Jennifer Crusie Bundle

  That would be bad.

  Of course, tonight’s show about old grocery stores should pretty much kill that possibility.

  Charlie put on the headphones, made sure “River of Dreams” was in one of the CD slots for Sam’s dinner later, and watched the digital readout so he could slide in when the news was over.

  Tonight was going to be one dull night on radio.

  FOUR AND A HALF HOURS later, Allie sat propped up against her headboard and watched as Charlie sat down on the side of the bed and buried his face in his hands. He really was upset, and she really did sympathize, but she really was ecstatic. Two scandals in three days. His ratings were going to go through the roof.

  “Price-fixing,” Charlie said, his voice muffled by his hands.

  “I didn’t know,” Allie said. “I swear, I didn’t know.”

  Six

  “Price-fixing drove the mom and pops out of business,” Charlie repeated, and Allie tried to distract him.

  “Maybe if we had some food—”

  “It’s illegal.” He fell back onto the bed so that his head landed in her lap.

  Allie loved the weight of his head on her thighs, so she began to stroke his hair so he’d stay there. What a wonderful night it had turned out to be. The callers alone had been spectacular.

  Charlie kept his eyes closed, obsessing over the show. “That one old guy said they didn’t do anything about it five years ago because they couldn’t get enough evidence. Did you hear him say that?”

  “Yes, Charlie.” Allie said. “I can’t believe all those people called in. Who would have thought so many of those little-grocery owners would have been listening at midnight like that?”

  “Who would have thought?” Charlie turned his head to glare up at her. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

  “Well…”

  Charlie sat up. “Did you call them?”

  “No!” Allie tried to look outraged, but it was hard since she was at least partially guilty. “I didn’t know them. How would I have known them?”

  “What did you do?” His tone brooked no babbling.

  “What makes you think—”

  “Because you play those phones the way Glenn Gould played the piano.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You called Harry’s show and asked about carburetors and gears today, didn’t you?”

  Allie glared at him. “Don’t you dare tell him that. I only called twice, all the others did it on their own.”

  Charlie glared back. “Well, that was swell of you. Now, what did you do to me tonight?”

  She took a deep breath, and he said, “Allie? The truth.”

  Allie winced and surrendered. “Well, I did mention to the first guy who called in that if there were others like him, it would be a lot more effective if they called in, too.”

  “Terrific.” Charlie collapsed back into her lap again. “Why don’t you just shoot me? I have to play ‘River of Dreams’ every hour because of you and now this.”

  “You don’t want Samson to die, do you?”

  “Sam now eats like you do. I don’t think death is an option anymore unless he ODs on formula.”

  Allie was already pursuing another train of thought. “You know that lawyer who called in about racketeering charges was something.”

  Charlie moaned, his face hopeless.

  Allie took pity on him. It was cruel to be happy when he was in hell. “Well, people called in about other things, too, remember. There was that guy who wanted to know what poem of Tennyson’s you quoted. And the lady who called in when you made fun of the way I eat and said all women should look like the ones in Rubens’ paintings.” Then she gave up and grinned in triumph. “And Johnson from the Tribune. I can’t believe the paper is sending out an investigative reporter. Isn’t it amazing how many people are listening to your show? It just shows how popular you are.”

  “I don’t want to be popular,” Charlie said through his teeth.

  Allie shifted on the bed as she prepared to move in for the kill. He was becoming a household word against his will; if she could talk him into helping her, she could take him national. “You know, Charlie. This may just be God’s way of telling you that you’re destined for success. I mean, there are DJ’s who would kill their mothers to get this kind of publicity, and you’re just doing it by luck. After this, your ratings are going to go through the roof.” He groaned and she stroked his hair again. “Just lie back and enjoy it, love. This is a free ride.”

  “We have to keep this as quiet as possible,” he said.

  Allie glared down at him, exasperated. “Why? This is great. I just don’t see the problem.” Then her expression grew wary as she thought of something. “Well, come to think of it, I might see one problem.”

  “What?”

  “Well, gossip has it that the FoodStops are mob-connected.”

  Charlie sat up. “In Tuttle?”

  Allie patted his shoulder. “It’s probably just gossip.”

  “Oh, no. The mob would be just my luck.” He heaved himself off the bed and started for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To drown myself in the bathtub.”

  “Hey!” Allie protested. “Where’s the food? You said you’d stop at McCarthy’s on the way home.”

  “I didn’t get any.”

  “Well then, where’s the sex?”

  Charlie opened the door and turned back to her. “You’re not getting any, either. I’m depressed.” He closed the door behind him.

  Allie sat and listened through the wall until he turned the water on, and then she went in and seduced him in the tub so he wouldn’t drown himself.

  CHARLIE WAS STILL DOWN the next morning. He did snort at breakfast when he heard Mark on the radio introduce himself as “Mark All Morning”—“Well, he’s trying,” Allie told him—but then Joe passed him the Tuttle Tribune and the headline “Disk Jockey Sparks Investigation Into City Building” depressed him so much he only had two helpings of Joe’s yeast-raised pancakes.

  “I suppose this isn’t the best time to tell you that you’re doing a promotional appearance tomorrow,” Allie said when he’d wiped the last of the syrup from his plate with the last of his pancake.

  “In a pig’s eye.” Charlie stayed bent over his empty plate. “I told you—”

  “You were interested in the college,” Allie said as persuasively as she could. “Harry’s going—”

  Charlie’s head came up. “The college?” He thought for a moment. The college kids were joking about the stickers. It was a lousy lead, but it was something. “All right. I’ll do the college.”

  The phone rang and Joe went to get it, while Allie stared at him in surprise. “You’ll do it?”

  “Don’t push your luck,” he told her. “I’m not going to make a habit of this.”

  Allie nodded, obviously cheered he was going.

  Then Joe came back and said, “That was Bill. He’d like to see both of you this afternoon at four.”

  “Oh, hell,” Allie said.

  “Very probably,” Joe said.

  ALLIE WINCED as Bill glared at them both with equal disgust. “What I want to know is who died and made you two Ralph Nader?”

  “Ralph Nader’s still alive,” Allie said.

  Charlie kicked her on the ankle. “It was an accident, Bill. We didn’t know…”

  “Well, then shut up,” Bill roared at him.

  “Now wait a minute.” Allie stood up, determined not to give in. She had a show to save, and for once, she was in the right morally, too. “That FoodStop person bought up half a dozen grocery stores and then cut prices below cost just to ruin the little stores. And when they were all gone, he raised prices and he’s been gouging Tuttle ever since. For five years. Anybody knows prices are cheaper in Riverbend, but only people with time and money can get there to stock up. He’s preying on the poor and—”

  “Sit down,” Bill said and she sat.

  “Do you know who the FoodStop person
is?” Bill asked her with deceptive gentleness.

  Allie stopped, sure she wasn’t going to like finding out who the FoodStop person was. “No.”

  “Roger Preston.”

  Oh, terrific. Allie’s chin came up. “Well, I hope you’ve won a lot of money off him in those poker games, because he’s a crook.”

  Charlie slumped back in his chair. “You’re kidding. Another poker player?”

  “I’m gonna be playing solitaire if you two don’t knock it off,” Bill snarled. He stabbed a finger at Charlie. “This is not what I hired you for.”

  “Well, of course it is.” Allie went back into action, protecting her star. “This is exactly what you hired him for. I can’t wait to see the ratings.”

  “Young lady—”

  “And Beattie loved it,” Allie said, saving her killer shot for last. “Absolutely loved it.”

  Bill closed his eyes. “I wish she’d go back to the garden club.”

  “She’s going to do an editorial on the news tonight,” Allie said.

  Bill’s eyes flew open. “No, she is not.”

  “Well, you better tell her, then,” Allie said.

  Bill leaned forward, scowling at them so hard his eyebrows meshed into one white strip of fur across his forehead. “You let me handle Beattie. And from now on, don’t answer the phone.”

  “But Bill—” Allie stopped midsentence when Charlie took her hand and jerked her up out of the chair.

  “You got it,” he told the older man. “No phones. We’ll tell people they’re down for the night. By Monday, everybody will have forgotten. Come on, Al.”

  “Wait a minute,” Allie said, but he pulled her out of the office still protesting.

  “We’ve got a great show here,” she fumed at him. “And you’re shooting it in the foot. Why can’t you—”

  “Repeat after me,” he said as he dragged her down the hall past Marcia, the afternoon DJ, and Mark who were arguing about something. “Controversy is bad.”

  “Great show, Charlie,” Marcia called back to them. “Everybody’s talking about it.”

  “Terrific,” Charlie muttered and picked up speed.

  Allie looked back over her shoulder at Mark. He did not look happy. She tried not to feel good about that but it was hopeless, so she beamed at Mark as Charlie towed her away.

  Life just kept getting better and better.

  IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT when Charlie saw Allie wave to him through the glass. He was still annoyed with her, but it was hard to maintain. It wasn’t her fault he’d stumbled over the worst case of greed that Tuttle had ever seen.

  He motioned her in.

  “Nice boring show,” she told him, and he rolled his eyes at her.

  “Don’t start. What have you got for me?”

  Allie handed some papers over, and he frowned at them. “Here’s the title for that guy who wanted the Tennyson allusion. It was really Wordsworth. And here’s the print of Rubens’ Rape of the Sabines. I forget why you wanted that. This is radio.”

  Charlie studied the print, a painting of ample bodies spilling all over a horse. “That woman last night who said it was okay you eat like a locust also said the problem with men is that all we look at are pictures of skinny women. She said if we put Rubens’ work up instead of Hugh Hefner’s, we’d all be better for it.” He held the print up beside Allie so that he could see them together and squinted between her and the print. “You need to put on some weight.”

  “Good. I’ll start now.” She picked up what was left of the cheeseburger he’d brought into the booth with him and chomped into it. “You need anything else?”

  “Nope.” The tape ended and he went back to the mike. “And now, for all you William Wordsworth fans who have probably been trying to call in on our dysfunctional phones and tell me that yesterday’s mystery quote was not Tennyson, ‘Getting and spending we lay waste our powers’ is from Wordsworth’s The World Is Too Much With Us. Will dashed off that little ditty in 1807, but it’s still relevant today.”

  A pickle oozed out of the cheeseburger Allie was eating and plopped onto her blouse, leaving a mustard trail on the white rayon as it toppled over the swell of her breast.

  “Oh, great,” Allie said next to the mike, and then winced at her mistake.

  “And that was the voice of Alice McGuffey, my producer.” Charlie grinned at her. “Usually this is a one-man show, but Allie just dropped a pickle with mustard on her blouse. What’s the blouse made of, Al?”

  “Rayon. Dry-clean only, hold the mustard.”

  “Anybody out there with a surefire method for getting mustard out of rayon, call in and save Allie’s blouse. She doesn’t get paid enough here to buy a new one. Oh, you can’t call in, the phones are down. Well, write. And now a nostalgic wake-up call since it’s after midnight, bedbugs—2 Live Crew.”

  Allie glared at him, and he shoved the cassette slide up while he tried to figure out what he’d done wrong this time.

  “What?” he said to her. “It’s not my fault you ripped off my hamburger and got slimed with mustard.” He got out of his chair, stretched and sat down on the counter to get a better look at her. She was actually glowering. He moved back a little farther until his butt hit the soundboard. She was fun to watch when she was mad, but he was still a prudent man.

  “2 Live Crew?” Allie sputtered. “You’re playing 2 Live Crew?”

  “Yes, Allie,” Charlie said patiently. “I’m playing 2 Live Crew. It’s my show. I do the playlist.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Allie smacked the hamburger down on the console. “And I thought you were an okay guy.”

  “I am an okay guy. I have testimonials.” Charlie leaned back to enjoy the argument since for once it wasn’t about making him a star.

  Allie was visibly steaming. “2 Live Crew are sexist psychopaths and you give them airtime.”

  “Hey, it’s a free country. The First Amendment…”

  “The First Amendment doesn’t give men the right to sing about attacking women. It doesn’t give—”

  “Well, actually, it does,” Charlie said, and Allie turned bright red. “Hold it.” Charlie warded her off with his hand. “Just hold it. You’re saying I should censor what goes on the air?”

  “This is your show,” Allie steamed. “What you play reflects your tastes. You have a responsibility—”

  “I have a responsibility to play music that appeals to a lot of different people. 2 Live Crew may not be my favorite group, but…”

  “Oh. Right.” Allie was so mad her eyebrows fused over her nose. “A lot of different music? So when are you going to play Barry Manilow?”

  Charlie snorted. “I will die before I play Barry Manilow.”

  Allie leaned closer. “According to you, that’s censorship.”

  “No, it’s not,” Charlie said, trying not to be annoyed. “I don’t object to what he’s saying. It’s just lousy music.”

  “But you have a responsibility to play music that appeals to a lot of different people,” Allie pressed on. “You just said so.”

  “Not Barry Manilow.”

  “So you’ll play psychopathic music that advocates hurting women but you won’t play pop music that advocates loving them.”

  “Allie, don’t twist this—”

  Allie jerked back from him, glaring. “You know what you are? You’re just like Mark.”

  Charlie jerked his head back, outraged. “Hey, watch your mouth, woman.”

  “You have no respect for women. You’re amused by the women’s movement and you think—”

  “I love women’s movements. Come on, Allie…”

  “Don’t patronize me,” Allie shouted. “I can’t believe you’re—”

  “Ah, Allie, have a heart,” Charlie said. “It’s no big deal.”

  “—such a yuppie scum dweeb,” Allie finished and stomped out of the room.

  He started to follow her and then realized he couldn’t leave the booth. “Allie, come back here.”

&
nbsp; Somebody moved toward the booth through the shadows of the production room, but it didn’t look anything like Allie.

  “Uh, Charlie.” Stewart, the night engineer, looking more like a peeled egg then ever, came to stand in the doorway, looking sleepy but interested. “I was just in the break room, and I realized you probably didn’t know.”

  “Know what?” Charlie frowned at him.

  “You’re on the air.” Stewart shrugged. “It’s good stuff, but—”

  “The tape can’t be over yet,” Charlie looked around frantically.

  “It never started.”

  “Oh, hell.” Charlie put the headphones back on. Sure enough, no 2 Live Crew. He looked at the mike slide and closed his eyes when he saw it was up. “Uh, for those of you listening at home, Alice McGuffey has just walked out in a huff. And for the record, she does a very nice huff. She overreacts, though. And now, let’s try that 2 Live Crew again, shall we? This is for all you yuppie scum dweebs out there who dig rap. There must be at least two of you.”

  He punched the tape again and listened. Silence. “All right,” he said into the mike, “seems we have a defective tape. Let’s try Elvis since he was on deck next, anyway.” He punched the next tape, shoved the slide up and heard absolutely nothing.

  Then he looked at Stewart. “Go get me a tape. Any tape. Now.” Then as Stewart disappeared, he spoke into the mike. “Well, it’s a darn shame our phones are down because this would sure make one heck of a call-in topic. Send in those postcards, folks, and vote your preference, Manilow or Crew. Or maybe I’ll try something different.” He babbled on about some of the other choices he could have made, feeling like a fool and developing a real need for revenge on whoever had wiped his tapes. When Stewart came loping back and thrust a CD at him, he shoved it into the player. “Or we could play something good like this one.”

  Frank Sinatra began to sing “My Way.”