Pipsqueak Read Free

sounded like their little mambo had come to an end. I couldn’t see anything with the mirror. On my belly, I squirmed over to the curtains to take in the outcome—and to see if I might be able to scoot out the front door.
    Black motorcycle boots stuck out from behind the collapsed display case, the toes swaying slightly. Outside, I heard a car start, rev, and the distinctive growl of a hemi V-8 trail off down the road. Cola Woman making her escape, probably in the Chrysler.
    Glass crunched underfoot as I cautiously advanced into the room. Biker Boy, decked out in matching black jeans and T-shirt, was sprawled on his back, his hairy bare arms badly glass-gashed and responsible for a lot of extraneous blood. He had long messy dark hair, sideburns, and thick black-framed glasses half wrenched from his face. I scanned the floor for the gun: zip.
    There was a canvas folder tucked in his belt, a small shaft of silver metal sticking out of it. I thought it was a knife at first, but then recognized the metal for what it was: a tuning fork. Hell’s Piano Tuners?
    The loon lay in front of the counter, legs broken, head pulverized. But the perch and fake rock still looked useful. On the wall behind the counter there was only a dust shadow where Pipsqueak had been.
    I stepped over a smashed porcelain poodle lamp. Biker Boy was still breathing, barely, but had stopped moaning or moving. My idea was to try to bind up some of his leaks before calling the cops, so I grabbed a stack of linen commemorative Bicentennial napkins from the floor, took the biker’s hand, and lifted his arm. That’s when I saw another, more dramatic wound near his armpit. Though I couldn’t get a good gander at it through the tear in his T-shirt, it looked very nasty, with meat or something sticking out of it.
    The room suddenly got a little dim and began to twist. I dropped the biker’s arm and braced myself against a bookshelf. Without having much of a chance to be grossed out, I realized I was about to faint and struggled past the bathroom and into the small efficiency dwelling beyond. I sat on a nicely ruffled bed, slapped myself a couple times, and picked up the phone.
    Chalk one up for steering clear of strangers’ driveways.

Chapter 2

    B ack in the dark ages when I was but a lad, back before the felling of rabbit ears in favor of the kudzu of coaxial cables and the gibbous shadows of satellite dishes, TV audiences were limited to a “broadcast area.” Afternoon programming was provided by the three networks airing soaps, soaps, and more soaps. All other after-school programming emanated from cinder-block bunkers dotting the outskirts of town; the independent stations scraped together what they could to tap into the local ad market. In my area, we had Station 10, which ran saggy-scripted B flicks interspersed with an unctuous host pulling postcards and phone numbers for lucky daily winners. The prize: dinner-theater tickets to what had to be the longest-running
Brigadoon
in North America. Another station, Channel 3, had soap reruns from caveman days when TVs were round. Another was VHF, Public Television Station 22, which due to vagaries of the stratosphere or something couldn’t be tuned in until after my bedtime.
    Though the sun might be shining and the lawns might be freshly mowed invitations to a rousing game of capture the flag, kids’ bicycles in a thirty-mile radius were tossed aside for the rec-room sanctuary offered by Channel 8:
The General Buster Show
.
    In a word, this homegrown program was a five out of ten on the
Captain Kangaroo
scale. I think we even knew that back then. But at the same time, I think we were keenly aware that
The General Buster Show
was broadcast only in our area and, for all its technical and talent shortcomings, it was
our
show. It helped that we were encouraged to send in artwork and postcards, which eventually got shown or read on TV. In return we got on the mailing list and were kept abreast of local shopping