Nowhere Man: A Riley King Mystery

by Richard Neer

  I’m usually not given to conspiracy theories, but Charlene had manipulated me in the past and I had never caught on until it was too late.

  I looked over at her. Even without makeup this early in the morning, she was stunning. She was wearing a pink Journey tee shirt, no bra. Her normal tight jeans over hand-tooled ankle boots with three inch heels, which pushed her over six feet. Even when she wasn’t trying, just looking at her provoked impure thoughts that the nuns in high school would expel me for.

  Lust in my heart, like Jimmy Carter, only it wasn’t for Lainie Kazan.

  Rather than spend the trip constructing paranoid fantasies in my mind, I decided to confront her head on and see what she would come up with. “Charlene, what is it you think you want from me?”

  She hesitated. No rehearsed answer burst forth.

  “Nothing all that complicated, sugar. I want us to be together. You know my history with men. Married at eighteen, divorced at nineteen. Married to the mob ten years later. I still don’t know if you believed me when I told you I thought Johnny had gone straight. Stupid me, I did.”

  “That may be so, but of all the alternatives you had to get out of that marriage, using me to have him executed by the Russian mob was a wee bit over the line.”

  “Sugar, for a man of the world, you can be so naïve at times. It was crystal clear to me that you weren’t looking to kill Johnny. Only way you’d do that is if he came for you himself and it was self defense. But that would’ve put you in danger and I couldn’t risk that. Besides, you know well as me, he would’ve hired someone, so that wasn’t happening.

  “But that’s assuming that killing him was the only choice.”

  “What you still don’t seem to get is I had no other choice. You really think if Johnny had lived that I’d be here talking to ya today? If I’d a left him, he’d hunt me down and have me killed. Even from jail, he could’ve arranged it. So for me, it was self-defense. Kill or be killed.”

  “And as a result, his blood is on my hands. And Dan Logan’s.”

  “Would you feel better if it was my blood? Did I deserve to die because I married what I thought was a harmless little pipsqueak who turned out to be a monster? All you did was tell Logan about Johnny. Danny didn’t know the sleazeball agent who had handled Johnny would sell him out to the Russian mob. Once they knew where Johnny was hiding under a different name, they took care of business.”

  “Funny how only you knew that would happen. Johnny must’ve told about that corrupt FBI agent and you took advantage of it. It was a pretty cold way of setting up the man who took you out of poverty and gave you a nice life. Even if he was a slimeball.”

  “I did what I had to do to survive. There was no guarantee it’d even work. If it didn’t, maybe I would’ve killed him myself or figured out a way to make you do it. This was the cleanest way, Riley. You should be thankful it worked out like it did.”

  I could see from her viewpoint that it all ended well. But she didn’t trust me enough to let me in on the scheme before setting it into motion, fearing that I would have vetoed it. I never got the chance.

  I said, “Charlene, even if I accept what you’re telling me and I’m not saying I do, you did it again. You hired a guy to take pot shots at me. Trying to scare me out of doing PI work. Derek Davis could have been killed by the shrapnel.”

  “I’m sorry about that. It was an accident. I told him to miss on purpose but come close enough to scare you. I wanted us to be together. You doing security for my tour woulda been perfect. You’d have a safe job you’d be good at, and I’d have you with me day and night. Maybe I done it the wrong way, but can’t you see why?”

  “But you couldn’t just let it happen naturally; you had to resort to trickery. That’s who you are. So how can I trust that when you want something in the future, instead of telling me straight out, you’ll set the wheels in motion behind my back?”

  “I guess I deserve that.” She looked like a little girl sent to bed without supper.

  I tried to tell myself that if she was old and ugly, I’d have an easy time walking away and not looking back. But the tears forming in those blue eyes weakened my resolve. She had led a tough life, and she did what was needed to survive. Men had been using her since her teens, now she was using them to get what she wanted. There were parallels to Máiréad Flanagan, although she had never murdered any of her benefactors.

  Charlene never loved Johnny Serpente. But he kept her safe and warm and dry. She was silent for a beat, then said, “You know, when I thought I was going to die, when the doctors said I had Stage Four breast cancer and my time was short, I did a lot of thinking about what I wanted out of my remaining days. Then there was my miracle cure, when the Lord touched me. The docs still don’t understand what happened. I was given a gift and I wanted to make the most of it. I wanted to share it with you.”

  “I’m sorry, Charl. Fool me once, shame on you. Twice, shame on me. You’ve got two big strikes against you.”

  She forced a wincing smile. “Don’t you get three strikes before you’re out?”

  33

  Trig Dawson was a work in progress. Greatness had been thrust upon him, and he wasn’t ready for it.

  The cosmetic changes were apparent. They’d capped his upper front teeth, but the lower ones were crooked and needed some work. His hair was blond, on the stringy side, but the stylists made the most of what he had to work with. Country dudes wear ten gallon hats most of the time anyway. Otherwise, he looked like your average gas station attendant.

  The restaurant where his agent had set up our lunch meeting was practically empty. A ball cap and shades shielded both Trig and Charlene from public notice. She wore a long, loose fitting parka to disguise her remarkable physique, as much as it could be disguised. He was just a plain-looking, skinny bumpkin who had somehow become an instant celebrity.

  His voice was laced with a thick country drawl that made him sound ignorant, even if he wasn’t. “Now I must say, it’s a thrill for me to meet you, Miz Jones. And I thank y’all for coming all the way up here to meet with me.”

  Charlene gave him her 1000 megawatt smile. “Thank you for meeting with us on short notice. You must be exhausted from that tour. Always takes me a bunch of weeks to come down from one of them.”

  I was playing muscle so I stayed quiet. On the long ride up, we’d worked out a loose arrangement on how to handle things. Charlene would carry the early load and I’d be the closer. That was our plan, unless Trig punched us in the mouth.

  Trig Dawson was enthralled by my companion, what sentient male wouldn’t be? He said, “Yep, this was a first for me. Not that long ago, I was playing places like this on weekends for tips. It’s been a wild ride.”

  “I been there. Interesting that you chose a local attorney to manage you. Most in your position would have hired a big time agent. You have the leverage.”

  “Gotta be loyal to my homies. Mister Webster handled my dad’s estate and I trust him.”

  “Now, he did make it clear to my manager that we ain’t to be talking about money here. My guy and your guy’ll work that out.”

  “Told me the same, ma’am. I ain’t that good with numbers but I told him I know you’d treat me fair. He said you wanted to do one of my songs. It’s an honor. Wowee.”

  “If we’re gonna work together, drop the ma’am. Just call me Charlene.”

  She opened her jacket, revealing a tight pink tee shirt with her name splashed across the chest in sequins. She was wearing a pushup bra, and amongst the bits of glitter, her nipples were erect. This was a tactic to distract her opposite number, and it was working. On me, too.

  “Yes, ma’am, I mean Charlene. Uh, which song was you thinking of.”

  She left the jacket open. “The one about the man or woman who can’t say ‘I love you’.”

  “Not sure which one you mean.”

  She had deliberately not named the song to gauge his reaction. His confusion reinforced the notion that this material did
n’t originate with Trig. The song she referenced was a hit. It should be easily identifiable, since the album only had ten tracks.

  Charlene said, “The one called Dream about Tomorrow.”

  “Oh yeah. Our first big hit. Gotta admit I got butterflies meeting you and I ain’t thinking too clear. Sure. You’d sound great on that. Maddy did background vocals but you’d be a lot more upfront.”

  “Alternate verses and do the choruses together.”

  “Yeah. I’d have to think on which ones work for a female type person.”

  His recently concluded tour played thirty cities, meaning he’d played that song at least thirty times on the road. With that kind of repetition, I couldn’t imagine not knowing each verse cold.

  Charlene said, “We’d do a video, of course. I’m being honest, I thought the one you guys did looked a little slapped together. Kinda stock love-struck footage, not much of you singing.”

  “Yeah, well didn’t have a lotta time. Things happened real fast for us.”

  “Again, been there. When I first broke, it was a like a whirlwind. I did see some of your concert footage. Sounded good. Looked like you were using a teleprompter.”

  “We did do that, yes ma’am.”

  “God, do I relate, with my memory. I don’t know what I’d do without one. I’d be messing up my lyrics something awful.”

  “Tell me about it. Didn’t have one at a few places we played and it was a rough go.”

  Charlene had done four albums since I’d known her, over fifty songs. She could whip out a guitar right now and go through her whole repertoire without missing a note. This man was at least twenty years younger with less than a dozen songs to his credit.

  She moved in for the kill. “Hey, Trig, just between you and me, some of your tunes sound sorta familiar. Couldn’t place ‘em, but like I heard ‘em before. Did you have someone helping you out with ‘em?

  “No, ma’am. All my own. ‘Course, that’s what folks say about good music. Sounds like it’s been there forever.”

  “So. Do you write the words or music first?”

  “Uh, well kinda depends on the song.”

  “Do you remember how you did Dream about Tomorrow?”

  “Can’t rightly say. Just kinda came to me I guess.”

  ~~~~~

  “There’s no way that idiot wrote those songs. I wouldn’t trust him to write a grocery list.”

  Charlene was on a roll back at the motel after lunch. “Just kinda came to him? You know I’m into Jesus but he ain’t sending me hit songs by the U.S. Mail.”

  “I’d imagine he’d use another delivery system. I got the same impression about young Trig. But we still don’t have anything we can use. He could be an idiot savant. It’s still not proof he ripped Townes off. He won’t admit it unless we confront him with something tangible.”

  “I might have a way to get it out of him.” She gave me a sly wink.

  “Pillow talk? I thought you gave that up.”

  “I ain’t planning on sleeping with him. Look at you. Jealous.”

  She pinched my cheek, like I was a five year old.

  “No Riles, I figure on getting him drunk and telling him I can’t afford to make a duet record unless I’m a hundred per cent sure ain’t nobody else due royalties. Even if it was just a line or a phrase from somebody else.”

  “So that’s why you invited him out to dinner. Just the two of you?”

  “That’s one reason. The other is to tie him up for a few hours so’s you can break into his house and find Colton Townes’ notebook.”

  34

  Breaking and entering. Burglary. I’d done that at Dugger’s house and had actually stolen something, although how do you steal something if they still have it after you leave? I wasn’t going to profit from the sale of Dugger’s manuscript. His email account would be of no use to anyone except him. What had I taken of value?

  Besides, the door was unlocked.

  These were the grounds I used to justify my illegal entry into Duggerville. I could rationalize doing that to Trig Dawson --- he was in possession of stolen goods, namely Townes’ songs. I was merely returning them to their rightful owner.

  It would be fruit of the poison tree. A good attorney would ask how I obtained them. A judge would rule them inadmissible. And regardless, such an act would put us in an adversarial position that might make a peaceful settlement more difficult. Legal fees alone could eat up a lot of the royalties.

  I told Charlene that for the next printing of Machiavelli’s The Prince, she should write the forward. She wasn’t amused. But I didn’t say that her idea to distract Dawson at dinner when I robbed his house was a non-starter. I left her thinking that I’d consider it when I left her at the hotel. She was still tired from the car ride and although I told her it wasn’t necessary, she maintained she needed a beauty rest.

  That gave me the opportunity to burn some shoe leather. Trig had mentioned a couple of places he’d played on the island prior to his big break. Maybe someone who knew him before he was a star could point me in a productive direction. One that didn’t require me to break the law.

  The first place I tried was closed down for the season. It was a seaside restaurant with a small outdoor stage. The bandstand was surrounded by several rows of bench seating. The audience would be facing the Atlantic. A little further away were round wooden tables at fixed intervals, where food and drink was served amidst the lovely view.

  I pictured a sultry July night --- a sweet breeze wafting in from the ocean, a supply of my preferred adult beverage and some easy listening music. Maybe Jimmy Buffett covers. The chill December winds snapped me back to the task at hand.

  The next place I hit was open until January, at which time a sign on the door advised it would be closed for renovations. The process had already started --- workers were scurrying around, freshening things up before the cocktail crowd arrived.

  A man who was better dressed than the others was directing things. I assumed he was the manager. I introduced myself and said I’d heard that The Flying Machine got its start at this club.

  He held out his hand and said, “Robby Kennedy. I’m the owner. Yeah, you came to the right place.”

  “So you know Trig Dawson?”

  “That son of a bitch.”

  Kennedy was probably early forties. Medium height, slender, dark hair trimmed tight, graying goatee. He wore neatly pressed jeans and a long sleeved polo shirt. A notch short of handsome, but not disagreeable to look at.

  I said, “Really. I’d heard he was a good guy. Is that all publicity bullshit?”

  “You ain’t a reporter, are you? Because I don’t need any quotes from me ripping the mighty Trig Dawson in any magazine.”

  I denied working for the press and just told him about how Trig’s music reminded me of the stuff Colton Townes had been working on when he went AWOL.

  He had no idea who Townes was, but he lit up. “Really? I knew it. So that the bastard didn’t come up with those songs on his own.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Trig used to play here weekends in the summer. He was okay. Did other people’s stuff. No great shakes on guitar but he played the hits of the day and no one complained. I used to play some bass with him. I was in a garage band as a kid. I said we oughta put a group together. Friend of mine played drums, I knew a lady who was a piano teacher and could handle keyboards. So we put together a little group we called the Cruisers.”

  “Like Eddie and the Cruisers?”

  “Don’t know them. Where’re they from?”

  “Never mind. So how did you run this place and play in a band?”

  “Not all that hard. We only played on Friday and Saturday nights. I was the emcee and bass player, sang a little. Trig did the lead vocals, he could sing his ass off, I’ll give him that.”

  “Still doing other peoples’ material?”

  He looked around and shouted at one of the workers. “Hey, be careful with that tile. Don’t try to carry it in
all at once. Make another trip if you have to.”

  He turned back to me. “Stuff runs twenty bucks a square foot, special order. He breaks a box of that marble and we’ll have to wait for a new shipment. What was I saying?”

  “I asked if you were still playing other peoples’ music.”

  “Mostly. Trig started trying out some of his own stuff. Most of it sucked. Check that. All of it sucked. Lyrics made no sense. Mostly rap, no melody lines. But since he was the frontman, we mixed a few of them into the set.”

  “How did the audience react?”

  “Golf clap. We don’t cater to a rowdy crowd. Older tourists with money. But onstage, you can tell when something’s not going over. The good thing was, having a live band attracted bigger crowds than just a folkie playing guitar. Folks were lined up outside on weekends.”

  “So far, it sounds like things were going great. So what happened with Trig? Why the falling out?”

  “He screwed me and the rest of the band. One day Trig comes in with a bunch of new tunes. Said he’d been working on them for a good while and thought they had potential. Those songs were nothing like his others. They were great, anyone with any kind of ear could tell that right away.”

  “He never said he had help writing them?”

  “Nope. Now mind you, Trig didn’t know much about arrangements, but our keyboard girl was classically trained and she put ‘em together. We rehearsed, tightened ‘em up. Made a demo tape. It sounded great and we started do more of the originals and less of the covers and folks really dug ‘em. Word got out and a talent scout was here one night. He really got into it. Latched onto Trig after the set and the rest is history.”

  “So how did he screw you?”

  “He cut us out completely. I mean, I’m not the greatest musician in the world but I did a nice job on the demo. I gotta run this place so I wasn’t about to join a band and go out on the road. But our piano lady could’ve done that and she was a pro. Trig didn’t even give her or our drummer a chance. He just took off for Nashville and recorded the songs with studio guys.”