulders. "It's your baby. It's up to you to make it work."
Scott jumped to his feet and headed for the door. "Gee, thanks!" he snapped. "Thanks for your support. I really appreciate it." He slammed the door behind him.
"Through with your meeting already?" Rona Barnes chirped as he passed her desk.
"You damn right!" Scott growled.
"Oh, dear, it sounds like things didn't go well. Mr. Ransberg can be aggravating all right. I know how it is. Anything I can do to help?"
"You can call me on the program tonight if you're up that late. I don't know why you should be, though. Nobody else is." He pushed open the double doors and strode down the hall toward the elevators. Jabbing the button, he waited a few seconds until the doors slid back and strode into the car. As it descended he thought again what he had been thinking in Ransberg's office, that he should have stayed in that little town with Celia.
"What do you say, Celia?" he asked that night, already afraid he knew her answer.
"I can't, Scott. I just can't go." She looked as if she were about to cry.
"But, Celia, Honey, what about you and me?"
"I can't help that," she whispered brokenly, shrugging her shoulders. "Don't you see, Scott? My plant store is just starting to make money. If I leave it now, I'll lose all the hard work I've put in. It's mine, Scott, my own business. If I had some kind of secretarial job I could leave here and pick up something there with no problem. I'd go then, even if it is Indianapolis."
"Buy a plant store there," Scott said.
Celia stared at him, the tears streaming down her face. "A plant store? In Indianapolis? I don't know why, but that's one of the craziest things I've ever heard in my life." She began to laugh, urgently, raucously, the tears still coming. She sniffled, and laughed, and grew weak, and fell into his arms, her despair wracking her entire body and turning her into an hysterical, sobbing child.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Here we are again, KSZX Night Line, where you let the world know how you feel." Scott began his program again, trying to sound excited and enthusiastic, despite the loneliness and despite the fact that he was still receiving very few calls.
He gave the telephone number and put on a record. The telephone rang.
"Good evening, Night Line, you're on the air!" he said.
"Do I have to be?" asked a breathy female voice.
Scott reached over and turned off the tape. "Aw, for Pete's sake, Monica, come off it."
There was a pause. "This isn't Monica, whoever she is," said the voice quietly.
"It's not? I could have sworn…"
"Well, you're wrong. I'm not one of your cheap whores. I'm a professional woman."
"I could make a reply to that, but I won't. What's on your mind?" He reached over and clicked on the tape recorder again.
"I'd like to meet you somewhere, you know, when you get off work. Eight in the morning, is it?"
"Yeah, I get off at eight." He started to turn off the recorder again and then noticed the record was ending. This took priority. "Just a second," he said quickly, dropped the receiver, and made a dive for the turntables. He cued the next record and started the machine. Fading down the previous record and fading up the next, he made the transition smoothly. God, he thought to himself, he was a professional. He picked up the phone again.
"That was very professional," said the voice. "Now, about what we were discussing, why don't you meet me at Sam's Subway at Sixteenth and Meridian when you get off work? We can have breakfast or something."
"Tell you what. If I did that, I'd have to leave here, walk home, get my car, and drive up to Sixteenth. If you're so interested in meeting me, why don't you come down here to the station at eight?"
"No!" the voice said quickly. "I can't do that." She hung up.
Cursing under his breath, Scott got ready for the next commercial. He had no sooner delivered it when the telephone rang again. This time the caller was Monica.