Curtains Read Online Free PDF

littered the floor like copper worms.
    I checked the transmitter readings and
apologized to the jock who had to stay late to cover for me. He had
a little acne around his mouth. Probably an intern. He looked at me
with a flash of something like hero worship in his eyes.
    "No problem, Mr. Nixon," he said, handing me
the playlist. For a second, I thought he was going to ask for my
autograph.
    I settled behind the console like a pilot
about to launch a jumbo jet. Dietz slouched in one corner with a
Styrofoam cup of coffee. The engineer held an earphone against his
gaunt head and nodded at him. All systems go, prepare for lift-off,
I said to myself. I flipped over the mic key and addressed the
waiting ears of Topeka .
    "Have some fear, Mickey's here, welcome to
'Death Radio,' only on the Kick. Give me a buzz and let me know
what's going down in the dark corners of your mind."
    I grinned at Dietz as the board lit up. "Go
ahead, caller. You're on," I said, cranking up the pot.
    A woman with a stuffy nose began talking.
"Mickey, I just wanted you to know how much we love 'Death Radio'
here at Floyd's Truck Stop. You don't know how many loafers sit
around here on their lazy hind ends soppin' up free refills and
listenin' to your show."
    "Glad to have you aboard, honey. So, have you
killed anybody lately?"
    I saw Dietz wince as she laughed. "Now, I
don't think that girl's as bad as all that. So she shot a few,
sounds to me like they had it comin'. And all the guys around here
been tippin' real good this week. Been mindin' their manners, and
eatin' with their hats off. Ever bad wind blows somebody good, I
say."
    "Amen to that," I said. I was beginning to
wonder, and not for the first time, if I was playing to people's
fears just to be a big shot. To be honest with myself, I was
enjoying the success. Let people die if it was good for the
ratings. I was beginning to think like a television news producer.
Give the people what they want and damn the consequences.
    I steadily punched up callers, and every one
had a story about some man they knew who was finally shaping up or
had died trying. A few knew, "first-hand", about somebody who met
their Maker over a little marital indiscretion. Dietz was pale,
furiously scribbling on a note pad with the stub of a pencil. He
hadn't realized just how out of control the show had gotten.
    "Folks, I love you," I said at the end of the
shift. "Thanks for opening your hearts to me, not to mention a few
holes in people's heads. Night Owl, if you're out there, fly right
and keep your barrel smoking. Tune in again tomorrow, skip work if
you feel like it, and deep-six somebody if you must. This is Mickey
Nixon, stick a fork in me, I'm done."
    Dietz was as white as a nurse's bra. He would
probably be in an all-day powwow with the District Attorney's
office, scrambling for offenses to charge me with. Georgie Boy
walked in and surveyed the electronic carnage the police engineer
had inflicted. I winked at him and poked the Denon machine with my
finger. The Cars started playing "Let The Good Times Roll."
     
    Three nights passed that way, with Dietz as
my co-pilot and the skeletal technician as navigator. The phone
lines stayed busy. Other stations were covering my show as a news
event, and a few were trying their own Death Shows. But I was the
only one with Night Owl. She called that Tuesday at about 4 AM,
just after the hourly station ID.
    "Hey, Mickey, honey, it's Night Owl," her
voice purred over the speakers.
    Dietz jumped up, spilling his coffee and
adding another stain to the studio floor. The police tech rolled
the tape recorder and watched his meters. I reached a trembling
finger to my mic switch.
    "Hello, Night Owl, it's good to hear your
voice. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten old Mickey
here."
    "I'd never do that. Just thinking about you
gets me all hot and bothered. I've been listening, and I like what
I hear. It seems like murder's the biggest game in town."
    "Yes, but nobody does it like you.