At four o’clock the next morning Quentin Hughes glanced up at the clock in the studio from which he conducted his nightly radio talk show on WCAP. He’d dismissed that evening’s guest moments before because he felt the show had bogged down, preferring instead to take calls from listeners during the final hour.
“To you after this spot,” his producer said through the intercom.
Hughes looked at the multi-line telephone instrument on the table in front of him. All the buttons were lit, which meant that there were still people waiting to be heard. A red light flashed above a large expanse of window that separated the control room from the studio.
“Quentin, what ever happened with that Jimmye McNab murder? I never heard any more about it. That was two years ago, even more, huh?” said a caller.
Hughes pointed a long, slender finger at the control room. The caller was immediately cut off and a promo for an upcoming program played.
Christa Jones, his longtime assistant, watched Hughes lean back in his orange padded chair, close his eyes and run his fingers though long, floppy hair. She was sorry the caller had brought up the Jimmye McNab murder. Quentin Hughes didn’t need any additional upset that night, and she knew that the mention of Jimmye’s name would have that effect. She hesitated, then said to him through the intercom, “We can play that twenty-minute interview again you did with the guy from the National Rifle Association… you look beat.”
Hughes didn’t open his eyes. He remained silent until he realized that the commercial was coming to an end. “Yeah, do that,” he said.
Hughes left the studio and went to the men’s room, where he was obliged to listen to his own voice through the speaker in the ceiling. He hated his voice—high-pitched and undoubtedly grating to those who heard it. He knew he mispronounced too many words… he’d never finished high school. But because his voice was not out of the classic announcer’s mold, and he tended to interview guests from very much the layman’s perspective, he’d been very successful. He was known as a character, an original, an instantly recognizable voice in the night. Of course, the fact that New York had eluded him and undoubtedly always would at this late stage in his career caused him occasional anguish, but it never lasted long. At least he was king in Washington. In New York, unique as he was, he might well end up lost in the scramble.
The taped interview ended and Hughes closed the show.
“Feel like something to eat?” Christa asked.
“No, I’m for home. I’ll call you at noon.”
She watched him amble from the control room and disappear around a corner. What she felt at that moment was exactly what she’d felt for most of the years they’d worked together. In the very beginning, when she’d first been hired by him in Des Moines, things had been different between them. They’d been lovers. But that hadn’t lasted long, and for the past fifteen years most nights ended up the way this one had—Quentin leaving the studio and she, after putting the night’s materials away, going to her own apartment, where she would feed her cats, make herself something to eat and eventually fall asleep. Habit was her life… but it wasn’t all that bad. What she’d had with this difficult, abrasive yet, in his fashion, consumingly committed man was something she’d never trade for one of those gray-suited gray men with brains and personality to match…