Farewell, My Lovely NPR

1

My office door says “Uri Berliner, Private Detective.” There was a nervous little guy coming in through it.

“I heard that you’re lookin’ for NPR’s Susan Stamberg,” he said.

“You heard that?” I replied. “What’s it to you?”

“I saw her today. She was lying in a pool of something wet and red.”

“Blood?” I suggested helpfully, using my finely honed detective skills.

He sniggered. “Well, it wasn’t her mama’s famous cranberry relish.”

I smiled, but not with my eyes. “And you are …?”

“Let’s just say I’m from NPR Noir,” he said. “It’s sort of a … well, an affinity group, you might say.”

“Thanks, pal,” I said, taking a sawbuck out of my pocket and the office bottle out of its drawer. “Let’s shoot the breeze.”

2

The night was dark and rainy. But the neon sign was bright.

It said “NPR Club.” I left my fedora with the hat-check girl, but declined her offer of a tote bag.

The club had changed. It used to be a place where people could catch up, hear some music, maybe have a few laughs.

The crowd was thinner now. And it had way too many cheap racketeers, sleazy grifters, and dime-a-dance dollies.

But no one made a sound as Katherine, bathed in a spotlight and a slinky gown, sang.

After the applause, she sat down at my table. Her smile and voice were as sultry as ever.

“Hello, Uri. It’s been a while. Am I still your little songbird?”

“I still like the way you tweet, baby. Ever hear of a dame named Stamberg?”

Her eyes glanced around. “Berliner … look.”

Walking toward us were two tough-looking mugs in oil-stained suits. The Magliozzi brothers, Click and Clack.

Clack laid a beefy paw on my shoulder. “The Big Guy wants to see you in his office. Now.”

3

The Big Guy’s office was on the top floor. It was filled with the medical devices that kept the old man alive, if barely.

His sniveling coke-head son and some crazy dame were keeping him company. She let out a shrieking cackle and offered me a cigarette.

“Berliner,” the old man whispered breathlessly. “You don’t really want to know about Susan Stamberg.”

“I heard that things have changed since she … left,” I replied.

The old man gave me a smarmy grin. “She’s with her friends – Bob Siegel, Carl Kassel. All the old crew.”

The coke-head giggled and sniffed. The crazy dame chuckled maniacally.

“Some people miss them.”

Suddenly the old man was shouting. “Malarky! And you don’t want to know how high this thing goes!”

I took a deep drag on my cig. “City Hall?”

“The Corporation for Public Broadcasting!” he croaked. Then the coke-head took out his blackjack, and a bottomless pit opened up before me.

4

When I came to, I was looking into Katherine’s face.

She was still a vision. But her eyes were hard. She wasn’t smiling now, and her voice was anything but sultry.

“Who hired you, Berliner?”

“That’s confidential, baby. Just like the tax returns where I used to deduct my Pledge Week contributions.”

She shuddered. “Don’t Pledge Week me. We don’t like to beg for money.”

“You don’t have too many fans to beg from these days.”

Her smile came back. This time it was cold.

“Who cares? As long as they keep paying. You see, we still care a lot about those taxes.”

She nodded to Click and Clack. “Open the window, boys. Let’s see how Mr. Berliner likes being suspended.”

5

It was time for me to take a powder.

I slugged one of the Magliozzis and bolted for the back stairs. A minute later I was through the service door and out into the alley.

Now I’m on the lam. Where to go?

The papers? Don’t make me laugh.

The DA? There’s no evidence. Even if there was, I’m probably the one who would end up under the hot lights.

Suddenly there was a shot. A bullet ricocheted off the brick wall behind me.

“Ricochet,” I thought. I ducked around the corner, hunched up my trench coat, and headed into the night.