Night Mask

Somewhere—in desolate windswept space—
In Twilight land—in No-man's land—
Two hurrying Shapes met face-to-face,
And bade each other stand.

 

“And who are you?” cried one agape,
Shuddering in the gloaming light.
“I know not,” said the second shape,
“I only died last night!”

 

—Thomas Bailey Aldrich

W
ILLIAM
W. J
OHNSTONE

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

“If God created anything better than pussy,” Windjammer said, “He damn sure kept it for Himself.”

“Oh, my God!” Dick Hale said, glancing wildly around him, his eyes wide. “You fool! Is your mike closed?”

Windjammer stared at the station manager, open contempt in the gaze. After working in broadcasting for more than twenty years, from New Jersey to California, with stops both north and south of that famous Mason/Dixon line, Windjammer had reached at least one firm conclusion about most station managers; they all shared one thing in common: they were totally ignorant about control rooms.

Before Windjammer could tell Dick where to take his asinine question, and in what part of his anatomy he could shove it once he got it there—which would have been very uncomfortable for the man, not to mention unsightly—the chief engineer stepped in and once again Windjammer's job was secure; at least for another day.

“Dick,” the engineer said patiently, in the tone one uses when attempting to converse with a very small child or a cocker spaniel. “As long as you can hear the music coming out of that speaker,” he pointed, “the mike is closed.”

“Oh!” Dick said. “Well. Good.” He walked out of the control room.

“As if that puke-brain hasn't been told that at least twenty thousand times in the past,” Windjammer said, shaking his head. His recording was winding down. Automatically, from years of experience, he put his brain into gear a split second before his mouth opened, and introed the original Charlie Barnett recording of “Cherokee,” then turned back to the engineer.

The engineer cut him off short. “Don't start with me, Jammer. You got it made here, and you know it. You also know that Trickie-Dickie doesn't like you at all. But all you have to do to keep your job, is keep your mouth shut around him. Look, you got good pay, great hours, a gorgeous P.D. to work under—”

Windjammer grinned lewdly. “I'd like to work under her, and around her, and beside her, and—”

“All right, boys,” Stacy Ryan announced her presence, as she pushed open the door to the control room. She knew DJs very well. “Knock off the locker-room talk.” The program director of radio station KSIN stepped into the control room, the door automatically closing behind her. The scent of her perfume was an invisible fragrant touch.

Windjammer groaned and began panting.

The engineer shook his head, even though he knew Stacy did not take the slightest bit of offense at the Jammer's actions. “I'm leaving,” he said, looking at Stacy and pointing at Windjammer. “If you feel safe around that animal, that is.”

She laughed, a sexy, throaty laugh. “His bark is worse than his bite, Cal.”

“I'll bite you anywhere you like, Stacy,” Windjammer said. “And right now I can think of—”

“Shut up, Jammer!” she told him flatly. “Now you listen to me. You can get away with that kind of talk with me. But if you ever leave this station—and the odds of that are pretty damn good right now—there are a lot of women who would slap a sexual harassment suit on your butt in a heartbeat. And win it. So you just shut up and listen for a minute. See you, Cal.”

“I'm gone.”

The control-room door hissed silently open and closed as Windjammer took note of Stacy's serious expression. “All right, Stacy. Lay it on me.”

She sat down on a stool. “This war between you and Dick has to stop, Jammer.”

“There is no war, Tally.” Stacy's on-air name was Tally-Ho. “The man is ignorant, obnoxious, overbearing, and a total jackass.”

“I agree, Jammer. All that is true. But he is the boss.” She paused. She did not have to tell him his recording was ending. Any DJ worth his or her salt had invisible monitors and clocks in their heads. She waited while Jammer ad-libbed right to the mark for thirty seconds, wondering aloud whether Dolly Parton had ever in her life been able to look down and see her feet. Jammer ID'd the station, then hit network news.

He swiveled in his chair to look at her.

“I mean it, Jammer. Try to avoid Dick as much as possible. When you have to be around him, be civil and not smart-assed. I'm not asking you to give him a great big, sloppy kiss. Just be civil to the man.”

Jammer smiled ruefully. “Man? If that prissy bastard is a man, I'm an aardvark. Okay, okay, Tally. What you're saying is: I either kiss his ass, or I'm out on my ear, right?”

“It would be over some very loud objections from me; but that is the bottom line, buddy. High rating or no.”

He nodded his head, all the while thinking some pretty bloody thoughts. He mentally shoved those away. They'd been occurring with alarming regularity of late. “Level with me, Tally: is Mister Prissy out to get me?”

Without hesitation, she said, “Yeah, Jammer. He sure is. Ever since those things you said about his kids got back to him.”

Jammer laughed. “Hell, Tally. I
wanted
them to get back to him. I said his daughter was a spoiled brat and a snooty bitch, and his son a total nerd. Am I wrong in that assessment? Am I not entitled to a personal opinion?”

The program director of KSIN FM sighed. Jammer was right about Dick's kids; both of them
were
insufferable brats, for a fact. And Stacy despised Dick Hale just as much as anybody. And that was very nearly everybody that ever came in contact with the bastard. “Jammer ... you just chill out with the remarks. Free speech ends at the employer's door. Sad, but true.” She stood up and walked out of the control room.

Not even the sight of Tally-Ho's marvelously shaped derriere could overcome the sudden realization that his time with KSIN was coming to a close. DJs have a sixth sense about that, too. Windjammer leaned back in his chair, wondering how long he had left. Did he have enough time to accomplish what he'd set out to do? He hoped so. He'd worked long and hard at setting it up. God, he hated Dick Hale.

* * *

La Barca, California sat almost exactly between San Francisco and Los Angeles. A bay town, the bay named Puno Bay because it was shaped like a fist, the city built around the knuckles. La Barca was a factory and tourist city of almost half a million. The number one radio station in the area was, of course, thanks to the kids, a rock-and-roll station. But number two was KSIN; a very comfortable and very profitable number two.

During the day, from six in the morning until six in the evening, KSIN played adult music for mature people. Not the department store/elevator, saccharine type of music that has been known to drive listeners mad, but original recordings from the Ink Spots to any contemporary music the PD felt would flow with the sound she wanted. A little Ronstadt, Manilow, Milsap type of sound; some very soft rock. Programming was the only area in which Dick kept his mouth out of matters, and that was due in no small part to the fact that a Mrs. Carla Upton owned fifty-five percent of KSIN AM, FM, and TV, to Dick Hale's forty-five percent. And Mrs. Upton and Tally-Ho were good friends.
Very
close. Intimate, one might say.

Carla Upton was on the long list of people who positively loathed Dick Hale. She also was a very smart businesswoman who knew that Tally-Ho was a fine program director who worked well with people and kept KSIN FM solidly in the black, despite the excesses of Dick Hale.

While KSIN held a good share of listeners during the day, it was at night that the station showed its stuff. At night, KSIN played night music for night people. Music to tune into if you're having a cocktail party for adults; music to work and relax and make love to. Sexy saxes and smooth trumpets, the classic beat of Brubeck and Davis. The pipes of Sinatra and Bennett. KSIN grabbed the adult audience of La Barca and surrounding areas in a velvet fist and held it.

“SIN radio,” was the call. “It's nighttime in the city.”

William “Bill” Jarry, known on the air as BJ, shoved off at six in the evenings and stroked it until ten at night. Ah ... but at ten. That was when Jennifer Lomax, known to a quarter of a million people as Jenny Caesar (just like the salad, good to eat), took the mike at SIN and no less than a thousand males on any given night ejaculated to her voice. Jenny was the top DJ at KSIN. She allowed only twelve minutes of commercial time per hour, and the sponsors paid dearly and willingly for that time. Jenny's voice was a soft, wet kiss in the night, with lots of tongue action and foreplay.

At two o'clock in the morning, Jimmy Turcotte, known as The Turk, took over and carried it until six in the morning. Hal Fortier, known as Frenchy, grabbed the mike for wake-up time in La Barca. He ran the board until ten, when Tally-Ho took over. From two until six in the evenings—known as drive time—Windjammer ran the ship.

The part-timers, while not as good as the regulars, were very nearly as professional, with no change in format, ever.

Of course, the regulars had their voices heard seven days and nights a week, on tape, on TV, and on KSIN AM, as well as on FM. Some of the music heard over KSIN was on tape. Since much of the music played on FM was not available on CD, putting it on cart was a smart move. A very smart move on one person's part.

That person understood overdubbing and tracking. That person had spent years studying the subtleties of subliminal perception and suggestion. That person was a genius. And that person had the patience to wait while the subject's subconscious mind absorbed the subliminal messages cleverly hidden behind the music.

That person had worked hard to cover any back trail that might expose the real identity. Had worked very hard to conceal all the years spent in locked rooms in private mental institutions, while the most skilled doctors available tried to heal the brilliantly tortured mind.

The doctors had failed.

Of course, what was being done at KSIN was all in fun.

Fun being relative to that individual's state of mind.