Gail Bowen - One Fine Day You’re Gonna Die

The second book in the Charlie D series, 2010

Tonight 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.

As all right as Ill 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.

Youre bleeding, he said.

Its 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.

The doctors werent able to do anything? he asked.

Nope.

But youve learned to live with it.

Most of the time, I said.

Thats all any of us can do, the man said, and he grinned. His smile was like Hawkeyes-open and reassuring. He offered his hand and pulled me to my feet. Ill 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 wed buckled our seat belts, the man turned the keys in the ignition.

Where to? he asked.

CVOX Radio, I said. 728 Shuter.

Its in a strip mall, he said. Between a store that sells discount wedding dresses and a place that rents x-rated movies.

Im impressed, I said. This is a big city.

It 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 hed already had one accident, the driver didnt 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 Jaggers. Fog had fuzzed the brilliant scarlet neon of Micks tongue to a soft pink. It looked like the kiss a woman leaves on a tissue when she blots her lipstick.

Ill pick you up when your shows over, the man said.

Ill 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, Ill courier a cheque to you tomorrow to pay for your bike.

You dont know my name.

The man flashed me his Hawkeye smile. Sure I do. Your name is Charlie Dowhanuik and youre the host of The World According to Charlie D. Im 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.

Thats why I left.

I was relieved that you did, he said. I sensed that if you didnt 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.

I remember. Life is full of misery, loneliness and suffering and its over much too soon. I met the mans eyes. Wise words, I said. I still ponder them.

So you havent stopped grieving for the woman you lost?

Nope.

But you decided to keep on living, he said.

For the time being, I said. We shook hands, and I opened the car door and climbed out. As I watched the hearse disappear into the fog, the opening lines of an old schoolyard rhyme floated to the top of my consciousness.

Do you ever think when a hearse goes by

That one fine day youre gonna die?

Theyll wrap you up in a cotton sheet

And throw you down about forty feet. The worms crawl in,

The worms crawl out

There was more, but I had to cut short my reverie. It was October 31. Halloween. The Day of the Dead. And I had a show to do.

Late at night, Studio D is a fine and private place. The CVOX offices are empty, and except for the security guy and a technician down the hall, our shows producer, Nova Langenegger, and I are on our own. After ten years of working together, Nova and I know each others moods, and we anticipate one anothers needs.

Tonight Nova anticipates that I need a guest expert on death and grieving to keep me from going into freefall during the show. Halloween is tough for me. I met Ariel, the woman I loved and lost, at a Halloween birthday party. We were seven years old. She was dressed as the sun, and the memory of her shining face surrounded by rays of golden foil still stops my heart.

Nova is not often wrong, but as soon as I walk into the control room of Studio D, I know that were in for a rocky ride. The guest expert and my producer are standing toe to toe, and they both look grim. A stranger who didnt know the combatants would put his money on the guest expert.

Dr. Robin Harris is a goddess. In her stilettos, shes taller than me, and Im an even six feet. Her skin is creamy; her eyes are green; her auburn hair falls in luxuriant waves over her shoulders. Her black leather coat is close-fitted to showcase her many assets.

At my request, Nova is wearing the caterpillar costume that shed worn to a party earlier in the evening. Her six-month-old daughter, Lily, had been dressed as a butterfly. On a good day, Nova ticks in at a little over five foot two. In my opinion shes a beauty, but these days shes haunted by the few extra pounds she picked up when she was pregnant.

The tension in the control room is thick, and the body language is hostile. I attempt to defuse the situation.

Dr. Harris, I presume. I offer our guest my hand. Im Charlie Dowhanuik.

Dr. Harris pivots on her stilettos. She ignores my outstretched hand. Her eyes are flashing. Ive asked your producer to block a certain caller, and she refuses. Dr. Harriss voice is the kind of deep rich mezzo that makes my knees weak, but the caterpillar and I have a history.

We dont block callers unless theres a reason, I say.

Theres a reason, Robin Harris says. Dr. Gabriel Ireland and I were in a relationship. Its over, and hes not dealing with it well. He makes threats.

Against you? I say.

Robin Harris shakes her head impatiently. Against himself, she says. He threatens to commit suicide.

In that case, he shouldnt be ignored, I say. Maybe I can help.

Robin Harriss thrilling voice drips contempt. I doubt it, she says.

Nova catches my eye and points to the darkened studio on the other side of the glass.

Youd better get in there, she says.

Were on air in one minute, five.

I open the door to the studio and stand aside for Dr. Harris. As she glides past me, I catch her perfume. Its sultry. We take our places at the round broadcast desk. I point to her earphones.

Those are yours. Could you say a few words, please? Nova needs to do a sound check.

Dr. Harris flicks the button on the base of her microphone and the tiny light indicating that shes on the air comes to life.

If you dont block Dr. Gabriel Irelands calls, youll regret it, she says.

I raise an eyebrow.

On-air tension is the lifeblood of talk radio, I say.

As she hears Dr. Harriss words, Novas smile is sweet. When were on the air, Nova and I communicate through hand signals and our talkback microphone. Unless Nova chooses to open the talkback for the guest, Im the only one who can hear her. Tonight shes decided not to share with Dr. Harris. Novas voice on the talkback is amused.