One Fine Day You're Gonna Die by Gail Bowen

CHAPTER ONE
    T onight as I was riding my bike to the radio station where I do the late-night call-in show, a hearse ran a light and plowed into me. I swerved. The vehicle clipped my back wheel, and I flew through the air to safety. My Schwinn was not so lucky. The hearse skidded to a stop. The driver jumped out, sprinted over and knelt beside me on the wet pavement. “Are you all right?” he asked.
    I checked my essentials.
    â€œAs all right as I’ll ever be,” I said.
    The man bent closer. The streetlight illuminated both our faces. He looked like the actor who played Hawkeye on the old tv show M * A * S * H . His brow furrowed with concern when he saw my cheek.
    â€œYou’re bleeding,” he said.
    â€œIt’s a birthmark,” I said.
    As birthmarks go, mine is a standout. It covers half my face, like a blood mask. Nine out of ten strangers turn away when they see it. This man moved in closer.
    â€œThe doctors weren’t able to do anything?” he asked.
    â€œNope.”
    â€œBut you’ve learned to live with it.”
    â€œMost of the time,” I said.
    â€œThat’s all any of us can do,” the man said, and he grinned. His smile was like Hawkeye’s—open and reassuring. He offered his hand and pulled me to my feet. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” he said.
    He picked up my twisted Schwinn and stowed it in the back of the hearse. I slid into the passenger seat. The air inside was cool, flower-scented and oddly soothing. After we’d buckled our seat belts, the man turned the keys in the ignition.
    â€œWhere to?” he asked.
    â€œCVOX Radio,” I said. “728 Shuter.”
    â€œIt’s in a strip mall,” he said. “Between a store that sells discount wedding dresses and a place that rents x-rated movies.”
    â€œI’m impressed,” I said. “This is a big city.”
    â€œIt is,” he agreed. “But my business involves pick up and delivery. I need to know where people are.”
    Perhaps because the night was foggy and he’d already had one accident, the driver didn’t talk as he threaded his way through the busy downtown streets. When we turned on to Shuter, I saw the neon call letters on the roof of our building. The O in CVOX (“ALL TALK/ALL THE TIME”) is an open mouth with red lips and a tongue that looks like Mick Jagger’s. Fog had fuzzed the brilliant scarlet neon of Mick’s tongue to a soft pink. It looked like the kiss a woman leaves on a tissue when she blots her lipstick.
    â€œI’ll pick you up when your show’s over,” the man said.
    â€œI’ll take a cab,” I said. “But thanks for the offer.”
    He shrugged and handed me a business card. “Call me if you change your mind. Otherwise, I’ll courier a cheque to you tomorrow to pay for your bike.”
    â€œYou don’t know my name.”
    The man flashed me his Hawkeye smile. “Sure I do. Your name is Charlie Dowhanuik and you’re the host of ‘The World According to Charlie D.’ I’m a fan. I even phoned in once. It was the night you walked off the show and disappeared for a year. You were in rough shape.”
    â€œThat’s why I left.”
    â€œI was relieved that you did,” he said. “I sensed that if you didn’t turn things around, you and I were destined to meet professionally. My profession, not yours. You were too young to need my services, so I called in to remind you of what Woody Allen said.”
    â€œI remember. ‘Life is full of misery, loneliness and suffering and it’s over much too soon.’” I met the man’s eyes. “Wise words,” I said. “I still ponder them.”
    â€œSo you haven’t stopped grieving for the woman you lost?”
    â€œNope.”
    â€œBut you decided to keep on living,” he said.
    â€œFor the time being,” I said. We shook hands,