Dead Air

by David A. Poulsen

  But before I could enter her number, Loverboy announced I had a call.

  “Hello.”

  The voice on the other end of the line was male and deep, gravelly. A smoker’s voice.

  “Wilson Hall. You’ve been trying to reach me?”

  If Hall was a singer, then clearly his singing voice had to differ from what I was hearing at that moment. Or maybe this was his singing voice, and the guy defied all odds and enchanted audiences with a sound about as gentle as a prairie snowstorm.

  “Thanks for getting back to me, Mr. Hall. I’m trying to learn more about an incident you were involved in at a Calgary club a few years ago. A fight apparently broke out. A man named Jasper Hugg was involved.”

  “You a cop?”

  “No, I’m not, Mr. Hall. I’m a writer. Doing some research. Background on Hugg and an associate of his. Trying to get some first-hand insight into what went on that night.”

  “First of all, man, if you’re not a cop, drop the Mr. Hall shit. Nobody calls me that. Wilson will be fine.”

  “Great, Wilson,” I said. “And I do appreciate your getting back to me. It must be pretty late where you are.”

  He laughed a deep-throated gurgle that ended in a coughing spasm. There was a pause, I guessed while he drank some water, or something else. Then he came back on the line.

  “Eleven-thirty isn’t late for a musician, man. We don’t sleep like other people. Anyway, what do you want to know?”

  “Just kind of what happened that night. When did you first notice Hugg and the guy with him?”

  “I guess I saw them out there during my first set. A couple of big dudes. Big dudes. Didn’t think much about it. It was a pretty good house that night, lots of people. Those two were also maybe a little older than most of the people there, but that’s about it for what I noticed … or at least what I remember.”

  “And when did things get … unruly?”

  “Unruly, that’s good. It was a clusterfuck, is what it was. It was during my second set. I was doin’ a cover of ‘Four Dead in Ohio.’”

  “Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young.”

  “Right. And these two guys are suddenly up and hollerin’ … basically shoutin’ us down, which isn’t easy to do when you’re playing electric guitars and stuff, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “What were they hollering?”

  “A bunch of shit about how the people who got shot at Kent State deserved what they got and the only mistake was not takin’ out a bunch more of those long-haired fags … that kind of stuff. Then they started in on Neil Young and what an embarrassment he was. About then the bouncers got in there and a couple of guys in the band, pretty big guys themselves, went down there and from then on it was chaos, man — chairs flyin’ and people punchin’ and kickin’ the crap out of each other. A few minutes later the cops showed up. There were some guys who’d taken some serious shit. Our bass player, Percy Squires, for one. Big, tough black guy, he got his nose busted and his eye socket damaged. Took a chair across the face. Broke his hand, too — hittin’ somebody or the wall or somethin’. The bigger of the two assholes that started the thing, guy with the weird name —”

  “Hugg?” I said.

  “Yeah, Hugg. Hugg, for fuck’s sake. Anyway, man, he was bleedin’ some and the other one I couldn’t see because two cops had him wrapped up and were haulin’ his ass outta there. One of the bouncers and a couple of other people were hurt, too, but not that bad.

  “And that was about it, man. End of the night. End of the gig. End of the band. Percy wasn’t able to play for a couple of months, lost interest after that, and two of the other guys quit — we had a girl in the band, too. She didn’t want any part of bar gigs or much else after that. Now I got me a guitar player and that’s it. We do a lot of small clubs, acoustic gigs in places where that kind of shit ain’t gonna happen. Doin’ okay, too.”

  “What happened after?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I read there were no charges laid. Is that true? Anybody go to jail?”

  “Jail. Just overnight. No charges, man. Nobody got charged with shit. I figured the club would press charges or somethin’ but … nothin’. People said there were some payoffs for damages and stuff and I know a lawyer came around and talked to Percy, but he wouldn’t ever say what went down. I figure he probably got greased some, too — decided to let it go. But I don’t know that for sure. It all just sort of blew over and I went down a different road. Got a CD if you’re interested.”

  “What do you call it?”

  “Empty Spaces. I think it’s pretty good, you know?”

  “Where would I find it?”

  “You can get it online and in a few stores — I don’t know about out where you are.”

  “You know what, Wilson … I’m going to keep an eye out for it. I’m kind of a collector, so I wouldn’t mind having it.”

  “Sure, man, yeah … well, I hope you like it.”

  He said it like he had zero belief in my ever owning a copy of Empty Spaces.

  “Listen, thanks for this. One last thing. Do you remember the name of the other guy — the guy with Hugg?”

  “I never heard it. He was a prick, though, just as mouthy as Hugg — had a lot to say.”

  “Yeah. Listen, thanks again, and I hope things go well for you on the music side.”

  “Me too, man, me too. Hey, if you ever write anything about it, make sure you say that it was Hugg and that other asshole who started the whole shiteree, okay?”

  “I’ll make a point of it, Wilson.”

  We hung up and I sat back to think about what I’d learned. It wasn’t much. A little more background on the unsavoury character that was Jasper Hugg. Bully with a capital B. But I already knew that. There wasn’t much in the conversation with Wilson Hall that moved me any closer to knowing who might be threatening Buckley-Rand Larmer. He might have been the other guy in the bar that night. Or he might not have been. The mouthy part fit, but Larmer didn’t strike me as a fighter, especially a bar fighter, which takes a certain amount of raw toughness. But hey, maybe Buckley-Rand Larmer, rescuer of picked-on gay kids, was tougher than I gave him credit for.

  There was one tidbit that had come out of my conversation with Wilson Hall, but I knew I’d have trouble confirming it. Hugg and his buddy may have been connected, may have known someone in authority who could sweep a clusterfuck under the rug.

  It’s hard to read people over the phone, but I didn’t get the feeling that Wilson Hall was intent on ridding the world of right-wing radio types. And while the bass player may have had a legitimate beef with Hugg, it sounded like that had all gone away, courtesy of a good, old-fashioned payoff.

  I sat for a while thinking about Wilson Hall and Percy Squires and how what had happened had hastened the breakup of the band. Then I dug out my wallet, retrieved my PayPal information, and ordered Empty Spaces from Online Vinyl — The Record Store Located Conveniently on the Information Highway. I’d used them before and despite the long, silly name, the place provided excellent service. Their claim to either have in stock or be able to get every piece of recorded music ever made wasn’t far from the truth.

  And while I’d bought the CD, at least partly as a gesture toward Wilson Hall, I was surprised at how much I was looking forward to hearing it.

  EIGHT

  The first twenty minutes of my conversation with Buckley-Rand Larmer were uneventful, in part because I wasn’t really on my game.

  Hugg had called that morning at eight-thirty to tell me that my appointment with Larmer was scheduled for eleven. I started to tell him what I thought of that kind of notice but decided it was probably part of the mind games people like Hugg and Larmer play all the time, and graciously thanked him for getting me in so quickly.

  Jill called about fifteen minutes later to give me an update on Kyla. No chang
e. The call was brief, almost terse, which wasn’t Jill. Again I offered to come over to help in whatever way I could.

  “Adam, I know you want to help and I appreciate it, but right now we’re okay. And she hasn’t said it directly, but I get the feeling that for now Kyla wants it to be just her and me dealing with … whatever we’re dealing with. I hope you’re okay with that.”

  “Of course I’m okay with it and I don’t blame her a bit for wanting this to be a mother-daughter thing.”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that.” Jill sounded relieved. “You know she’s crazy about you, but this —”

  “No need to say any more,” I interrupted her. “Just get that kid back on her feet fast. I feel a night at Chuck E. Cheese’s coming on.”

  “Now I’m feeling sick,” Jill said and I could hear the attempt at a smile in her voice. “I better go. Call you when I know something.”

  Two cups of coffee and a couple of pieces of toast with peanut butter hadn’t exactly energized me, also contributing to the slow start to the interview. Larmer was all courtesy and co-operation for the first while as we chatted about the university conference we had been a part of, and Calgary’s recovery from the flood (lots of criticism of the provincial government there).

  And to be fair, Larmer’s second-floor office wasn’t helping me to be as sharp as I needed to be. For starters, it was seniors-residence hot. There was an air conditioner in the window, but it wasn’t running. It was either out of order or it, too, was part of the game, the “make the interviewer as uncomfortable as possible” game.

  I decided I wouldn’t give Larmer the satisfaction of even one wipe of the forehead.

  It wasn’t what I had anticipated for the office of a guy who, love him or hate him, was fast becoming one of radio’s most recognizable voices. It was small and, like Hugg’s, sterile and almost completely lacking personal touches. The desk was wooden, blond, and spotless, one lone piece of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven paper on its surface. I guessed the list of questions I had submitted to Hugg were on that paper.

  A radio sat on a small table in the far corner of the office and I could hear the low drone of, I guessed, one of Larmer’s colleagues waxing eloquent on the virtues of fracking or shouting down a caller who dared to suggest that the phrase “politically correct” is not a bad thing.

  And there was a smell, not altogether unpleasant but a bit pervasive; it was a mix of floral and freshly turned dirt, both being smells that remind me of spring and the outdoors. Except that I couldn’t see a plant or a container of topsoil in the room.

  I considered all this as my host delivered a long-winded recommendation of a book written by an Australian economist who, according to Larmer, had solved once and for all every economic difficulty the world was facing or, indeed, would ever face. I promised to read the book at my first opportunity and decided to get into some meatier stuff before I was suddenly informed that the interview had been scheduled for thirty minutes and that “we’d better wrap it up, thanks for coming.”

  “I mentioned to Mr. Hugg,” I began, anyway, “that I’d like to provide readers with a glimpse of the private Buckley-Rand Larmer. I’m sure with the tremendous listenership you have, there are a great many people who know and admire your public persona, but I feel that the time is right for a look at the man behind the man.” I inwardly congratulated myself for the catchy turn of phrase that I hoped would resonate with Larmer as much as it had with me.

  “You seem to be suggesting,” Larmer retorted, “that there’s a significant difference between the private and public person when, in fact, there is not.” His eyes narrowed as if to emphasize the veracity of his statement. “The person the listeners hear and that audiences see is the genuine article, Mr. Cullen. I haven’t found it necessary, as some have, to be a different person on air than the person I am in my home or in my car driving down the highway.”

  Which, of course, was bullshit. But I didn’t think pointing that out would assist in the bonding process, so instead, I said, “I understand and while that’s true, I know that when I listen to someone, I want to know at least some of the details that make up that person. What does he or she have on the walls at their home? What music do they listen to as they’re are driving that car down the highway? That kind of thing is exactly what I’d like to focus on.”

  “Trivialities, Mr. Cullen, and not the kind of information anyone would be interested in, I’m sure. But to satisfy your curiosity, it’s awards and plaques on the walls — indicators that what I’m doing is working and that it’s appreciated. And I don’t generally listen to music in the car. I’m usually dialed into my own station —” he gestured in the direction of the radio in the corner “— or I’m listening to books on tape that have to do with subjects that interest me. The Beach Boys and Nickelback do not.”

  I wondered about a man who displayed awards and plaques in his home and not in his office. I let my eyes glance at the wall behind Larmer. A couple of framed photos; one, I was sure, was the same one I’d seen on my way out of Hugg’s office — the identity of the fourth person in the photo still a mystery to me. No plaques; of course not, those were at home.

  “Those were simply examples,” I pointed out, knowing that he was being deliberately obtuse, “and I’m sure that if those areas are not of particular interest, there are other elements of the private Larmer that would be. What my readers have always found interesting in the people I’ve profiled in the past is the person’s background — the journey that brought that individual to where he or she is now, the hills and valleys of that journey.”

  “Again, Mr. Cullen, I don’t see that as productive.” Larmer’s mouth formed a smile that lacked humour or warmth. “The last thing we would want to do is bore your readers, and I can assure you that my growing up was uneventful, duller than a ten-watt light bulb.”

  “Well, of course, you would be the better judge of that, although I have found that modest people often under­estimate the importance of their own lives and of moments in those lives.”

  Larmer lowered his head and smiled. Humility personified.

  “Mr. Cullen, I’m happy to talk to you about what is wrong and what is right in our city, in our province, and in our country. The journey, as you call it, that has brought me to the positions I hold, and share with other like-minded and equally dedicated people, is irrelevant.”

  This was going nowhere and I was tiring of trying to get past the wall of secrecy around him. Time to change gears. “Yet you often refer, for example, to the incident from your youth when you stepped in to rescue a young man — I understand he was gay — from a group of bullies.”

  Larmer sat up a little straighter and pulled his shoulders back, both indications, I was fairly sure, that I had struck a nerve and that the session was likely nearing its completion. “I use that example, not as some kind of boast or self-tribute but as a metaphor for some of the things that are happening today, most notably the desire to paint the right as a group of twisted haters with an agenda that is based on narrow, paternalistic intolerance and —”

  He stopped in mid-sentence, picked up the piece of paper on his desk, glanced at it. “You have not so far put forward a single question from the list you submitted.”

  “No, I haven’t,” I admitted. “In fact, a request for a list like that is something I would expect from a politician, not from another member of the media. Would you allow yourself to be controlled to that extent by someone you were planning to interview?”

  “Those I interview have never felt the need to vet me prior to my conducting the interview. Perhaps that’s where we differ.”

  “That would be one of several differences between you and me, Mr. Larmer. And their not imposing a pre-interview vetting process on you says more about their courtesy than it does about your abilities.”

  He looked at his watch. “Well, as pleasant and stimulating as this has bee
n, I’m afraid I have another appointment and will have to bring this to a conclusion.”

  “Of course,” I said. I put the notebook I had set on my lap at the beginning of the interview back in my briefcase — there was not a word on it — and stood up. “Thank you for your time.”

  He didn’t stand or respond beyond a small nod and I showed myself out, opening the door just as Hugg was coming through from the other side. I wondered if Larmer had some device on or under his desk to summon his burly assistant when he felt the need.

  Neither Hugg nor I spoke as we passed one another.

  Right behind Hugg and walking slowly but purposefully through the outer office waiting area was Mike Cobb. He glanced at me, then walked past and trailed Hugg into Larmer’s office. I heard the door close behind me. I made for the stairs and the exit.

  Once outside I stood for a few minutes in the parking lot with a new appreciation for the term “fresh air.” I was surprised to note that my legs were actually shaking. There was an all-metal park bench to my left near the corner of the building and I decided to sit for a couple of minutes before driving. It was probably more like ten minutes before I felt myself come down from wherever I had been after talking to Larmer. I watched the driver of a baby-blue Firebird talk on his cellphone while parallel parking. Nifty. I finally felt as normal as I was going to feel after a half- hour with Larmer, climbed into the Accord, and rolled out into light 17th Avenue traffic.

  I felt like I needed a cleansing procedure but settled for a visit to a nearby gym I sometimes frequented. Spent a half-hour on the treadmill and pushed a few weights, but my heart wasn’t in it. The post-workout shower was the best thing that came out of my stop there. As soon as I was dressed I pulled out my phone and called Jill. I got her machine at the house, then dialed her cell, which went straight to voicemail. Unusual, but I told myself it wasn’t worrisome … yet.