by Richard Neer
“To be fair, sometimes the record company insists on that.”
“Hey man, I’m no fool. I get it. But he wouldn’t even take my calls. Got word from a friend of a friend that he wanted to work with real musicians and said we were just hacks.”
“He never told you that directly though. He might’ve had no choice.”
“But he had the songs. He had sway. Whatever. He used demo tapes we made with the band to seal the deal with the label and he gave us nothing. Not even a taste.”
“I guess some guys don’t feel any loyalty, just out for themselves.”
“Got that right. He could’ve said it was a package deal, all of us or nothing. Hey, I wasn’t looking to win the lottery, just a little thanks for my part in helping him hit the big time. That material was so strong that if Trig was smarter, he could’ve gotten a bidding war started and done even better.”
“The guy who reps him is a local lawyer, probably not too keen on the music business. You might have a lawsuit.”
“That ain’t me, babe. I ain’t gonna beg for scraps off Trig’s table.”
“Well, he’s got to live with himself. You know what they say, you meet the same people on the way up that you meet on the way down. I’m friends with Jason Black and he’s a really good guy. He was as big as The Flying Machine in his day. If he wants to play a gig or two, he’s welcome everywhere.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of him. Tell him if he wants to play here, he’s welcome. I liked his stuff.”
“Will do. So, the thing I find weird is after all the songs Trig wrote that you said sucked, all of a sudden he comes up with a dozen winners. You didn’t find that strange?”
“Sure we did. But he had ‘em all in this notebook.”
“An old notebook? Can you describe it?”
“One of those black and white speckled covers, ruled pages, like you used to get in school. Mead composition book, I think they called them. Kids all have computers now, don’t use ‘em. Don’t even know if they still make ‘em.”
“You wouldn’t have a page or two from it? Or a picture?”
“Nah. He kept it close. Only saw it from a distance. Wait a minute, we did have a guy take some rehearsal pictures. Still got ‘em in the back. Maybe there’s a shot where you could see the notebook. Why are you so interested?”
“From what you and a few others have told me, I don’t think Trig wrote those songs.”
“When I first heard them, it surprised the shit out of me, too. I’ll hunt down those photos. Although fact is, things did work out better for me on one level when he ditched us.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, if he’d taken our keyboard player on the road with him, I’d sure miss the hell out of my wife. And we wouldn’t be having a baby boy due next month.”
35
“Who’s the greatest closer of all time?” Moses Ginn wanted to know.
“Most would say Mariano Rivera. He got elected a by unanimous vote to the Hall of Fame. You couldn’t look that up? You had to call me?”
“Ain’t talking baseball, 5-0,” he said. “I’m talking in life. The big man who comes in to seal the deal.”
I said nothing.
“I’ll spare you the suspense. You talking to him. C’est moi, pardonee my Francais.”
“Sir Lancelot, you’re not. Okay, I give up. What do you have, oh great one?”
“You been spinning your wheels, trying to help the widow Townes, going after crooked cops. I get results.”
“I’m on the edge of my seat. What have you got? Kat’s recipe for tiramisu?”
He gave a deep throated snicker. “It came at a price because I have to give some props to your pal Teddy McCarver. Though he didn’t have a clue what I’d be finding.”
“Okay, Mr. Ginn. Charlene is taking Trig Dawson out to dinner to see if she can pry the truth out of him. She wants me to break into his place while he’s otherwise engaged with her.”
“Was you a master thief before I met you? When did you turn into Simon Templar?”
Ginn can dance around the point with the best of them. He’ll never just spring a surprise on me. He drops hints, stalls, and throws in teases until he exhausts me. Only then will he come up with the big reveal. I find that if I stay silent and don’t respond to his jibes, he’ll cut to the chase quicker.
“You there, 5-0?” he asked when I didn’t respond right away with another witticism.
“I am. So you’re implying I’m as handsome as Roger Moore? That’s high praise indeed.”
“I wasn’t saying no such thing. I’m just surprised you thinking of breaking into Trig’s pad, seeing as how the last time you done that, a man was holding a gun on ya. Should be safe this time though, seeing as Charlene’s gonna give it up for him. Bad as that lady is, she worth an all-nighter, for sure.”
“You forget, she’s found Jesus. No more casual sex.”
“That’s good. Your virtue stays intact on this trip. I was worried you’d give in.”
“My phone battery’s running out. You say you have news?”
“That Audi’s got a built in charger. You can go out to the car and talk.”
That was it. If I let him, he’ll go on for another hour before telling me why he called. “Well Ginn, I’ve got to go. Call me later when you’re ready to tell me what you came up with.”
“How about an old recording of six unreleased Colton Townes’ originals? That just happen to be the same ones as on The Flying Machine album.”
“I’m sure you’re going tell me how your brilliant detective work found them.”
“Wasn’t that hard, least for me. McCarver wanted to invite some of the station’s original cast to the party. One of them was the guy who designed the studios, the first chief engineer. But he didn’t have an address or contact number. I told him I’d find him since you were tied up.”
“So you found him and he happened to have the concert recording.”
“Even better. Townes came up for an interview with the morning show jock and played a few tracks live. The dude remembers they took calls afterwards. Kinda like a trial balloon to see if folks dug ‘em.”
“Great. I guess he’s not tuned into country music and didn’t hear the similarities to The Flying Machine.”
“Got that right. Said today’s music is shit. Gave up on it twenty years ago. Not a follower of Arliss either, if that’s your next question.”
“So I assume he sent you the songs via .mp3?”
“No. He sent a .wav file. Huge. Took forever to download, but I switched it up to .mp3 for you. Check your inbox.”
“Ginn, you just earned yourself a year’s supply of tiramisu.”
~~~~~
I knocked on Charlene’s door. The walls of the motel were thin, meaning that her bed was actually only inches away from mine --- only a two by four and two layers of sheetrock separated us. I’d been a good boy so far and I intended for it to stay that way.
She answered wearing her sequined Charlene tee shirt and nothing else. Her long legs were on full display and as she walked toward the sofa, I could tell she was also giving her female parts some air.
“I’ve got the goods, babe,” I said, trying not to peek.
“Oh, I know that, sugar. Did you come knocking to share them with me?”
“Not at the moment.” I told her about the songs and we sat on the edge of the bed to listen. Even though my laptop speakers were Bang and Olufsen, their small size limited the fidelity.
That wasn’t important. After the first track, she said, “That’s Dream about Tomorrow, no doubt. A little raw, nothing but guitar, but it’s the same song. That’s all we need for now. This is proof positive that their biggest hit came from someone else. We got ‘em dead to rights, Riles. Where’d you get this?”
I told her about Ginn and Ted and the lucky coincidence. “It was a good pickup on Moses’ part, thinking an engineer might have tapes from the old days.”
Her mind was racing. “I’ve g
ot a plan of how we play this. I’ll call Trig and tell him that I really want to wrap this up quick ‘cause I’ve got to get back to rehearse, which is true. Jason’s got my band together, teaching them his stuff. But I need to take charge and fix up a set list.”
“Okay. Then what?”
“His lawyer is a local fella. Let’s see if he can meet us for dinner tonight. We can lay this on him and he’ll see he’d got no choice but to deal.”
“You sure that’s going to work? I mean, if Trig is thinking he’s got a shot to bed the glamorous Charlene Jones, he won’t want his mouthpiece around as a third wheel.”
“Aw, that’s sweet of you. I’ll tell him after we get our business done, we can make the rest of the night pleasure.”
“Won’t his lawyer want to negotiate with your manager?”
“I’ll tell him I can make this deal on my own. If I know lawyers, he’ll think he can take advantage of a poor country girl. Get me to sign a deal my guy would never approve. That should get him talking.”
I had to admit her devious mind comes in handy on occasion. At least it would spare me from exercising my rusty lock picking skills.
~~~~~
I’ve been critical of Charlene for using her powers of seduction. This time, I’m glad she is on my side. Or more properly, that I am on hers.
She was dead-on correct that Trig Dawson would convince his lawyer to drop whatever his plans he had for the evening to meet with Charlene. He was eager to hammer out an agreement for the fictional ‘Duets’ album, maybe even expecting a deposit upfront.
They suggested a nice dinner place near our motel. Unlike Hilton Head, there aren’t many restaurants open on this barrier island this time of year. The full time residents of Kitty Hawk and its environs are treated to 50% off coupons or Buy-one-get Ones during the winter months.
At seven, the place was doing just enough business to stay afloat. We would have had no problem finding a table, but Trig’s lawyer had made reservations nonetheless. Probably charged him a billable hour for the phone call.
His lawyer was a buttoned-down fellow with a spray tan and a shock of white hair, even though he was only fiftyish. He dressed business casual --- a blue serge suit with a grey sweater vest, no tie.
Trig was all duded up for the occasion. I almost choked when a got a whiff of his cologne. He sported snakeskin cowboy boots, an off-the-rack brown suit with narrow lapels, and string tie with a large turquoise clasp. The ensemble looked better on John Wayne.
He hoped his business with Charlene would conclude under the sheets. Once upon a time that might have been the case.
The lawyer introduced himself. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Jones. I’m Vic Webster, Trig’s representative. I have other engagements so I won’t be staying for dinner. I think we can come to a handshake agreement pretty quickly over drinks. Then I’ll leave you two to make the magic that you creative geniuses do. And this gentleman is?”
He gestured in my direction.
Charlene said, “This is Riley. My head of security. He’ll melt into the woodwork soon but he insisted on coming along. He thinks I can’t handle persistent fans by myself.”
“I’m sure you’re more than capable. Cocktails?”
She was in command. “Vodka and tonic for me. My man here prefers scotch. Single malt. Glenfiddich, if they have it. He has expensive tastes.”
She was enjoying treating me like her manservant. I resisted any witty comebacks. I knew my place, acting as the help.
Trig and his mouthpiece ordered bourbon, the high test kind called Pappy something. That was Jason’s drink as well. Something about musicians.
They exchanged industry gossip and small talk about the holidays until the drinks came. I nodded agreeably and smiled on cue.
Charlene started in. “Before we talk business, there’s something I want you to hear. Riley?”
I produced my smartphone and cranked up the volume. My laptop was in the Audi’s trunk if we needed reinforcements. I played Townes’ version of Dream about Tomorrow.
Trig looked concerned but his lawyer turned his nose up halfway through the song. “I’m not sure why you’re playing this for us. The Flying Machine is so popular that a lot of people are covering their songs. Is this a copyright issue you’re bringing to our attention? Is this person is trying to market our music without permission? That’s a no-no.”
He’d fallen for her trap, even better than anticipated. She said, “Yeah, copying other people’s work is a real problem in the digital age, ain’t it? Hard to enforce, too. Some guy in a bar plays your tunes and gets paid for it, what can you do? ‘Course, maybe it makes the fans go out and buy the original.”
“It’s a fresh problem for us, the band being so new and all,” Webster said. “If you know who this is, we’ll track him down if it’s worth pursuing.”
“It’s a man named Colton Townes. Ever hear of him?”
Trig didn’t react as if he knew the name. The lawyer shrugged. “Thanks for the tip. I know that when you and Trig sing it, it’ll sound much better. Shall we discuss terms?”
Charlene turned on her best Mata Hari smile. “Trig, what did you think of that version?”
“Dude’s got an interesting voice. I may do an unplugged album someday, when I have a few more hits under my belt. Gonna start working on a new one first of the year. Keep the momentum rolling.”
Charlene said, “That could be a problem. You see, I asked you this afternoon if there was anyone else who should get a credit on that song. You said there wasn’t.”
Trig wasn’t exactly sure how he’d been ensnared but he knew he was being set up. She went on. “This recording was made in 1979. A radio station interview on WPHX in Bluffton, South Carolina with Colton Townes. The man who wrote Dream about Tomorrow and I daresay the rest of the songs on your album.”
Webster shook a finger at her. “Listen lady, we came here in good faith to work out a deal for a duet album, not to be blackmailed with some cheap tactic. How do we know this wasn’t recorded yesterday by some kid in a garage?”
I finally spoke. “Maybe Trig can answer that.”
The boy was in full panic mode now. “Vic, we need to talk.”
The lawyer stood. “We’re finished here. I don’t know what your game is, but if you’re trying to extort my client, there’ll be consequences.”
“Sit.”
I never use a tone that firm with Bosco, but then, I’d never threaten to hit my dog if he didn’t obey. A lawyer? Maybe.
“Let me lay it out for you.” I told them about how Townes had disappeared and the notebook containing his new songs vanished along with him. “Now, I don’t know how your client came by that notebook, but I have a photo of him holding it at a rehearsal.”
Webster gave me a typical lawyer’s response. “Did this alleged writer copyright the material? And is your picture so detailed you can prove it’s the same one?”
“A judge’ll think so. Along with a recording of the other songs, it’ll be crystal clear that this music’s rights belong to Colton Townes.”
“I need a moment with my client.”
Charlene took a victory lap. “Take as long as you like. We’ll wait. And have the waiter bring us another round. We’re comfortable right where we are. Aren’t we Riley?”
36
Vic Webster came back to the table, minus Trig. He preempted our objections.
“Trig wasn’t feeling well. He’s going home to rest. The tour took a lot out of him.”
I almost said that when he thought he had a shot at spending the night with Charlene, his energy level seemed just fine.
He went on. “We spoke and I have an explanation for what happened. Trig isn’t guilty of stealing anything.”
“Let’s not split hairs, although that’s what you lawyers do. He’s in possession of stolen goods. It’s intellectual property. Whether he stole the songs or someone stole them for him doesn’t change things.”
Webster stayed calm. “Wo
uld you like to hear what happened or are you just out for a pound of flesh?”
The waiter appeared. I said, “Bring Mr. Webster another bourbon please. We’re good for now.”
Webster started to raise his hand to negate the order but decided another drink might not be a bad idea.
Charlene said, “We’re willin’ to listen. Hey, we ain’t trying to put nobody in jail. Only looking to help a widow get her rightful due.”
“Trig’s a good kid. Up until recently, he didn’t have a lot of money, but he was always willing to pitch in when folks needed help. His dad brought him up right. Dawson’s Garage was the place the local folks went to get work done on their cars. The customers knew they’d get an honest job at a fair price. Dawson senior was a pillar of the community and his son followed in his footsteps. When his old man died, he took over the shop. That’s why when Trig made it big, everyone was happy for him.”
“Not everybody. Some of his old band mates felt like they were left out in the cold.”
“Trig was going to take care of them once he got his finances in order. We were just talking the other day on how to go about that. He’s an honest boy.”
“So we file this under sometimes good people do bad things?” I said.
“Let me finish. One of the really nice things Trig used to do was play for free at rest homes and the like. Almost every Sunday, he was entertaining one group or another. Well, a little over a year ago, he did a show at Saint Agnes by the Sea. It’s run by nuns for people who aren’t so well off. Not a hospice exactly, but for less fortunate folks nearing the end of the line. Most of the doctors on the island do volunteer work there. They get some money from the church, a little from the government but mostly through charity. At any given time they have maybe twenty patients.”
His bourbon came and he took a deep drag. “Trig did several shows a year there. He’d play for an hour, doing standards. Songs he learned just to please his listeners.”