Segue

By Hampton B.

On-air personality Young Rob Young wants to be a radio star. He’s talented, ambitious, and the largest stumbling block to his own success. While his professional life peaks, his personal life implodes. Rob’s fate is intertwined with a charismatic rock diva, an aging radio evangelist, and the evangelist’s naïve niece. When Rob becomes the primary suspect in a grisly murder, his darkest impulses and secrets are revealed – along with a possible path to a spiritual awakening.

Award-winning radio writer/producer Hampton B. merges love, mystery, and spiritual quest into a genre-defying adventure, complete with a playlist to accompany your reading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hampton B.
• Release date: Sep 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370585472

Hampton B.

Hampton B. has worked in broadcasting as an award-winning writer, producer, and announcer; and in marketing/communications as a freelance writer. He is currently a wandering and wondering ecclesiastic in western Canada. Segue is his first novel.

Book preview

Prologue

Even after all these years, he still felt the rush. There was nothing quite like driving a cruiser fast, with lights strobing and siren screaming. The torque of the turbo-charged engine, pushing him back in the seat as he accelerated. Cars ahead careening wildly, as drivers check their rearview mirrors trying too hard to get out of the way. The open-mouthed, wide-eyed look of people as he passed them.

But today was even more exciting. He could feel his heart pounding, the tension in his temples and the sweat on his palms as he cleared the city limits heading north. Finally, a break. He’d told himself that if he was patient, and if he was observant, something would happen that would answer his questions.

Corporal Lamont checked his speed, and slowed a bit. He killed the siren as he pulled off the highway. He could hear the gravel spattering against the fenders and slowed even more. The only reason he was going so fast was his own curiosity. No one’s life was in danger. Not anymore. He knew the victim must have died weeks ago, if not months. Still, it was another shot at solving the only premeditated murder case he’d ever encountered, one that he was worried he wouldn’t solve before he retired.

Maybe he’d finally find her body.

♪

Chapter 1

The Night Fly

Donald Fagan

Album: The Night Fly

1982 Warner Brothers Records

Ninety-nine and a half, Almost Perfect FM, what can I play to make it perfect for you?

A pause and then the faint sound of two people whispering, probably young girls, came through the telephone speaker system in the control room. Giggling. Then the distinctive seashell sound as a hand was cupped over the phone. Through the white noise, the faint sound of a conversation and laughter.

Great. Jailbait. The thought irked, and the announcer stifled a sigh. He checked the digital timer to make sure he had time for conversation, glanced at the flashing red light on the computer monitor to confirm the call was being recorded to play later on the air. If the conversation improved, that is. Maybe we can salvage something out of this. Leaning close to the microphone, he tried his best seductive Barry White impersonation.

Hey baby… you’ve got Young Rob Young by the ear. Now what are you going to do with him? It was a terrible impersonation, but it made people laugh. At least Rob believed it made people laugh. On the radio, who knew?

The white noise disappeared as the hand moved and the voice on the phone stifled another giggle. Uh. Hello. Can you, um, like play a song for me?

Rob rolled his eyes but put on his best plastic smile. You bet. I gotta a thousand songs at my fingertips.

Um, like … oh, I’m trying to remember … the voice stammered.

Rob checked the time again and keyed the button to stop recording the call. Yeah, sure. Hang for a minute, babe.

Moving quickly, his right hand spun the monitor volume up while his left reached for the station log on the clipboard next to the control board. The song Rob was playing on the radio was close to finishing. Looking at the readout on the second CD player, he made sure it was set to go, and unconsciously, his left foot began tapping the rhythm as the song began to repeat and fade. A warning light flashed on the audio board. Time to be a star. He tapped the button that turned on his mic; the volume on the speakers in the control room automatically lowered as he began the patter.

Almost Perfect FM … Rob paused as the song faded a bit more. And the Bee Gees with Young Rob Young for your Tuesday night. But that was then, and this is now!

Rob’s right hand touched a button his finger could find from memory, and a pleasant female voice sang the radio station call letters and slogan, a jingle designed to transition from an uptempo song into slow ballad. An instant before the voice faded, Rob touched another button. One of the half-dozen CD players on his left whirred to life, and the latest Celine Dion song began to play. The segue was seamless, without any silence or dead air, and the key of the jingle and the Dion song harmonized nicely – not that anyone other than another radio announcer would notice.

Rob sighed and keyed the mic button again to turn it off. He initialed the station log so that someone – who knows who read these things? – would know that he had identified the station on the quarter hour. With the microphone switch off, the monitors came back up to full volume and the microphone automatically functioned as the telephone receiver. Rob turned the monitor volume down, pulled the Bee Gees CD out of the player and kicked his chair back from the console.

Hello … anyone still there? He called toward the microphone. In the background he could hear more giggling, and faintly a girl’s voice said, I don’t want to. You talk to him.

Rob hit the button that disconnected the phone. This is why I make the big bucks.

He threw the Bee Gee’s CD onto the pile of music already played that night. Each disc was in a durable plastic case, built to fit into the half dozen custom broadcast-quality players in the control room. Rob looked at the stack of music already played and compared it to the stack of music yet to be played over the next two hours. More mouldies and refined sugar, he muttered as he grabbed the next one off the top of the pile. I’m going to go into insulin shock some night.

But in spite of himself, Rob began to hum absentmindedly along with Celine Dion. He couldn’t help himself. Like most radio announcers, his love of music had attracted him to this career. But unlike many announcers, Rob was not a frustrated rock and roll star. Just a frustrated future radio star. Or just frustrated.

Rob looked at the timer on the CD player, and glanced at the huge analogue clock in the control room, purportedly synchronized with an atomic clock somewhere. Rob automatically began to calculate the minutes and seconds left until the bottom of the hour. At 9:30 every night, he was to run The Goodman Gospel Hour, a pre-recorded religious program. Looking at the monitor, he remembered he had not cued the show. Even though he could program the computer to play things automatically, Rob liked feeling like he was in control. And it provided an extra surge of adrenalin, running his show manually, like the famous radio announcers he idolized. He checked the folder where the show would have been stored by the producer. Nothing. The files had been deleted, probably to save space on the small hard drive. Rob grumbled to himself about the poor equipment. Most radio stations had computers with mammoth hard drives, with enough storage to keep everything on file, including music. Not this station, though. It was a throwback.

Rob kicked his chair back, and it rolled quietly to the back of the room. As different as radio station control rooms could be, they were always the same in one respect – every one had a comfortable chair that rolled easily.

Rob looked on the shelf marked GGH for a backup CD. Nothing.

Shit, Rob whispered under his breath – a cardinal sin in a radio control room. Announcers often cursed like truckers, but not in the booth. Radio announcers joked that if a foul word was spoken near a microphone, it silently waited for the mic to be keyed so it could slip through and be heard on the air. And while government regulations were not as strict as they once were, the station management took a dim view of swearing or coarse language. In his eight months at the station, Rob had already made enough mistakes with his loose tongue.

Now he was trying to avoid another one. Where could he find a Goodman Gospel Hour program to put on the air? Rob ran through his options. He could call Dash, the program director. But that would only get him into trouble. Dash would undoubtedly ask why he hadn’t called earlier. Rob thought about calling Amin, the senior producer. Amin complained often that he had to put the show together – wasn’t he the guy responsible? He was first call, then.

The Celine Dion song was ending and there were a few commercials to play before the next song. Rob kicked the chair back towards the audio board, spinning as he rolled.

He double-checked the program log, a sheet that listed everything to be aired that hour. The commercials were stored on the computer hard drive. Rob highlighted the commercials, readying them to be played as the light above the audio board flashed, indicating that the song was ending.

Backsell, backsell, and tie it in. Rob keyed the mike. The sound from the speakers in the control room automatically dropped low enough that Rob could still hear the music, but it was not so loud that it would be picked up by the microphone and cause feedback.

Celine Dion on Almost Perfect FM … and coming up, the Eagles, taking it to the limit. Which is never a good idea on the highway. Rob grimaced. What a stupid thing to say. As if people didn’t drive the speed limit. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. At least tonight. If you’re on the highway tonight, be looking for some rain up north of the city. Some showers in the forecast tonight, with a low of … Rob paused while he looked for the scrap of paper with the evening’s forecast. Not finding it, he ad-libbed, … far too low for this time of year. But there’s a ways to go. He turned slightly to see the digital thermometer on the wall to the right. Right now it’s 12 degrees. Practically warm enough to hit the beach. And if you’re looking for details on the weather, coming after the news at 10:00 His finger found the button that fired the first commercial, for a car repair shop. Rob killed the mic, and reached for the speed dial on the phone.

He touched the button marked Amin and immediately the sound of the phone dialling and connecting came through the cue speaker, a small speaker that sounded like it was placed somewhere underneath the equipment, near Rob’s feet. The cue system worked independently of the on-air broadcast, so that in the studio, Rob could listen to several different things at once. The large top-quality monitors in the control room were configured to play the on-air feed, while the cue system allowed Rob to listen to material he was getting ready to play on the air, or the telephone.

In mid-ring, Rob heard the distinctive break in the tone that indicated recorded answer was about to start. He muttered another curse and hung up. Rob knew Amin had the world’s longest answering machine message, something he’d created in the station’s production studio after hours. Rob had thought it was great that night. But now, when time was ticking, it was just annoying.

Rob’s fingers drummed on the narrow desk in front of the . The second commercial – for a local restaurant – began automatically. Rob took a deep breath and punched the speed dial. Dash was going to find out sooner or later. It might as well be sooner.

Rob breathed a sigh of relief as the sound of a busy signal resonated through the room. Now, no matter what he did, he could say that he’d tried to call. God, I love that sound, Rob said out loud.

Always hated it myself, a voice rumbled from the back of the room.

Rob started, and he felt the hair bristle on his neck. Jerking his head around, he saw a man standing at the back of the room.

Who the hell are you and who let you in here? Rob tried to sound tough, but his voice sounded squeaky. At just over 6 feet, Rob didn’t consider himself tall. But as he stood up, he realized he was towering over the slightly built stranger. He couldn’t be over 5 foot 4, even in his cowboy boots.

The man grunted, and held out a massive hand. It looked huge compared to the rest of his body. The palm was easily as big as a CD. No need to be vulgar, young fella. Name’s Goodman. Jeremiah Goodman. I’m the guy that’s supposed to be on the CD that I’ll bet you’re looking for.

The voice was unmistakable, low and resonant. Radio guys referred to a deep bass voice as the voice of God. Rob had heard it every night since he started on the evening show several months ago. Jeremiah Goodman, host of The Goodman Gospel Hour. But he’d never seen the man before, and he marvelled at how such a big voice could come from someone so short and slight. All Rob could think of was that the man might be an escaped ventriloquist’s dummy.

Slowly, Rob extended his hand, which disappeared inside Goodman’s.

Good to meet the guy behind the voice, Goodman boomed. You don’t look like you sound.

Neither do you. Rob grinned slowly. I always wondered where that big voice came from.

Thank ya, son. Pound on enough pulpits in your lifetime and you can have one just like it. Now, about that show you’re lookin’ for. Well you aren’t gonna find one ‘cause I didn’t do one.

Oh, Rob said slowly. And so …

And so, we’re gonna do old-time radio, my boy. We’re going to go live.

Rob’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. Live?

Must be an echo in here. That is what I said.

Uh look …uh, Mr. Goodman. I don’t know if we’re supposed to … I mean, Jeez, live? The whole half-hour?

Lucky The Goodman Gospel Hour is really half an hour, huh? Listen, kid, I’ve done it before and I’m gonna do it tonight. Goodman looked around Rob at the control board. By the way… that gauge with the little needle? Goodman pointed at the large VU meter in the centre of the audio board that measured the volume units of the sound being broadcast. Isn’t that little needle supposed be going up and down?

Rob realized there was no sound coming out of the monitors. The last commercial had played automatically, and now all that could be heard was the gentle hiss of dead air, a radio announcer’s worst enemy. He spun and took a step to hit the button that would play the next CD, and tripped over the chair, winding himself on the seatback.

Stifling a curse, leaned over the chair to be close to the microphone and hit the button that fired the next CD player. Nothing happened. He hadn’t loaded the next tune.

Rob closed his eyes, tried to grab some air into his lungs and keyed the mic. Thank you, Marcelle Marceau for that kind word …

As he was speaking, Rob reached behind him with his left hand, trying to find the stack of unplayed music. He couldn’t turn his head because his voice would sound like it was fading. Goodman stepped forward, took the top disc off the pile and put it into Rob’s hand.

… I’m Young Rob Young … He stretched the words as long as he could, and his voice only showed the slightest edge of tension.

…and you’re on ninety-nine and a half Almost Perfect FM …

Rob pushed the disc into the player, hoping beyond all hope that the first cut on the CD was something that could air on the station.

… where perfection is next to godliness. And The Goodman Gospel Hour is next.

Rob fingered the start button and heard the opening strains of the Eagles song Lyin’ Eyes through the muted speakers. He killed the mic and breathed a long sigh of relief.

Goodman was chuckling quietly. Smooth, kid. Real smooth. I’ll bet that mouth gets you into a lot of trouble. And out of it too.

Rob pushed the chair around flopped into it.

God, I’m good. He grinned.

Ayup. And doesn’t God know it. And if you like, I’ll make sure your boss knows it too.

Rob’s eyebrows shot up.

Goodman barked a laugh. Like his voice, it seemed too big for him. Handing Rob a couple of Christian music CDs, he sucked on his teeth. Whaddya say we play radio, Rob? Where do you ‘spose that hotshot little producer hides the theme to my program? I gotta tough act to follow.

♪

Goodman disappeared down the hallway, heading toward the production studio. Rob punched the speed dial for Dash again. Going live was way outside Rob’s comfort zone. Better double-check it with the boss. But the line was still busy. Rob took a deep breath and made his decision. Better to go live and keep Goodman happy. Besides, did he have an alternative? Rob looked at the clock. Three minutes to the end of the song, and the beginning of the Gospel Hour at 9:30. Goodman was nowhere in sight.

Rob swallowed another curse, and pushed the chair back. From past experience, he knew he had just enough time to get to the production studio, find what he needed and get back to the control room. Vaulting down the hallway, his feet echoing on the cushioned floor, he burst into the production studio, where commercials and shows were pre-recorded. In many ways, the production looked like the on-air studio, with a large audio control board dominating the room. But the equipment was much more complex, with many more controls. And the room differed from the on-air studio in configuration. There were fewer CD players but more computer monitors, as well as a huge multi-track recorder strung with thick recording tape. The walls, floor to ceiling, were covered with racks for compact discs and tapes. On one shelf, there was a collection of old vinyl records.

Goodman was methodically looking at the rack on the far wall, his huge finger slowly pointing at the CDs he saw. Rob went straight to the rack closest to the production studio audio board. His eyes scanned the handwritten labels, and stopped when he saw a label saying Foghorn Theme in large block letters.

Got it! Rob pulled the CD out of the rack, flashed it quickly at Goodman and headed for the door. As the heavy door slowly closed, he shouted back over his shoulder, ’Bout a minute to air. Better get ready.

The timer indicated just over a minute left in the Eagles song as Rob pushed the chair up to the console. Through the large indoor window ahead of him, Rob could see the lights of the talk studio flicker on, and Goodman swaggered into the room. He sat down in front of a large microphone suspended on a boom, and put on the headphones. Rob fingered the intercom button and switched on the studio mic through the cue system. Better use the other mic.

Goodman frowned. But this is the one I use when I record my program …

And if you were recording, that’s the mic you’d use. But if you want to go on the air, use the other one.

Goodman sighed. You’re the boss. I’m going to talk for a couple of minutes at the beginning, then you play something off one of those music CDs I gave you.

Which one and which track?

Whatever. You pick something.

Rob paused. OK, he said, drawing out the oh. The indicator light flashed on the audio board as he finished cueing the CD marked Foghorn Theme. The Eagles song was fading. Rob selected a station ID on the monitor, hit the start button, then pressed the button to start the Foghorn CD.

Sure hope this is it. Just his luck it would be the sound of a real foghorn, a production sound effect, and not the theme after all. But a flourish of trumpets and timpani came through the on-air monitors, and Rob relaxed. It was the grandiose theme of The Goodman Gospel Hour.

Amin and just about everybody else in the station called Goodman Foghorn. All of the more colourful personalities had nicknames. Unlike most people, Rob knew what his nickname was. Sleazeball. He didn’t like it much, but as radio nicknames went, it was not as cruel as it could be. Besides, it was based on observation.

Goodman was called Foghorn because his voice was loud and deep and because his manner was often like Foghorn Leghorn, the blowhard rooster on old Warner Brothers cartoons. Meeting him tonight, Rob agreed.

Just point at me when you want me to play that tune, Rob said quietly into the intercom. Goodman’s eyes were closed. Between his huge hands he held a large Bible, the leather cover faded in spots. His head was bowed, and he was holding the Bible against his forehead. Goodman said nothing, but nodded. About ten seconds later, the theme reached a crescendo.

You’re hot. Break a leg, Rob said through the intercom, which Goodman could hear through his headphones.

God loves ya! Goodman bellowed, and Rob quickly brought the level of the studio mic down. Man, what a voice.

It’s The Goodman Gospel Hour on a Thursday night, a-comin’ to you live and in colour from the studios of OK FM. And tonight …

Rob winced. Nobody was supposed to use the station call letters like that. It was one of Dash’s rules. Everybody was supposed to say Almost Perfect FM. It was part of some new marketing thing that Dash had initiated, probably because people couldn’t resist making jokes about the official call letters.

Rob made sure the mic level was set so that the large VU meter on the top of the audio board was not flickering into the red zone, indicating over-modulation. He turned the on-air monitor volume down low, and reached for the CDs that Goodman had brought in.

Rob shook his head as he examined the CDs. All Christian CD covers looked and sounded the same, in Rob’s opinion. Vapid music on the inside, smiling, vapid people on the outside. Any of them could have been models for a dentist’s calendar. There was never a shortage of perfect teeth. Rob muttered, I’ll bet they even brush religiously. He chose the CD with the best-looking woman on it, and loaded it into a custom case that could be played on the studio CD players. He spun the dial, and stopped it at random.

Rob looked at Goodman through the window, and turned up the volume a bit more. Goodman had his Bible open, and was holding it in his left hand. The soft cover of the Bible flopped over his hand on either side. Rob could see that the page had many hand-written notes in the margins. Some sections of the page were highlighted in a bright lime green, others underlined in fading blue ink.

Goodman’s voice had become quieter, and Rob automatically reached for the pot – the knob that controlled signal – to pump it up a bit. The writer of Eca-leeez-easteez says this to us, from across the centuries … To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted …

Rob noticed that Goodman had begun to sweat. His forehead was shiny, and the hair on his temples curled with moisture.

Rob chuckled. He could see now that Goodman was wearing a toupee. Rob hadn’t noticed before. Gotta trust a faith-healer with fake hair. Rob shook his head. Still, it looked better than most rugs. It looked almost natural. Almost. Must’ve cost a fortune. Unconsciously, he ran his hand through his own carefully gelled hair, using his fingers to comb it