The adventures of a radio detective

“Remember crime is a path that lands you in prison or the grave. Crime does not pay.”

“Alright, cut. That’s a wrap folks,” shouted the director as he motioned for the technicians to turn off the taping equipment.

“Thank God,” said Marge. “I’m getting sick of playing the damsel in distress every week.” She took a pack of cigarettes off the table nearby and shook one out.

“You play the part realistically, though,” smiled Ted, as he offered her a light.

Marge sucked on the cigarette and inhaled the smoke. “You should talk, buster. You get to play the heroic detective that always gets the girl. You’ve got it easy, Jack.

“You think it’s fun for me to get beaten up every week when I try to rescue you, Marge. A guy could die from so much pleasure.”

“Very funny. All you do it moan and groan, while Marv makes with the sound effects.”

“Alright,” shouted the director. “Break it up you two before I decide to break you up.”

“Lighten up, boss,” said Ted, as he lit his own cigarette. “Me and Marge were just having fun.”

“I don’t care,” said the director. “Pick up your checks and get out of here. I have a headache listening to you two.”

Marge grimaced as she ground out her cigarette and joined the line of actors and technicians heading for the front office to pick up their paychecks.

Ted just stood there for several minutes. His eyes moved around the room taking in all the equipment that was used to create the program. The shiny, block microphones still stood in the middle of the room on their stands with chairs strewn among them. The sound effects table stood in the back of the room covered with boxes of sand, coconut halves, suction cups, and prop guns. Over in the darkened corner sat the pile of recording equipment.

Finally, he shrugged his shoulders sadly and headed for the front office. The place was almost deserted. The only person remaining was Edna, the payroll lady.

“Here you go, Ted,” she said while extending a cream colored envelope towards him. Ted sadly took it from her. “It’s a little lighter than usual, Ted. The sponsor wants to move into television. They’re cutting their radio money.”

“Yeah, I know. Bob told me that last week. Told me that I should look for another job before they close down the show. Who in their right mind would hire an ugly bum like me?”

Edna’s face softened with a smile. “You’ll find something. I’m sure of it. The day is still young. Why don’t you go down the Clarh Studio on Oregon Drive? They’re looking for experience actors.”

“You mean sell out my artistic talent to television?” Ted thought about it for a minute. “Might as well try.”

“That’s the spirit. Show them that they can’t keep a good man down.” He nodded and reached for his hat to leave.

He walked quietly down the sidewalk with his hands in the pockets of his grey suit. The hustle and bustle of the city surrounded and enveloped him.

He turned in at Duffy’s Tavern, a little eating and drinking spot that took its name from a once popular radio show. He sat at the bar and ordered. Ted ate his hamburger slowly, trying to savor each bite. Even with a small bit of hope, the horizon still looked bleak for him. It did not help that there was a television on the bar, where a radio had been at one time.

After settling up his tab, Ted stepped back onto the street. He hailed a taxi. “Take me to the Clarh Studio.”

“Must be a popular place,” said the drive as he merged into traffic. “You’re the tenth person today who wanted to go there.” Ted did not feel any better as he settle back in the seat.

When the cab pulled up to the studio, there was of line of people up to the curb. Ted saw men and women, boy and girls, people of every age, size, and ethnicity. He even recognized several fellow radio actors and extras. Television was in town and they wanted to capitalize on it.

The line took hours to move. It was 7:30 before Ted got his turn. He was shown into a small rectangular room with three judges at a table at the far end.

“What do you do, sir?” asked the judge in the middle, a tired, worn out middle aged man.

“I play the main character in a detective radio show called…”

“We don’t need a name. We need to know if you can act. Have you had any experience other than radio? Have you ever been on the stage or anything?”

“No,” said Ted. “But I’m willing to try.”

The three judges looked at each other. Finally, the judge in the center spoke up. “We don’t think we can use you. You don’t have any acting other than radio and besides, crime dramas will never be as big on television as they were on radio. Next.”

Ted nodded and left the room. “Good luck,” he said as he passed the next applicant.

Once outside Ted turned back and looked sadly at the studio and the line of people in front of it. He shook his head and motioned for a cab.

It had started to rain as the cab drove through the darkened streets. Ted watched the people scramble for shelter as the rain came down harder and harder.

The rain reached torrential proportions as the cab stopped in front of the Paradise Towers. Ted quickly paid for his cab and ran into the building.

He wearily climbed the stairs, his grey suit dripping wet. He pulled out his key and opened the door to room 315.

Ted changed out of his wet clothes. He opened up the paper and started to look through the help wanted ads.

There was a knock at the door. Ted looked up with surprise. He wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour.

He opened the door and saw two large men in long overcoats standing in the doorway. The shots that followed were heard by everyone in the building.

When the police showed up the next morning, they interviewed everyone on the third floor. They found one man next door in room 314. His name was Max Tailor and the mob was after him.

In the Darkness of the Night

Fog filled the night’s air and made it seem as though the darkness was moving in from all sides. The figure walked through the gathering fog steadily and with measured step. He, for I perceived it to be a “he”, walked past me without a sound.

Just a single glance at this man made me stop and turn to take another look. I turned to look, but the fog had already obscured his passing.

I tried to make sense of what I had seen, but it was hard for I had seen very little. The only thing I could really say for sure was that he was tall and the wide brimmed hat that he wore made him seem all the taller.

After a moment’s hesitation, I took off in pursuit of this figure for I had but one question in my mind, “What does such a man want on the waterfront at this time of night?”

I felt a strong sense of foreboding, but shook it off and continued in my pursuit.
The sound of water lapping against the docks should have warned me, but the fog confuses sound as well as sight.

I took a step and felt nothing under my foot. My entire body was beginning a slow descent, when I felt a tug at the back of my coat. My drop towards the water was arrested as quickly as it had begun.

I turned to see who my savior was and was surprised and even terrified to see that it was the man whom I pursued.

We were mere inches from one another and all I could see were his eyes. The eyes, his eyes had a cold, hard look to them. The eyes themselves were colorless, but the face that enclosed them was twisted in rage, not aimed at me but some other person or force.

I could see clearly, now, that besides the wide brimmed hat, he wore a dark colored scarf that covered the lower part of his face. He also wore a long dark overcoat that terminated near his ankles.

I tried to voice a thanks, but found my mouth dry and unusable. He nodded as though he knew what I wanted to say. He pointed with a gloved hand in the direction I should go. I nodded in return and he was gone into the fog once again.

I debate with myself as to whether I should continue my pursuit of the figure or continue my original journey to the warmth of my home. I decided at length to continue my pursuit.

I dived into the fog once again, being more careful this time.

At length, I came upon a large waterfront warehouse. My first impression was to pass by and continue my search for the man I had seen. However, the sound of voices arrested my steps and I entered the warehouse quietly.

I made my way towards a light that shone from among the crates and the voices that accompanied it. I made my way as stealthily as possible, but I sincerely doubt that anyone would have noticed my presence even if I had stomped about.

The attention of the three men in the lighted area was focused on the strangely garbed stranger. They had been in the process of opening several crates when he had obviously interrupted them.

As I looked on there was no sound, but that of the figure speaking. His voice was unlike that of any I had heard before, and I have had a fair amount of experience in that area. It was rough and it cut sharply through the air like the sound of a saw.

“I have warned you before,” said the man I had been following, “but you chose to ignore it. You have been poisoning the citizens of this fair City with your foul opium and I intend to stop you.”

“We don’t intend to be stopped by you or any other fool,” replied one of the men in a sharp tone. The speaker stood a full head taller than any other man. His appearances were rough and unmannered. His eyes were a piercing blue color and as cold and the blue ocean they resembled.

“Then I must take matters into my own hands.” With a flick of his gloved hands, the figure threw open his overcoat. The inside of his coat was full of pockets and those pockets in turn were full of many firearms, including revolvers and sawed-off shotguns.

Upon seeing this formidable personal armory, the opium smugglers drew their own weapons. The stranger reached for two sawed-off shotguns and leveled them. Both guns went off as one and the small warehouse was filled with thunder.

As the shooting started, I dived behind some crates and lay there as quietly as I could. Bullets smashed into the wood of the crates around me.

As quickly as it had started, the shooting stopped and there was silence. I peered over the top of the crates to see if things were all clear. The gunsmoke from the shootout was almost as thick as the fog outside. I could only see one figure standing and the rest were sprawled across the floor. As the smoke cleared, I recognized the lone living player in this crazy drama. It was the stranger who I had been following.

He was slumped against a pile of crates. Red blood stained the wood of the crate and made them a mud color. His arms hung limply at his side.
I made my way towards him carefully, almost fearfully. I was afraid that me might be dead, but I could hear him take a sharp breath.

He stood there leaning against the crates as if he was tired and only resting for a minute, my trained eye told me that there was something decidedly wrong.
“Here, let give you a hand,” I said moving forward to help him.

“No!” His voice was much softer than when he had spoken before and it was full of pain, both physical and mental. He pushed himself away from the boxes and tried to stand. His legs would not take his weight and he sunk towards the floor.

I rushed forward and caught him before he fit the ground. “See here, my good man. I have no intention of letting you die before I hear your story.”

“My story,” he said in a pained voice. His breath was ragged and took much effort. “My story is quite dull indeed, doctor.”

“Do you know me, then?” I asked as I looked at his wounds. His only response was a slight nod.

I reached up to pulled the scarf away, but he weakly pulled my hand away. Some of the hardness returned to his voice, “We must leave before the police arrive. Someone surely heard the shots.”

I nodded and helped him to his feet. After holstering his guns, the stranger leaned on me and we made our way into the fog.

He pointed the way, as I helped him walk. We made our way through alleys and down streets that had long been forgotten by most people.

We walked for what seemed like hours. We were forced to stop several times to avoid being seen.

We finally stopped in an alleyway. The stranger pressed a brick into the wall. After hesitating for a minute, the wall opened up before us and we entered.

The room was dimly lit by two gas jets on the wall. In what light there was, I was able to maneuver him into a large leather chair. After turning up the gas jets so that I could see, I again endeavored to remove the scarf.

This time he did not resist and in fact, helped me remove it. The face beneath was young and soft, but the eyes still showed a hardness that only comes with years of life experience. I knew that face.

I lit a candle and brought it close to examine the face.
He smiled in his pain and said, “I told you that my story was dull, doctor.”
I stared in shock. This man was no stranger to me. “Roger, my dear boy. My God, how did you end up like this? The last time that I saw you, you were at the top of your class in medical school.”

“Remember when my parents were gunned down?”

“Yes, you left shortly after that. I heard that you blamed yourself for not being there to stop it.”

He struggled for breath. “That’s true, doctor. I found out that the man who had killed them was looking for money to pay for opium. I decided to take the fight to him and those like him. There was nothing that the police could do.” He coughed violently.

“It seems as though I have failed.” He sighed and fell back onto the couch.
I stood there for several minutes looked at his still warm corpse. It amazed me how young life could be so wasted.

What is this world coming to that honest citizens must turn to violence find justice? Where is the justice in that?