Page 143 of Hello, Summer
The courthouse square was mostly deserted. It was after eleven, moving toward the midnight hour. If he got up and walked out to the station’s tiny reception area, he could see lights burning in theBeaconoffice across the square.
It had been a big news day, for sure, with Symmes Robinette’s funeral and all the unfolding drama with his family. Thinking back to their brief, late-night encounters at the Waffle House, Buddy wondered what the congressman would make of it all. He’d wanted to make amends, he said, but all he’d really made was a mess.
The commercial break was winding down. Buddy took one last drag, then stubbed out his cigarette in a foam coffee cup and switched on his mic.
“Welcome back, Silver Bay. This isUp All Night,and I’m Buddy Bright. We’re gonna be howling at the moon soon, so let’s play a little wicked Wilson Pickett, shall we?”
He slotted “In the Midnight Hour” onto the turntable and sat back in his chair. He worked the theme for the next hour or so, following up with Gladys Knight and the Pips’ “Midnight Train to Georgia” and the Grass Roots’ “Midnight Confessions.”
“Gonna open it up to callers now,” Buddy drawled. “Let’s see who’s still up and listening as we approach the midnight hour.”
The switchboard lit up, and he picked the first caller.
“Hey, Buddy,” the male caller said. “It’s me, Pooh Bear. Remember me from the other night?”
“Hiya, Pooh Bear,” Buddy said. “You got a midnight confession to share?”
“I don’t, but I’m thinking you probably do. See, it was bugging me so bad, I did a little research.”
Buddy’s hand hovered over the switch. He could cut off the call now, claim operator error, but that would only prolong the inevitable.
“Did you now?” he asked.
“Amazing what you can find on the internet if you know where to look,” Pooh Bear said. “And I figured it out. Back in Detroit, in 1992, you were Robert ‘Robbie’ Breitweis. Isn’t that right?”
With shaking hands, Buddy lit another cigarette and inhaled a lungful of smoke.
“Buddy? You still there?”
“I’m here.”
“You were a pretty big deal in Detroit, weren’t you? Had the morning drive-time slot, were doing television commercials, pulling down the big money.”
“If you say so, Pooh Bear.”
“Was that where you started the hard partying? I always heard you rock jocks were big partiers back in the day. Drugs, booze, chicks, all of it that you could handle.”
The cigarette ash spilled onto Buddy’s shirt. He flicked it away. “What’s your point here, Pooh Bear?” he said, trying to sound bored. “I got other callers waiting.”
“The point is, I found the old newspaper clippings,” Pooh Bear said with a mocking laugh. “Online. You killed a chick, right? Drunkdriving. Got sent to jail, but then one day, while you were on a highway work detail, you up and walked away. Disappeared into thin air. But now, here you are, working in Silver Bay, Florida, under a made-up name. That’s my point, Buddy—I mean, Robert.”
Buddy cut the caller off and cued up the next song on his midnight playlist. He’d met Gregg Allman on tour once. He read somewhere that Allman grew up down in Daytona Beach. He liked this state, liked the weather, the notion that everybody here had escaped from someplace else. Daytona, he decided, would be his next stop.
As Gregg Allman’s guttural voice filled the tiny studio, Buddy gathered his things, sweeping them into a plastic grocery sack. “I’ve got to run to keep from hiding,” he muttered. The last verse of the song was playing as he turned the lock in the studio door.
“Not gon’ let them catch the midnight rider,” Buddy whispered.
The Corvette was parked around the back of the studio. He walked around the car, surveying it like always, wiping away a bit of dust with the cuff of his black shirt. The engine rumbled to life, and he steered the sports car slowly around the square. The beacon on the newspaper building’s tower cast a yellow light on the darkened street before him. As he passed the building, he spotted the black truck again, parked across the street, and the shadowy figure of a driver behind the steering wheel.
He glanced back at the newspaper and saw, silhouetted in the window, the figures of two women.
Buddy’s fingers drummed the steering wheel in a frenzied staccato. He could stop, go inside, warn Conley Hawkins that she was being watched. He could call the newspaper, an anonymous caller like Pooh Bear, and issue some ominous decree.
Or he could keep driving. He made another loop around the square, passing the truck for a second time. It still hadn’t moved. The driver was waiting, biding his time. Buddy decided he would do the same.
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“Okay,” Grayson said, emerging barefoot from her office. “I just hit the Send button on issue 2 ofThe Silver Bay Beacondigital edition.”
