by Richard Neer
“Ha.” Another drag and exhale. “Those were reserved for those who failed to pay tribute, generally the big corporate bands who didn’t need a music critic in Podunk. George taught me the drill. Rip the big guys who couldn’t care less to create a sense of independence and integrity about his critiques. Save the hype for the up and coming folks who needed grass roots support.”
“And who would show gratitude. Excuse me, but what does this have to do with the Brandos?”
“Patience, young man, I will be faithful.”
He knew how to play to his audience. Calling me ‘young man’ was disarming. I’d allow him whatever time he needed to get to the point. His initial gambit was correct --- after forty years, there was no hurry.
He said, “What I’m trying to enlighten you about is the education of a young journalist. Perhaps corruption would be a better word. You see, like George, I enjoy a sybaritic lifestyle. I take pleasure in all the trappings --- a fine home, elegant wardrobe, excellent cuisine. Mind you, it wasn’t only George who accepted favors for positive stories. The editor, who came off as a simple soul, was susceptible, in fact even solicited it. A full page ad from a real estate broker guaranteed a three page spread on his latest offering. Advertisers were treated quite differently than those with no skin in the game so to speak.”
“Even in an underground paper?”
“Paid the rent. Even hippies had needs.”
“Sir, before I came here, I Googled some of your old columns. You weren’t exactly Woodward and Bernstien but you did break some big stories. Pretty hard hitting.”
“Ah yes, you’ll note that was later. I learned differently at my next job, which was in Cincinnati. I was almost fired on a daily basis there until I learned the ropes of how a real reporter operates. What I’m trying to tell you is that in my callow youth, I was less than virtuous when it came to stories that were in the public interest but not directly in my own.”
“So am I to gather that exposing the Brandos wasn’t in your best interests?”
“Finally, a glimmer of that insight that your vaunted reputation promises. I Google my sources as well. Yes, Mr. King, I dropped the ball back then. I might have ridden their filthy story to fame and fortune. But I was fearful that my career could have ended in a swamp bordering what is now this fabulous golf community. Have you played Colleton?”
“Once. Too much course for me these days. So you’re saying if you wrote about the Brandos, they would have retaliated? Did they make any direct threats?”
“That wasn’t the way they worked. Why don’t you tell me what you know and I’ll connect the dots if I can.”
I told him we believed that Paul Dugger had run Colton Townes off the road and left him there to die in the cold. It followed the pattern of harassment of the singer. Or worst case, he might have killed him outright, disposed of the body, stolen the notebook of songs and sold it years later after it was untraceable.
When I finished, he said, “Ah Dugger. He was the worst. The leader. There were less than a half dozen who called themselves Brandos. The higher-ups knew about them, well up to a point. Ross, the ancient sheriff, was blissfully unaware of their activities. Decent sort, but in way over his head. James Bolton was the man who kept their dirty secrets. Now after George told me of your interest I went over some old notes. I was already In Cincy by December of 1980 --- got hired in October of that year. But the Brandos had a long history of harassing minorities. Actually, anyone of any color who they considered a miscreant. I knew of several run-ins that Dugger personally had had with Townes. He was at that notorious New Year’s Eve show. That would be 1979 into 80. From the interviews I did after the fact, he egged the crowd on.”
“Wait, he was in the audience?”
“Absolutely. He started hooting and hollering that he wanted to hear the hits. Stoked up the crowd but when fists started flying, he was nowhere to be seen. Like and arsonist who sets a fuse and then stalks away.”
“I’m told that Jack Paulsen was in charge of the bust that night and no charges were filed.”
“Good man. He just restored order and defanged the whole situation. He had nothing to do with the Brandos. He was one of the honest ones. I can tell you that Dugger was pissed at him for that. He wanted Townes’ blood and Paulsen wouldn’t allow it.”
“Did you know that Dugger was having an affair with Paulsen’s wife?”
“I did. Happened after that New Year’s. He hated Paulsen and that was his revenge. Like I said, I was gone by the night in question, but I know there was a power struggle between Bolton and Paulsen for the sheriff’s gig. Word I got later is that Bolton was going to expose the affair if Paulsen didn’t drop out of the race and decent guy that Paulsen was, he wouldn’t allow his wife to be humiliated like that.”
That jibed with what the old couple had told me in Florida. “Was Dugger capable of killing Townes? Did the Brandos ever take it that far?”
“I don’t think so. They were great at covering their tracks. A man they had beaten up came to me with his story and I was ready to write it. I told my publisher and he spiked it.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“Just that I needed more than just one man’s story. I got a visit from one of the Brandos shortly thereafter. Not Dugger, one of the others. Tried to tell me they were a necessary counterbalance to the hippies and commies and that sometimes they had to resort to tactics that weren’t in the police manual. Implied that if I exposed them, I’d be doing the community great harm, not to mention my own reputation and safety. I got the message.”
His cigarette had gone out and he lit another, this time turning his head away as he exhaled.
I said, “So they didn’t exactly bribe you to kill the story. Just a veiled threat.”
“Maybe not so veiled. I had a little beagle named Cleo back then. I wasn’t married and that dog was all I had for company. Well, one day right after that conversation, I came home and found her dead on the kitchen floor. Poisoned, the vet said. She could have gotten into something around the house while I was out, he thought. I knew better. It was the Brandos, letting me know they meant business.”
“If it was me, they would’ve paid a heavy price for that stunt.” Hell would have no fury if one of my adversaries harmed Bosco.
“I did try. They poisoned Cleo right before I got the job offer in Ohio. Not that there was any doubt that I would accept the position, but that cinched it. I never forgot or forgave though. A month after I moved, I contacted a friend at Rolling Stone and told him about what was going on in South Carolina. He said he’d follow up and see if he could develop the story. He made some calls. Told me Dugger had been fired by Bolton. That was the end of the Brandos and crusader Bolton was cleaning up the force.”
“So, no story there.”
“I knew it was bullshit. The Brandos never could have existed without Bolton’s approval. My guess is that around the time the Rolling Stone guy came snooping, Bolton needed to sacrifice Dugger to protect his own ass. Apparently Dugger went private but I suspect he was still the go-to guy when Bolton needed something done off the books.”
“That confirms what I believe but neither of us has any direct evidence, do we?”
“No. They were very good at covering their tracks or intimidating anyone who could expose them.”
“Well, the statute of limitations has run out on everything except murder. You’ve given me a lot to chew on, but I need to prove that Dugger was instrumental in Townes’ death and I haven’t been able to do that.”
“I doubt forty years later, you’re going to find anything to tie him to that. If I discover anything more, I’ll certainly be in touch. Maybe Dugger didn’t out and out kill him, but he probably is responsible for his death.”
“I’m not going to quit until I find a way to make him pay.”
“Mr. King, far be it for me to endorse vigilantism. But if you do happen upon a way to punish him for what he did, give him a few extra kicks in the balls for m
e.”
“I will.”
“Tell him it’s courtesy of Cleo. He won’t understand the reference, but in a small way, I’ll be satisfied that some justice was meted out.”
32
Jason Black was insistent. “There is no way I get into bed with George Arliss. None.”
“King’s not saying you have to bugger him. Just a peck on the cheek,” Ginn said.
Another lunch at the Frog, as we’ve now come to abbreviate its name. Sarah was off, Kat was in the kitchen supervising.
I said, “The alternative is for you to contact his manager and tell him you want to meet with Trig in person and that you’d be happy to drive up to The Outer Banks.”
“You don’t think we need to interview the whole band?”
“Not right now. If he stonewalls us, it’s possible that another member might be able to tell us something. I’m sure none of them would outright say he stole the songs, but they might let something slip. Problem is, most of them don’t live in The Outer Banks.”
Ginn said, “This dude Trig must be pretty stupid to think he could steal someone else’s music and nobody would find out.”
Jason scoffed. “Hey, he stole the name of the group. The Flying Machine was James Taylor’s band before he went solo. He mentions it in Fire and Rain. The thing is, nobody remembers Townes except for a few of us locals. He never sold many records. Got very little radio airplay. Nothing resembling a hit. The gigs I did with him were small places, when I went on my club tour.”
“But you were a star then,” I said. “Wouldn’t some of your fans remember the opening act?”
“I did that tour in ’79 as a kind of thank you to the folks who knew me when I first started. I grew up on Long Island but I moved here after college. I’d been playing arenas and I felt like I’d lost touch with the audience. I had to do more theatrical shit when I played the big rooms, stuff I was never all that comfortable with.”
“Didn’t that hurt the wallet?” Ginn asked.
“It wasn’t like now where you can’t give away records and can only make money touring. If you had gold records, you could make nice money. Tickets for concerts were a lot cheaper so the take wasn’t as good as it is today. I did a tour of small theaters and clubs in the Carolinas to get back to my roots. Townes opened for about a half dozen of them.”
“And that was before his new material? His more commercial stuff.”
“Yes. He was working on it at the time and I helped a bit. I’d like to think that I inspired him to work on his melodies and be less self indulgent.”
I said, “You think Trig would agree to meet with you?”
“I’d pitch it that we’re doing a benefit for abused women, which it may be unless we can turn Carla around. The best approach would be to get Charlene involved. Aside from you Riley, no one turns her down.”
Ginn found that funny. “I second that emotion. Hey, if we’re done talking business, I want to have a word with Miss Katrina. See if I can get a recipe for something.”
I said, “Jason, Mo has a thing for her tiramisu. With this man’s appetite, she’d be better off giving him the recipe. Otherwise he’ll bankrupt this place with all the free desserts he’s glomming off her.”
Jason smiled. “Do your best, Moses. She’s very proprietary but she may make an exception for you.”
As Ginn headed for the kitchen, I said, “He’ll get over it. He goes through phases when it comes to food. Hey, I want to ask a favor.”
“Hey, anything, Riley. You’ve helped out so much on this Townes deal and haven’t asked for a penny. What do you need?”
“Christmas is just around the corner and I don’t know what to get Ginn and Tomey. I mean, they have everything and a gift certificate is so damned impersonal. I was thinking something special, something they can’t just go and buy on their own.”
“I see where you’re going.”
“Yeah, well you got me thinking when you told me about the jewelry box you’re making for Kat. Tomey just keeps her gun in a dresser drawer when she’s not on duty. I was thinking you could maybe make a nice little box for it. Maybe even with a hasp for a lock.”
“Sure, I could do that. Even make an antique lock part of the design. Wouldn’t be all that secure but it’d look cool. I just need to know how big you want it and if you need space for ammo. Easily done. What about Ginn? A retro icebox where he can stash his tiramisu?”
“Funny. No, I was thinking about a golf club. He uses an old style mallet putter. I got hold of a head for one online that Bobby Jones supposedly used. I have it in the car. Do you think you could make a shaft for it out of hickory?”
“Never done anything like that. I’d have to do some research. Are you thinking a leather wrapped grip?”
“That’d be great. This wouldn’t be for framing or display. I’d like it to be something he could actually use.”
“As long as you don’t try to pass it off as a Jones original. He might not cotton to the idea of a new shaft on a historic old blade.”
“You should see his car. He took an old Mercedes and made it into a restomod. Classic look, modern conveniences. So the idea of an old putter blade with a new but authentic looking shaft would be right up his alley.”
“Get me the specs and consider it done. Hey, you got me thinking we have a much better shot at getting private time with Trig Dawson if we use Charlene as bait instead of me. He thinks he’s a big deal now. Would you be willing to put your differences aside for a good cause and meet him with her instead of me?”
~~~~~
I had converted the unfinished manuscript of Dugger’s novel to a .mobi file and sent it to Ginn, hoping he could find something in the text we could use. Often authors fictionalize real life events to use in their books. Maybe one of those could point us toward a new lead.
It was too cold to play golf. I did some Christmas shopping online. We still had no response from the Arliss’ followers about the concert tape and I was beginning to think the recording had been lost to time.
Jason called me and said that his efforts to reach The Flying Machine’s management had run into a brick wall, but Charlene had made one call and secured a meeting for the day after tomorrow. There were no direct flights from the island to Kitty Hawk. You had to fly into Raleigh or Portsmouth, Virginia, rent a car and drive over ninety miles. The trip would take half a day at best.
So there I was, headed toward The Outer Banks with Charlene Jones snuggled deep into the passenger seat of the Audi. I could drive the distance in nine hours, maybe less. Charlene, in addition to her other talents, was an excellent driver. If I got tired, I could trust her to take the wheel.
On one of my shoulders, whispering into my ear, was Jason Black. Despite my protests, he wanted to see Charlene and me patch up our issues and get back together. He didn’t know the specifics of our checkered history, just like I didn’t know about Brand X.
The angel on the other shoulder, Moses Ginn, reiterated his warnings to stay away, that no good could come from reconciliation with the she-devil.
I couldn’t help but wonder if Charlene had engineered this from the beginning. Once Jason told her about The Flying Machine co-opting Townes’ songs, she seized the opportunity to get me involved with the case and by extension, her. She knew I’d been weak and succumbed to her charms in the past, and was doubtless confident she could win me over again. I was determined to resist.
We were on I-95, heading north. Charlene isn’t a morning person and had been fairly quiet since I picked her up just after dawn. When she had finally shaken the cobwebs loose, she said, “You know sugar, I did look into booking a Gulfstream but you wouldn’t believe what that’d cost. If I’m gonna spend that kinda money, I’d rather give it straight to Carla.”
“That makes sense. Even though the stats say it’s more dangerous to drive than fly, I don’t trust those private planes in small airports with short runways.”
“Occupational hazard with me. I booked us into a ho
tel in Kill Devil Hills. Adjoining rooms, but we could cancel one of them if you’re over your shyness with me.”
She gave my right knee a light squeeze, which from anyone else I’d take it as a friendly gesture. From Charlene, it was an invitation to pull over.
“It’s not me being shy. You know that. So tell me, how did you wangle this interview when Jason couldn’t?”
“Said I was thinking of doing a ‘Duets’ album and wanted to talk to Trig about it.”
“Would you ever really do that?”
“With him? Depends on the song. Don’t tell nobody this, but I’ve hit a little writer’s block. I’m not lovin’ the stuff I’ve been puttin’ down lately. A little co-mingling with some other artists might stimulate the juices. Kinda like you do with me.”
I’d set the cruise control at seventy eight, trying to stay in the left lane. On the interstates, the slow lane tends to be bumpier because the big rigs bust them up. My plan wasn’t working very well --- cars were tailgating or flying by me on the right.
“So how do you pass me off to Trig,” I said, ignoring her innuendo as best I could.
“Security detail, sugar. Ain’t that a gas? I wanted you to be my security chief for the tour and you turned me down. Now you have to fake it. Maybe you’ll find you like it for real, working under me.”
I didn’t say anything but my mind was racing. Were she and Jason Black in this together? Did they know resurrecting Townes was a dead end that would put Charlene and me in close proximity at some point? Did Trig’s music even vaguely resemble the songs Townes was working on at the time of his disappearance?
Jason Black was likeable enough and Katrina was a sweetheart. But what did I really know about either of them? For Logan to warn me off looking into their interaction with Brand X told me that the couple wasn’t just the upper middle class suburbanites they appeared to be. A musician turned woodworker and a restaurateur? Was this a cover for something else?