The Talk Show Murders (3 page)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Patton,” I lied.

Kiki appeared at the far side of the set. Frowning, she marched toward us. “I’m sorry, Billy, but we have to go now.”

I nodded to Patton and allowed my very efficient assistant to pull me away.

“Judging by the hooked-fish expression on your face,” she said, “I assumed you didn’t want to continue your conversation with that creep.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What was he saying to you, anyway?”

“Nothing very pleasant.”

“I told you,” she said. “He’s a monster.”

I turned.

Patton had been joined by a very tall, very muscular, very black man, neatly dressed in tan slacks and a tight white T-shirt. He was in his twenties, but the slicked-down hair and thin mustache belonged to another generation. He shifted from one foot to the next, somewhat impatiently, while Patton continued to stare at me.

The ex-cop raised one hand and gave me a jolly finger wiggle, as if seeing me off on a pleasant journey.

“A monster,” I agreed.

The monster rested uncomfortably at the back of my mind until that night, when I met for dinner with a few newly arrived members of team
Wake Up
. Namely, coanchors Lance Tuttle and Gin McCauley; ex-starlet Karma Singleton, our latest entertainment reporter; producer Arnie Epps; and executive producer Trina Lomax, who’d opened up the purse strings for a lavish feed at a pricey but genuinely unique restaurant in the city’s Old Town section that owes as much to scientific innovation as it does to Cordon Bleu.

Our culinary adventure began with little round, crisp morsels that tasted like the best peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich I’d ever devoured. This was followed by eleven equally playful and unusual mini-courses, ranging from the essence of shrimp cocktail to lobster with vapor of rosemary (boiling water poured over rosemary leaves at the table), all proffered on delightfully odd dinnerware. The pb&j, for example, arrived nestled in something that resembled the legs of a steel spider resting on its back. The shrimp cocktail essence was sprayed into the mouth via an atomizer.

To bottom-line it, our senses (including sense of humor) were happily occupied for nearly three hours.

We’d just polished off an extraordinary dessert (flash-frozen chocolate mousse, complete with spray dried coconut milk, cocoa crumbs, anise, and a few other ingredients) prepared directly on our dining table by the restaurant’s owner, when Gin McCauley asked me a question that turned my heart chillier than the mousse.

“Say again?”

“Ah was wonderin’ what you can tell me about this Pat Patton charactah? He said you and he wah ol’ friends.” Gin’s Southern accent had been intensified that night by several strawberry margaritas. Usually I found it sweetly charming.

“When were you talking with Patton?”

“This evenin’. Soon’s ah got unpacked.”

“And why were you talking with him?”

“ ’Cause ah’m interviewin’ him on Monday’s show. Ah’m guessin’ he was exaggeratin’ your friendship?”

“A little,” I said. “Why interview
him
?”

“Because Trina tole me to.”

“He claims he has inside information on the headless corpse that all Chicago is talking about,” Trina Lomax answered. “And Gemma tells me he’s something of a local institution.”

“He belongs in an institution,” I said. “He’s a right-wing nutjob.”

Trina waved the comment away. “Who isn’t these days?” she said.

“Ah’d like to think ah’m not,” Gin said.

“Nor I,” Lance added. “How bad is this guy, Billy?”

“On Gemma’s show he was still calling the president an illegal alien,” I said.

“Well, for Christ’s sake,” Lance said. “After the final certificate disclosure?”

“Le’s dump this turkey,” Gin said to Trina.

Our executive producer opened her mouth, then paused, as if censoring herself. She frowned and spent about a thirty-count watching the staff clean the dregs of our dessert from the tabletop. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, “I was waiting for a slightly less public
moment to have this conversation, but … I’m sure all of you must be aware of the criticism Worldwide has been receiving lately from … some quarters. That we’re White House lackeys. That we’re biased, anticonservative members of the liberal elite.”

“Bullshit,” Lance said. “We have Republicans on the show all the time.” He glared at Karma Singleton. “We even have ’em on staff.”

“That may be,” Trina said. “But ratings are down and according to Fields and Fields’s most recent survey, a lot of our viewers think our programming is ignoring the neoconservative trend in America. Gretchen is … concerned.”

That would be Gretchen Di Voss, the current head of Worldwide Broadcasting, whose family has been in charge of the network since her grandfather, Harold Di Voss, created it in 1931.

“How concerned?” I asked.

“She has requested we consider making a few changes,” Trina said. “Nothing more drastic than adding an occasional voice from the right. Like Mr. Patton.”

“If he’s a right-wingah, maybe Karma oughta do the interview,” Gin said.

“That’s a brilliant idea …,” our entertainment reporter said.

She was a tall, willowy redhead who had appeared as a tall, willowy redhead in a couple of movies that no one but late-night cable watchers have ever seen. She had recently played a tall, willowy redhead weathergirl in a short-lived Worldwide sitcom,
Fair and Warmer
, set in a small-town television station. And now she was our tall, willowy redhead. The difference being that, suddenly freed from the confines of a prepared script, she was able to speak her mind—which belonged to someone a little to the right of Genghis Khan, as played by John Wayne.

“… and this is brilliant news, Trina,” she continued. “Finally, we’ll have a politically balanced show.”

“Fair and balanced,” I said.

“An’ brilliant,” Gin said.

“Exactly,” Karma said, a little too pleased by the news and herself to realize she was being ribbed.

“Well, that may be,” Trina said, “but Gin will be interviewing Mr. Patton. Now, who’s up for a nightcap at the hotel bar?”

On the cab ride to the nightcap, I played back a message left by Cassandra Shaw, the remarkably efficient hostess-manager of my restaurant in Manhattan. The tone was typically acerbic. “Too busy out on the town to answer your phone, Billy? Well, no matter. We had another power outage in the main dining room just after seven. I reset the breakers, but needless to say, the early diners did not take it well. Complimentary desserts for all.

“At nine-thirty, the place was packed and that asshole city councilman Baragray dropped by with some of his friends, sans reservation, causing quite a ruckus and demanding a table. I suggested they join the mayor and his friends in the LaGuardia Room. Upon hearing that His Honor was on the premises, they scooted away as quiet as church mice. Other than that, all was well on this very busy Friday night. Over and out.”

“Ever’thing okay?” Gin asked. “You got that worry crease in your forehead.” She was sitting beside me on the rear seat. Arnie Epps was up front with the cabbie. We were trailing a cab transporting the others.

“We had a power outage at the Bistro earlier this week,” I said. “Our electrician didn’t find anything obvious. His solution, naturally enough, was to rewire the whole building. Mine was to wait and see. But there was another outage tonight. It looks as if I’ll probably be paying for his kid’s college education.”

“Bummer,” she said. “Uh, Billy, why do you think Trina’s so insistent on me interviewin’ this Patton charactah?”

I shrugged.

“Arnie?” she asked.

Arnie Epps continued to stare out the window, pretending not to hear. Which wasn’t a good sign, since it indicated he possessed info we wouldn’t like. He’s an odd dude, our producer: a tall, ungainly man with a penchant for Hawaiian shirts loud enough to make your eyes bleed and an often-unnerving passivity. But he wasn’t a bad guy and
was actually a fair conversationalist if the subject was television history, the works of Charles Dickens, early jazz recordings, or East Coast flora and fauna, heavy on the flora.

“Hey, Arnie,” Gin said louder. “What’s the deal on Patton?”

He hesitated briefly, then replied, “Trina wants to see the guy in action.”

“She should check today’s
Midday with Gemma,
” I said. “That’ll tell her all she needs to know.”

“Trina’s not exactly a fan of Gemma’s,” Arnie said. “She wants to see the compatibility between Patton and Gin.”

“Why?” I asked, though I thought I knew.

“The guy’s an eyeball magnet. He’s on Gretchen’s short list for new regulars.”

My fears confirmed, I slumped against the car seat. Then I brightened. “He struck me as a die-hard Chicagoan,” I said. “I can’t see him moving to New York.”

“Actually, the plan would be for him to come in only once a month or so,” Arnie said. “The rest of the time, he’d be reporting from here.”

“Plan? There’s a plan already in place?”

“Predicated on how well it goes on Monday,” Arnie said.

I turned to Gin. She winked. Then she gave me a sweet smile and drew her index finger across her neck.

In the suite of rooms above my restaurant that I call home I’m usually up at five on weekdays, getting ready for the morning show. Weekends find me sleeping in a little longer, till nine or even ten on Saturdays. Because there’d been more than one nightcap in the hotel bar (which we’d closed at three, by the way), I could have used a little extra bedtime that Saturday. But I didn’t get it.

Something—exactly what I wasn’t sure, only that I was dreaming of birds chirping—woke me at a little after eight. I opened my eyes, blinked a few times, and wondered where I was and why I could see sky outside my bedroom window. Sky but no birds.

My head felt as if it was filled with Kleenex. Used Kleenex. In an effort to inject a small element of kindness in an unkind world, I will not even begin to describe what the inside of my mouth resembled.

I staggered to the bathroom and did everything that had to be done. Revived by a hot and then cold shower and the taste of strenuously applied toothpaste and wrapped in a plush terry bathrobe provided
by the hotel, I plopped down on the sofa in the suite’s sitting room and dialed room service.

I put in a request for the biggest omelet on the menu, two servings of crispy bacon, toast, and hot coffee, and plenty of it. Then, confident that the ball was rolling, I leaned back against the sofa cushion and began working the TV’s remote control. I flipped through a morass of brightly colored kids’ cartoons; of live, recent, and classic sporting events; movies that I hadn’t liked the first time I saw them; sincere-looking hucksters peddling cosmetics and cures; and screaming-head news channels. Finally, I arrived at a relatively calm oasis, the repeat of last night’s Charlie Rose interview.

Charlie was talking to a Democratic congressman whom, I’m sorry to say, I did not recognize. Charlie asked him if he thought the Dems would reclaim the House in 2012. And—surprise, surprise—the congressman’s response to that lobbed puffball was: “Heck, yes.” From that point, he and Charlie engaged in a somewhat laid-back battle for control of talking points. I’m not sure who won, because a gong announced what I assumed was my breakfast waiting at the door to the suite.

I could almost taste the omelet as I danced across the carpet. Reaching for the doorknob, I exhaled, intending to breathe deeply of the comforting aroma of coffee and eggs mixed with melted cheese, peppers, and onions.

Instead, my nostrils were filled with the overpowering scents of Old Spice mixed with morning cigarette breath.

Eddie “Pat” Patton was at my door, wearing dark gray slacks, a matching gray jacket, a gray Kangol cap, and a nasty grin. He reminded me of an evil Disney rat, specifically, the one threatening the baby in
Lady and the Tramp
. (If you’ll pardon the digression, it’s always struck me as odd that a company built on the popularity of a mouse would be so quick to demonize rats.)

“Morning, Billy,” he said, taking a step forward, so that his right shoe blocked me from slamming the door in his face. A move perfected by door-to-door salesmen. And cops. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping by. I phoned, but you didn’t pick up.”

“You phoned?”

“About a half-hour ago,” he said. “Right, Nat?”

“About then.” Nat had been standing to Patton’s left, out of my line of sight. The young muscle with the slicked-down hair who’d been with him after the midday show telecast. Today, he was wearing tan poplin slacks and a cocoa-brown T-shirt that fit him like a second skin. He was clutching a bright red folder in his huge right hand.

“Guess you mighta been on the throne,” Patton said.

“I was asleep,” I said, realizing now that the bird chirp had been coming from the hotel phone.

“Well, I’m glad I took a chance you might be here,” Patton said. He turned to Nat. “Gimme the file, boy. And go wait for me in the car.”

The big man’s mouth tensed. He handed his employer the folder. Then, with some reluctance, he drifted away, presumably to do as he was told.

“This won’t take long, Billy,” Patton said, walking past me into the suite. “Not that you seem to be in any hurry to greet the day.”

“What can I do for you?” I asked, closing the door and following him into the sitting room.

He did a 360 of the room, took in the floor-to-ceiling windows, the French provincial furniture, the Degas prints on the pale blue walls, and the average-size TV monitor. “Looks like an expensive French whore’s boo-dwarr,” he said.

“I’ll take your word for it,” I said. “What do you want?”

He lowered himself onto the sofa with a combination grunt and sigh, emitting a softer grunt when he leaned forward to place the folder on the coffee table. “You wanna go put on knickers, be my guest,” he said. “I’m in no hurry.”

“I repeat: What do you want?”

“You gonna stay in your robe, Billy, close it up and park.”