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It was eighty degrees inside the recording booth and humid. On the advice of her lawyer, she decided on a guest for the evening at the last possible minute-Gene Wright.
He wheeled his desk chair in a semi-circle and clicked a ball point pen nervously until she extended her hand and steadied him. Her voice was courteous, but patronizing. "We''re on the air in five seconds-no background noise, please!" He braced his chair against her desk.
She pinched the pen out of his fingers and tossed it into a cup filled with pencils. He grabbed it from the cup, spilling the contents over with a crashing sound.
"Klutz!" She screamed in a whisper. "You''d make a fortune in comedy reviving the Three Stooges."
"Sorry, it''s my gold award pen." Gene looked up at her with the child in himself giving her the pout of a newborn lamb.
The red lights blinked "On Air," and her silver gaze of false innocence imploded into a critical squint. "We have a surprise guest tonight, folks," she murmured mysteriously. The words tingled strangely on her tongue.
A caller, Gene Wright, nursed the microphone as if it were too precious to defile. "Why would someone offer a foreign guy two million to murder you?"
