Chapter 8

Billy B:  “Okay, Murray, I’ll give you that... Jordan was special, with special emphasis on ‘was’. Come on, Chicago, the man’s been retired for four years… and to make matters worse, last Sunday, Heinrich put up so many bricks they’d admit him to the stonemasons’ union, for Christ’s sake! Get over it, Chicago, the Bulls are yesterday’s news...  Jimmy, get me somebody who’s read a paper in the last five years before I start throwing things...  Who...?  Talk to me… Rigor, is it? Catchy stuff, bud, but it’s a little early for that sort of humor.”

Rigor:    “Well, we meet at last. So nice to finally get through.”

Billy B:  “Yea, I know... you’re thrilled... blah blah blah... You got anything remotely resembling eloquence to share with Chi-town today or are you content with filling up thirty seconds with dead air?”             

Rigor:            (Laughing and coughing) “You humor just kills me, Billy B... and now I’m going to return the favor.”

Billy B:  Oh, is that right?  Well, let me tell you, pallie, if I had a buck for every time I’ve heard that brilliance, I could underwrite the lottery or bring poverty to her knees. Got anything else, or do I just go ahead and press the dump button now and flush your ass like I do the other perverts who call me?”  Writing furiously with Magic Marker on the legal pad he kept on hand to write messages to the engineer, Billy B held it up to Jimmy. CALL HAWKINS NOW!

Rigor:            (Giggling) Well, I’ll let you maintain control... for now.  But I’ll get you as sure as I got your little sidekick.  It was supposed to be you, anyway... but the nitwit couldn’t keep his hands off your stash, could he?  Did you know he was bogarting your goodies, Billy B?

Time suspended. Billy B fought for control as Jimmy waved frantically from the booth, moving his fingers back and forth across his neck.  Want me to dump him? Quickly, Billy B shot out of his seat, signaling No! Let him rave!

Glancing at the phone number posted on his console, Jimmy frantically pushed the buttons and was soon connected. Meanwhile, Billy B continued to taunt his caller.

Billy B:  “You know something, you’re one of those special callers that I’d like to get to know personally, one of that select few who really knows how to use this medium to his best advantage. Seldom do I have the privilege to palaver with true genius.  I mean, just yesterday I told The Suits, ‘I wish Rigor—and please forgive me calling you by your first name, I didn’t know it then, we hadn’t yet been formally introduced—I wish Rigor would call and brighten my listeners’ day with his account of how he killed my engineer and now intends to kill me because he missed the first time. You need to call me on the office phone, my friend... we need to set something up... I need to party with you, cowboy.”

Rigor:  “Oh, we’ll party… make no mistake about it. Only you won’t be alive to witness it, when I console your grieving mother and friends at your funeral. I may even pay her a visit later. You know… just to see if she’s as witty and urbane as you seem to be.”

Billy B:  “Well, Chicago, you heard it here first. That laugh-a-minute prankster, Mr. Rigor Mortis, intends to kill me—and my mother! Anything or anyone else you intend to whack, big guy? I hear they’re running a special down at the morgue today, three for the price of one… how about you come get a cop or two, as well? That should be no problem for a man of your talents.”

Laughing heartily, the voice on the telephone sighed deeply and continued.

Rigor:  “On one level, I’ll miss you, Mr. Bowman. You’re really not as clever or glib as you’d have your audience believe, but your ability to—is it okay if I say ‘bullshit’ without fearing the dump button? Probably not without getting fined by the FCC, but I’ll try it anyway—your ability to bullshit your listeners into believing you really have any insight into sports whatsoever is phenomenal! I commend you for your perseverance in the market and tenure on the airwaves.”                      

Billy B:  “Well, well… ‘perseverance’… ‘tenure’… ‘phenomenal’… all words of refinement. I may have to go and erase some of the unkind comments I’ve made about you on the bathroom walls of some of Chicago’s finest watering holes.”

Again, a short chortle preceded the voice.

Rigor:  “Oh, so charming… in a locker room sort of way. Although, it would seem to grate on the ladies’ sensibilities, wouldn’t it? That’s probably why you spend so much time by yourself or in the company of a bottle with a black-and-white label. Of course, there’s also the chance that you might still be in the closet. Don’t let your listeners find out about your latent homosexuality, Billy, I can guarantee you that your ratings will suffer. Pity you don’t have time to get the therapy you so desperately need.”

Billy B:  “I see… Damn, Rigor, you’re going to make me cry. I’ll tell you what, my friend, will you please be my bestest friend and come over? Maybe we could share a salad, nothing too filling you understand, just a little nosh to break the ice while we gaze into each other’s eyes and you can send me some more of those little signals that let me know that you want to be my bitch exclusively? I’ll bring the Brie and you bring the chardonnays… it’ll be just the two of us, Sweetie.”

The door to the booth flew open and Grenadier Hawkins ran in, holding up a note hastily scrawled— KEEP HIM TALKING!  Billy winked at the detective and grinned, giving him the thumbs-up sign.

Billy B:  “What, cat got your tongue, Rigor? Tell you what, you hang on through the break, we’ll give Chicago a chance to prepare for some more of your light-hearted banter.  You and me, buddy... you and me.”

The airwaves were suddenly filled with Bob Seeger’s rendition of Oooh, I love to watch her strut! as Jimmy took them to commercial.  Billy B removed his earphones and Grenadier Hawkins sat down in the chair reserved for program guests.

“Do you think he’ll hold through the break?”

Billy B looked up at the detective and grinned. “Hard saying with his type... it could go either way.”  

“Well, look... if he does, let him talk.  We need to get a voice profile. This is the best break we’ve gotten, and I don’t want to screw this up. 

Billy B leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on his desk and pressed a cigar to his lips, striking a match to light it.

With cat-like precision, Hawkins slapped the cigar out of Billy’s mouth, sending it flying through the air until it hit the glass partition and fell harmlessly to the floor.

“You got a death wish, Mr. Bowman?”  Grenadier Hawkins’ face, now only inches from Billy’s, flashed an animated scowl.

“What death wish?  It’s a Cuban cigar, not a friggin’ bomb!”  Billy B pushed his chair back and stood up.  As he reached for the panatella, a size eleven black brogan covered it, nearly pinching Billy B’s fingers. Grenadier Hawkins scowl remained and his head moved back and forth. 

“We believe a chemical called PFEE killed your friend, and it might be in that cigar.” Hawkins slipped his hand into a rubber glove and picked the cigar up.  Examining it quickly, he slipped it into a plastic bag. “Mr. Bowman, as you’re aware, you’re in a shit-load of trouble. We’re trying to help you, and I have a twenty-four hour tail on you.  But, if this guy is as nutty as we think, even that may not help you. I think he killed Stats with a cigar just like that one... and it was intended for you. The least you can do is help us by not doing anything stupid.”

A knock on the window broke the tension as Jimmy held his hands up and started counting down from ten. 

“I’d love to spend some time discussing this with you, Detective Hawkins, but I have a show to do.”

Hawkins quickly sat down and signaled the police technician manning the recording equipment.

Earphones back in place, Billy B took his place at the console and popped the transmit switch.  “Okay, Chicago, we’re back and we’re thrilled to have a special guest appearance from Mr. Rigor Blank, our resident psychopath.  Tell me, Mr. Blank, how long have you been a nut case?  I mean, were you born this way or did you receive some sort of special advanced training?” 

Rigor:    “It’s Mortis, Luigi.”

Billy B:            (Laughing heartily) “Oh, why, of course!  How could I have been so foolish!  Rigor Mortis, I get it now... That’s why you get the big money, Sheckie- er, I mean, Rigor... I’ve never had the gray matter to think of clever stuff like that!  Are you a professional comedian, too? Where can we catch your show?”

Rigor:    “Oh, you’ll be catching it alright... (coughs) I hope you’ll be able to live without her... for a little while...”

Cassie! He has to be referring to Cassie!  “Oh, so now I’m a bisexual, eh? I see... well, can we talk about this?  I thought you wanted to party with me, Mr. Mortis.  I hardly know any women in this town, being so charming and all... who are you referring to?”

Rigor:    (Deep, prolonged, maniacal laughing)  “Got it bad, don’t you, Billy? I think I’ll ship her to you in alphabetical order.  Let me see... we’ll start with the aorta...  No, wait, she wouldn’t suffer long enough that way... maybe I’ll start with the anus. I’m sure you’re probably especially fond of that part.”

Billy B:  “Come off it, pervert. You don’t know who she is, do you? You’re blowing smoke up Chicago’s backside... you’re nothing but a self-loathing latent homosexual who can’t stand the fact that other guys can get laid and you can’t... and don't call me Luigi!”

Rigor:    “Just keep talking, wordsmith... only I shall know the hour and the day... and the way. Read the love note I sent Casandra to give to you, it’ll give you some clues.”

Grenadier Hawkins stood with hands on hips, staring at the checked pattern on the tiled floor. Presently, the technician took off his headset, made eye contact with Hawkins and shook his head. “Mother of God, Grenny... he’s screwing with us.” 

Hawkins’ face fashioned a scowl. “So it would seem… and don’t call me ‘Grenny’.