but was not used to ... whatever this was. .........
The second sip went down more
smoothly, though.
"That's better," Jewell said, wiping
his mouth with the back of his free hand. "Being a D.J. looks easy.
All the D.J. has to do is talk. Yak, yak. All day long. Men come up
to me in the street and tell me their wife would make a perfect
radio personality. Nag, nag, nag. Day and night."
"I've been doing this job, or one
similar to it for twenty-five years, my friend. And this is the
first time I've hit it big. Got to have snappy patter, sure. Helps
to have transcripts of what other jocks are saying across the
country. But the secret is something deeper. Talent. That's the
secret. Some got it, some don't. I always had it. It just took me a
long time to find the right vehicle. And that's talk
radio.
"In the bad old days, I spun
'platters' -- golden oldies. Did weather. Hell, I did farm market
reports when I was on Radio Nebraska. Sow bellies. Hog futures.
Done about every damn thing there was to do around a radio station.
When I was a pup and there were still a few radio dramas trying to
compete with TV, I did sound effects. But the right vehicle is talk
radio.
"There's a lot of competition, though.
Got to be timely. Got to shock the listeners so the great unwashed
will call in and shoot off their mouths. It helps to have a crazy
or two out there. Regulars who call in. The kind of fools the rest
of us love to hate. Ku Kluxers. Black militants. Fem libbers.
Dykes. And if you pick up a mad bomber, that's heaven!"
Z didn't know what to say. He hadn't
heard much talk radio; and what he had, he didn't like. Seemed to
him like an opportunity for folks to show their prejudice. Display
their hatred for people unlucky enough to be on welfare. Show
disrespect for young people. Women. The government. (While, at the
same time, hiding their faces.) He'd heard some people brag about
how they'd made their pile all on their own, so they shouldn't have
to pay taxes. What they meant -- but didn't say -- was that, though
they'd gone to public schools themselves, they didn't want to pay
to educate "nigger" kids.
Call-in radio was the place to say
nasty things about community leaders who were trying to help the
poor. Calling them leftists. Or liberals, said with a sneer. The
attitude seemed to be, I got mine and to hell with everybody
else.
Z didn't say that, of course. Took
another drink to calm himself down.
Z's parents were proud, hard-working
people who, through bad luck in the depression, never had a pot to
piss in. The insurance company had reneged on his Father's life
insurance policy, leaving his Mother destitute. His mother, who
sewed and even did other people's wash, never could save up two
nickels to rub together, to say nothing of being able to afford
health insurance. It was because of self-satisfied people saying
that folks like Z's Mother were trash, that she'd refused to go to
a "charity" hospital. It was people like that who'd made his Mother
too ashamed to live!
Z took another nip to bring some
warmth back to his cheeks.
"Well, to business,"
Jewell said, picking up the bottle, freshening up his drink and
Z's. "I know what the police are supposed to be doing, whether or not they're
doing it. I know about county sheriffs. And federal law
enforcement. And security guards of one kind or the other. Falling
through the cracks, are private investigators. Just what is it you
do?"
"Anything."
"By which you mean ...?"
"What the client wants."
"And if the client wants something
done that's illegal?"
"That's different."
"I ... see. Perhaps if you told me how
you make your living, it'll be a place to start."
"Security work, sometimes."
"By that I take it you shadow someone
suspected of stealing business secrets. Stealing
clients."
"Also protection."
"Being a bodyguard?"
"Yeah. And divorce work."
"I think we've see enough of that on
TV to be familiar with the divorce aspect of your job. Unless you
have something to add that
The second sip went down more
smoothly, though.
"That's better," Jewell said, wiping
his mouth with the back of his free hand. "Being a D.J. looks easy.
All the D.J. has to do is talk. Yak, yak. All day long. Men come up
to me in the street and tell me their wife would make a perfect
radio personality. Nag, nag, nag. Day and night."
"I've been doing this job, or one
similar to it for twenty-five years, my friend. And this is the
first time I've hit it big. Got to have snappy patter, sure. Helps
to have transcripts of what other jocks are saying across the
country. But the secret is something deeper. Talent. That's the
secret. Some got it, some don't. I always had it. It just took me a
long time to find the right vehicle. And that's talk
radio.
"In the bad old days, I spun
'platters' -- golden oldies. Did weather. Hell, I did farm market
reports when I was on Radio Nebraska. Sow bellies. Hog futures.
Done about every damn thing there was to do around a radio station.
When I was a pup and there were still a few radio dramas trying to
compete with TV, I did sound effects. But the right vehicle is talk
radio.
"There's a lot of competition, though.
Got to be timely. Got to shock the listeners so the great unwashed
will call in and shoot off their mouths. It helps to have a crazy
or two out there. Regulars who call in. The kind of fools the rest
of us love to hate. Ku Kluxers. Black militants. Fem libbers.
Dykes. And if you pick up a mad bomber, that's heaven!"
Z didn't know what to say. He hadn't
heard much talk radio; and what he had, he didn't like. Seemed to
him like an opportunity for folks to show their prejudice. Display
their hatred for people unlucky enough to be on welfare. Show
disrespect for young people. Women. The government. (While, at the
same time, hiding their faces.) He'd heard some people brag about
how they'd made their pile all on their own, so they shouldn't have
to pay taxes. What they meant -- but didn't say -- was that, though
they'd gone to public schools themselves, they didn't want to pay
to educate "nigger" kids.
Call-in radio was the place to say
nasty things about community leaders who were trying to help the
poor. Calling them leftists. Or liberals, said with a sneer. The
attitude seemed to be, I got mine and to hell with everybody
else.
Z didn't say that, of course. Took
another drink to calm himself down.
Z's parents were proud, hard-working
people who, through bad luck in the depression, never had a pot to
piss in. The insurance company had reneged on his Father's life
insurance policy, leaving his Mother destitute. His mother, who
sewed and even did other people's wash, never could save up two
nickels to rub together, to say nothing of being able to afford
health insurance. It was because of self-satisfied people saying
that folks like Z's Mother were trash, that she'd refused to go to
a "charity" hospital. It was people like that who'd made his Mother
too ashamed to live!
Z took another nip to bring some
warmth back to his cheeks.
"Well, to business,"
Jewell said, picking up the bottle, freshening up his drink and
Z's. "I know what the police are supposed to be doing, whether or not they're
doing it. I know about county sheriffs. And federal law
enforcement. And security guards of one kind or the other. Falling
through the cracks, are private investigators. Just what is it you
do?"
"Anything."
"By which you mean ...?"
"What the client wants."
"And if the client wants something
done that's illegal?"
"That's different."
"I ... see. Perhaps if you told me how
you make your living, it'll be a place to start."
"Security work, sometimes."
"By that I take it you shadow someone
suspected of stealing business secrets. Stealing
clients."
"Also protection."
"Being a bodyguard?"
"Yeah. And divorce work."
"I think we've see enough of that on
TV to be familiar with the divorce aspect of your job. Unless you
have something to add that
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