Chapter Thirty-One
"This is too wild." I said. "I can't believe it. No wonder Vanessa is running around with a gun, locking people in sheds. Do you think he's still alive?"
Charli looked sad. "I don't know what it means. I sure hope we can find Vanessa soon, though. I'm terribly worried about her, especially after reading that." She pointed to the paper.
According to the article, O'Del Young, Vanessa's husband had been in a car accident up in Michigan eight and a half months ago, but he hadn't even been hurt in the wreck, much less killed.
I re-read one part of it out loud. "When police arrived at the scene of the minor accident, they discovered that the driver of the car, Mr. Young, was not wearing any pants. The seventeen year old female passenger, who has an extensive police record for prostitution, protested that they were conducting a scientific experiment. Mr. Young was charged with public nudity. Other charges are pending." There was a small picture of O'Del below the headline.
About five, Mom came by to tell us that they hadn't had any luck with the stake out and had pretty much decided to hang it up. We showed her the newspaper clipping. She was as stunned as we were.
"That poor child," Mom said, "I wonder where she got this?"
"I don't know, but the shoe box she had was full of papers. Another one fell out too. I'm not sure what it is."
I handed the other piece of paper to Mom. "Ever seen anything like this?"
"I think it's a betting slip," she said. "Although I've never seen one that looks like this. We should ask your Dad or John. There's always betting pools and stuff going around out at the tire plant."
"Do you think we should turn these over to Tim?" Charli said.
"No way," I said. "I don't want him to go into his 'cop mode'. Let's find Vanessa first, find out what's going on."
"I agree. To a point," Mom said. "But if we don't find Vanessa by tomorrow morning, we really should bring in the police. I'm starting to get very frightened."
"Okay," I said. "I'll go along with that."
I had to go to work -- my regular Saturday night show -- but I knew it was going to be a tough shift. My mind was definitely not going to be on my work.
Normally, Saturday's show is my favorite. I play the regular hot hits for the first hour, do a request line for a couple of hours, then play old stuff -- Patsy Cline, Loretta Lynn, George Jones, 'Whispering' Bill Anderson, Kitty Wells, The Carter Family -- all of the great artists who made me fall in love with country music, for the rest of the shift. I figure one of these days, Georgina is going to get with the times and kill the show, but for now, it was the bright spot of my job.
I spent about forty-five minutes prepping before time to go on the air. I'd just grabbed a couple of candy bars and a soda from the break room and was heading for the booth when I saw Herb coming toward me like a man possessed. Exactly who he was possessed by, I couldn't be sure, but I don't think it was Elvis.
Unfortunately, there wasn't any place to hide. He stuck his hand out and grabbed my arm. "Marty, doll! F-ing brilliant!"
Spit flew from the corners of his mouth. "This stuff just keeps getting better and better. I mean first that dead guy thingie, then coming up with a fire! It's just great, f-ing great!"
He'd apparently visited the pizza place for another dose of double garlic and anchovy pizza. I backed up. He put his other hand out and grabbed my shoulder, keeping me too close for comfort. Tonight's ensemble, evidently chosen for a special occasion, consisted of a purple and green western shirt, purple jeans, green snakeskin boots, and a green and purple striped bolo tie with a slide shaped like a Playboy bunny symbol. He was so excited the bolo was swinging from side to side, undulating like a cobra's head.
"Uh Herb, I hate to break this to you, but I didn't exactly 'come up with' a fire. I almost lost my life in that fire. I'd really rather not talk about it, if you don't mind." I tried to break free so I could get out of the spit firing range, but he had my shoulder in a vise-like grip.
He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "So. It don't f-ing matter who come up with it. Fact is, it's brilliant. Just plain f-ing brilliant."
He let go of me and danced a little bit of Ricky Ray's line dance from the 'Hot Blooded Woman..." video. "Lemme see you do that." He looked at me expectantly.
"What?" I asked, backing up so he couldn't grab me again.
"That dance. The one I just did." He kindly demonstrated again. "Lemme see you do it."
"No. I don't dance." I backed up a couple more steps. He moved closer.
"Aw, come on. It's easy. See." He did the moves again, this time grabbing my hand and pulling me toward him.
I jerked my hand away. "I said no. I don't like to dance. Listen, I've got to get on the air. Maybe we can finish this later."
He stopped dancing and glanced at his watch, also shaped like the Playboy bunny symbol. "Nah, you got plenty of time. Just hear me out. Here's what I'm thinking."
Herb, thinking? Now that was a scary proposition.
"I'm thinking we can parlay this f-ing fire thingie onto the dead guy thingie and really get us a heavy duty marketing theme."
I started shaking my head as hard as I could. "Oh no, no, no, no! This is not going to be turned into one of your lame publicity stunts. I will not do anything crass and unprofessional."
He held up his hands in front of him. "Now, now. Just bear with me a minute. You been wanting that three to seven drive shift something awful, ain't you?" He winked at me.
"Just hear me out, doll. I might be able to pull a few strings. You know what I mean?" He winked again. "You sure you can't dance? All right. I'll figure out something else. Let's see."
He shook his body around from side-to-side. Everything jiggled. "Yes! I got it." He used his fingers to draw a TV screen in the air. "Picture this. You, in a bikini, standing in one a them green trash thingies, fire licking up all around you. We'll get permission to use "Hot Blooded Woman" -- you can sweet talk Ricky Ray into it -- for the background. Then, in your sexiest, take-me-I'm-yours voice, you say, 'WRRR, Hoooot Hits to Heeeat You Up'."
"Are you out of your ever lovin' mind? For Christ's sake, Herb! That's the stupidest, tackiest, thing I've ever heard you say! Not to mention the fact that I've already told you, I'm not putting on a bikini. End of conversation!"
He looked hurt. "What? You don't like it? Listen, babe, if it's the choice of music, we can work something out. It don't gotta be 'Hot Blooded Woman...'."
"It's not the music! It's the whole damned thing! Don't you get it, Herb? Are you that far gone? You're talking about exploiting a murder. One person is dead. He had a family. People who loved him. Two other people -- including me -- were almost killed in that fire. These are real, Herb. Real tragedies. Not schemes dreamed up for the purpose of promoting a radio station!"
I took a deep breath. "No more. I can't listen to any more of this crap. I gotta get on the air."
He wasn't listening. He'd started doing that bizarre shadow boxing thing he does to help him 'think'. "Okay," he said, "don't get your f-ing tush in a tangle. I'm thinking. I'm thinking. Let's see. Songs. What other songs are there that might fit? What's the angle. Fire. Trash cans. Hmmm."
I scooted around him and dashed down the hall to the broadcast studio. I slid into the on-air chair with four seconds to spare.