Chapter Fourteen
I spent Tuesday afternoon cutting commercial spots and preparing to go on the air at two. It was a fun shift, passing by relatively quickly. I only received three obnoxious phone calls, one of them from a fourteen year old wanting to know if I could get her Ricky Ray's autograph. Sure thing honey, when hell freezes over. But I didn't say that to her. I was real nice. Sickeningly nice. That's the only part of my job I really hate.
When I signed off the air at seven I grabbed my stuff out of the DJ office and almost made it out the door. Quick, but not quick enough. The station manager, Herb, (Danny and the pit bull, remember?) was heading down the hall toward me at a fast waddle. I slipped into one of the programming booths. He followed me in.
Herb is still stuck in the 'Urban Cowboy' days. He wears real tight jeans, ugly western shirts with bolo ties, and pointy-toe cowboy boots all the time. It probably wouldn't be so bad if he were taller and thinner. Much taller and much thinner.
He wears his dark brown hair in that timeless 'trying to cover my bald spot with one long piece of hair' comb-over. It always looks greasy; I think he puts some goop on it to make it that way. Silver wire rimmed glasses that are too big for his face are constantly sliding down his nose.
"Marty, doll! Great f-ing publicity! I can't believe this f-ing luck! I've had every TV station in town calling up. And the newspapers: The f-ing Roanoke Times called, the Times-Dispatch, even the News-Messenger. This is hot, hot, hot. Finding a f-ing dead guy! Great going! And that sweet lil' Giselle, giving you all that f-ing coverage at the remote. Lord, have mercy but I'd sure like to do the big nasty with that lil' gal." (Yes, Herb really and truly does talk like this. His long-suffering and very sweet, very smart wife, Georgina, fines him when he cusses, so he substitutes. Since Georgina owns the station, the receptionist helps her out by snitching if Herb slips up.)
“Maybe I should give you her phone number. Play matchmaker. I could be flower girl at the wedding. I’m sure Georgina would be so thrilled to hear about it.”
He never even heard me. "And you. I ought to give you a raise or something," he said. His voice is so smooth and sexy, you can't believe it belongs to him. Whenever he works on air, he is constantly getting propositions. If they only knew....
"But I can't. Not my money to give. That Georgina sure does know how to squeeze a dime. Too bad, though." He leered at me and did a little hip thrusting. "I can probably give you some other kind of reward." (And, yes. He actually acts like this too. The thing is, everyone knows Herb is all talk. Georgina would dismember him if he ever actually did any of the things he talks about.)
He'd evidently had a garlic and anchovy pizza, his favorite, for lunch. His breath about knocked me out. I took a step backwards and fell down onto a little rolling stool.
"Herb, you act like I planned this or something. Don't you think it's a little crass to be so happy about a murder? So far, it hasn't exactly been the best kind of publicity."
He blinked and thought for a second. Then, a big grin crossed his pudgy face. "Hey babe, don't get your f-ing panties in a bunch! Sure, I feel bad for the f-ing sunamuhbitch. But come on, he's dead. We ain't. Haven't you ever heard the saying, 'there's nothing bad about publicity, good or bad'?"
I scratched my head. Talking to Herb is sort of like setting yourself adrift at sea. On a beach towel. "Uh, Herb, I think that's 'there's no such thing as bad publicity'."
"Yeah, well, whatever. The thing is, babe, we've got to strike before the f-ing corpse gets cold, so to speak. I'm thinking, I'm thinking, let's see. Hmm." He puffed his cheeks in and out a couple of times.
I watched him, fascinated, as he did a little pretend shadow boxing, pumping his fists in the air and shuffling his feet. His bolo swung from side to side, his big belly jiggled, and sweaty stains spread all down the back of his shirt.
Apparently, the boxing did the trick. "I got it!" He suddenly hollered out. "You are gonna f-ing love this, doll. It's genius, sheer f-ing genius! We'll do a TV campaign, get you down at that park, maybe inside one of those trash thingies." He eyed me critically. "I'll bet you look hot in a bikini. Now, let's see, a slogan. We need a slogan."
Back to the shadow boxing. I just shook my head and opened the door. "Herb, get over it. I'm not going to do some tacky, disgusting ad campaign to capitalize on this. And you can be sure that I will not ever let you see me in a bikini. Or any other kind of swim suit, for that matter"
He winked at me.
"You know, Herb, it's a good thing I'm a nice person or you'd be in some serious hot water. I'm talking lawsuit. A big fat sexual harassment lawsuit"
He winked again.
"I've gotta go," I said, looking back over my shoulder.
He was still shadow boxing, still talking to himself, trying to think up a slogan.