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. âAre you all right?â he asked.
I checked my essentials.
âAs all right as Iâll ever be,â 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.
âYouâre bleeding,â he said.
âItâs a birthmark,â 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.
âThe doctors werenât able to do anything?â he asked.
âNope.â
âBut youâve learned to live with it.â
âMost of the time,â I said.
âThatâs all any of us can do,â the man said, and he grinned. His smile was like Hawkeyeâsâopen and reassuring. He offered his hand and pulled me to my feet. âIâll take you wherever you want to go,â 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 weâd buckled our seat belts, the man turned the keys in the ignition.
âWhere to?â he asked.
âCVOX Radio,â I said. â728 Shuter.â
âItâs in a strip mall,â he said. âBetween a store that sells discount wedding dresses and a place that rents x-rated movies.â
âIâm impressed,â I said. âThis is a big city.â
âIt is,â he agreed. âBut my business involves pick up and delivery. I need to know where people are.â
Perhaps because the night was foggy and heâd already had one accident, the driver didnât 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 (âALL TALK/ALL THE TIMEâ) is an open mouth with red lips and a tongue that looks like Mick Jaggerâs. Fog had fuzzed the brilliant scarlet neon of Mickâs tongue to a soft pink. It looked like the kiss a woman leaves on a tissue when she blots her lipstick.
âIâll pick you up when your showâs over,â the man said.
âIâll take a cab,â I said. âBut thanks for the offer.â
He shrugged and handed me a business card. âCall me if you change your mind. Otherwise, Iâll courier a cheque to you tomorrow to pay for your bike.â
âYou donât know my name.â
The man flashed me his Hawkeye smile. âSure I do. Your name is Charlie Dowhanuik and youâre the host of âThe World According to Charlie D.â Iâm 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
âThatâs why I left.â
âI was relieved that you did,â he said. âI sensed that if you didnât 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
âI remember. âLife is full of misery, loneliness and suffering and itâs over much too soon.ââ I met the manâs eyes. âWise words,â I said. âI still ponder them.â
âSo you havenât stopped grieving for the woman you lost?â
âNope.â
âBut you decided to keep on living,â he said.
âFor the time being,â I said. We shook hands,