(Commercial record up)
(“Go on,” Ehrhardt says. Jackie looks at the huge clock on the wall, timing the commercial, and launches quickly into, “I’ve got Rod Conlan and you’ve got Wally George. So okay, why couldn’t the Syndicate — ” Ehrhardt snaps, “Don’t call us that!” and Whalen pales, then continues, “ — why couldn’t your group have both of them? That way you have two moneymakers going for you. And I could make you a mint on both of them, by plugging their hits.” Ehrhardt’s gun hand wavers, and he stares thoughtfully at Whalen for a long time. “You want to cut us in on Conlan?” Jackie nods. “What percent?” Ehrhardt asks. Jackie motions him to silence, and cuts in over the commercial’s fading sound.)
(Commercial out, segue to Announcer)
For teeth that shine like true love, kids, don’t get steered onto any brand but Sparkle. It contains the miracle ingredient PAX-60 and it tastes like fresh, clean mint. So when your toothbrush is empty, don’t be startled … be Sparkled!
Now here’s one you’ve been asking for, and we’re sending this one out to Angie and Phil, Marcia and Carl, Dave and Someone Special, and all the kids out at the Triangle Dairy Hop. Here it is, that big new one for Jerry Lee Lewis … “Rip Tide!”
(Music up)
(“Goddamit, Whalen, what percent?” Ehrhardt asks again. The gun hand has steadied. “No percent,” Jackie Whalen answers, cueing and grinning hugely at the same time. The girl draws a sharp breath, and the two bully boys cast appreciative glances at her sweater front. “Straight out sale, Camel,” Whalen says. “Fifty thousand and he’s yours, contract and all with my personal guarantee that I plug the hell out of his records. As well as Wally George’s stuff.” The squat man licks his thin lips for a moment, and his face is a mask of imperturbability. “Why the fast change of heart, Jackie?” Ehrhardt asks. Whalen spreads his hands. “You boys don’t think I’m going to buck you, with your organization, do you? I bought Conlan’s contract so I could sell it to you. I’ve been waiting for you to come along for a talk. I’m only sorry you waited this long and thought I was crossing you. But now that you can see I’ve got a good property in Conlan, I know you’re businessmen enough not to knock off the goose that can lay the golden eggs for you.” Ehrhardt stares solidly at Jackie Whalen. Abruptly, he slips the still-silent weapon back into his coat pocket. With marked slowness he lights his pipe with a kitchen match. He shoves the chair back and stands up. “I’ll be talking to you.” He nods sharply to the side boys and the three men leave the control booth. As Jackie Whalen reaches for the pickup arm of the turntable the three men pause outside the great control room window, and stare at him.)
(Music down and out)
That was “Rip Tide” and it was Jerry Lee Lewis smashing. Don’t forget, The Spindle, 6720 Seventeenth Street, where you can buy all these hits with that big Jackie Whalen discount. Hits like this one: Frankie Avalon and “Sweet lips”
(Music up)
(Jackie Whalen sits in silence, lips pressed tightly closed, eyes also tightly closed, the lids trembling slightly. The girl makes a sound, a half-formed word, but he waves her to silence, then rubs his eyes with his fingertips, fiercely. He waits in darkness for the record to end. When it does, he cuts in abruptly.
(Music down and out; cut to Announcer)
Well, today has been a big day, kids. Bigger than you know, really. And I see by the big clock on the wall that it’s almost 6:00, time for your disc Jackie to close down the old shop and say so long till tomorrow. We’ve just got time for two more, so I’ll lay ’em on together and let ’em run out to close the show. We don’t usually hit a platter as hard as we’re hitting these two, kids, but today has been a real special day, so we’ll break our own rule. Here they are, because you’ve made them your favorites.
Here’s Rod Conlan again with that hit you’ve been phone-bombing us to play more often, “I Shouldn’t Have Loved You So Much” and the extra-beautiful Kris Long with “Mocking Love,” what I predict will be the two big ones of the season.
(Music up)
(Jackie Whalen stands, scratches at himself, and walks to the chair in which Kristene Long sits, her back very straight, her face very pale. “You lead a real rough life, Mr. Whalen,” she says. He leans down, takes her face in his hands and kisses her full on the lips. “You’ll find out just how rough tonight, baby.” He grins. Jackie Whalen straightens, reaches back, and takes the pack of cigarettes from the console. He shakes one out. With the smoke full in his lungs he replies to her unasked questions: “It was a calculated risk, honey. I knew they’d come around to dicker first. The days of the St. Valentine’s Massacre may not be gone completely, but these guys are businessmen, even though they’re hoods and punks. They won’t pass up a chance to get hold of a good property like Conlan. They’ll come across; I made a sale today. That was the angle I was playing.” The girl shakes her head. “They’ll sell him down the river. Lousy songs with big pushes, too many personal appearances, too many bookings for benefits, they’ll screw him good, Jackie. They always do.” Whalen shrugs and sits on the edge of the console. “That’s the way it goes,” he says. “It was either him or me. And he’ll like working for the Syn — for the group.”)
(Segue first record into second)
(The girl stands up and half turns away, tucking a lock of blonde hair that has tumbled over her forehead back into place. As she turns, she faces the big control booth window and sees a short, dark woman in a beret and black coat, standing in the center of the glass, staring at them. A peculiar expression trembles on the woman’s face. She is holding a gun out before her, stiffly. “Jackie!” the girl shrieks. Whalen turns and sees the woman. “Sybil!” he gasps, as she brings the gun up an inch. Thoughts pile through Jackie Whalen’s head as the gun travels that inch. They are jumbled, disorganized thoughts. One is:
She did understand who Florey was talking about in his column.
Another is:
How did she find the revolver in the nightstand?
A third is:
How stupid: to make it past one bunch of killers who make their living knocking guys off, just to get it from a stupid, jerky farm girl. Oh, Jeezus!
And the last thought of all is:
There are no more surprises in this life for Jackie Whalen.
And as the crash of the revolver echoes through the anteroom, into the control booth, as the glass of the picture window magically sprouts three small bull’s eyes with millions of radiating lines, as fire and pain and chagrin and cursing fill Jackie Whalen like an empty vessel … )
(Music fade up and GONE. EXTREMELY GONE.)