The Folly Beach Mystery Collection Volume II

by Bill Noel

  5

  Thunderstorms punished the area Sunday and we stayed holed up in the apartment most of the day. Cal was back in his comfort zone and regaled us with countless stories of his days hobnobbing with the “biggies” of country music. I had no doubt there was some truth in his stories involving Patsy Cline, Hank Snow, Roy Acuff, and of course, Willie, although I suspected his innate ability as a storyteller and songwriter, and years of retelling the tales added his personal spin—aka exaggeration. Regardless, Heather gobbled them up like a bat in a cloud of gnats.

  Heather said eating three square meals a day was the key to her singing success, so she and Charles went to get pizza for supper. A bowl of corn flakes, a Velveeta cheese sandwich on stale whole-wheat bread, and now a cheese-laden pizza will be today’s three squares. I wondered if they would improve her singing voice; truth be told, I wondered whether anything short of vocal cord surgery could improve it. While they were gone, I filled Cal in on what Charles and I had talked about.

  He listened without interrupting, something I wasn’t accustomed to having been friends with Charles for many years.

  I finished and he said, “If Heather handing her demo to a secretary is the best Kevin Starr can do, she’d be better off having yesterday’s server as her agent.”

  I told him that was what I feared.

  Cal moved to the window with the scenic overlook of the parking lot, gazed out, snapped his fingers. “Tell you what, pard, hand me your phone and I’ll try to track down my old bud Johnny Roman. He was a top-shelf A&R man in my day. If he’s above ground, he may know something about Starr.”

  “A&R?”

  “Artists and repertoire. It’s the guy who handles stuff between the singer and the label. My friend goes by Johnny R and worked for several record labels. He was responsible for talent scouting, putting together songs with artists, booking the musicians and studios, and overseeing the development of artists. It’s a big job.”

  I handed him the phone and he stared at it. “Now, how do I use this iThing contraption?”

  Ten minutes later, numerous wrong numbers punched in, and finally a helpful electronic voice saying it would connect us to a number listed in the name of Johnny Roman, the phone was ringing. I handed it to Cal. I heard his half of the conversation and gathered Johnny R’s daughter answered and her dad was in Oak View, a nursing home in Madison, nine miles north of where we were.

  “Wonderful, we’ll go see him,” Cal finished and handed the phone back to me.

  He filled me in on the other end of the conversation, most of which I had figured out.

  “How long’s he been in the nursing home?”

  Cal looked at his hands like he was counting the years on his fingers. “She said nine years. He’s a mite older than me, around eighty. Had a stroke and they had to put him in the home. His daughter bought his house and keeps his old phone number because he has so many friends who call. She wanted them to be able to find him.”

  A soaked Charles and Heather returned with pizza along with a six-pack of Budweiser and a bottle of cheap chardonnay, a concession to yours truly. Heather said it was still raining felines and pups and they weren’t going out again.

  The next morning, Heather was up before anyone else. I was next out of bed, awakened by the non-melodious voice of the girl singer, as Cal politically incorrectly calls her. She was standing behind her music stand, strumming a guitar, and practicing one of the two songs she'd written.

  She stopped strumming and grinned as I came in the living room. “Practicin’ for my big performance tonight. Didn’t wake you did I?”

  Why would she have thought a guitar playing and her singing as loud as she could ten feet away from where I had been sleeping may have awakened me?

  Of course, I lied. “Nah, I was awake. Ready for the Bluebird?”

  “Not yet.” She shook her head. “I will come singin’ time. My agent’s going to be there. You’ll get to see him again.”

  “Great,” I said, not believing for a second that Mr. Starr and I will be shaking hands at Heather’s performance.

  She looked at her closed bedroom door, turned back to me, and whispered, “Got a favor to ask. I’ve got to get my head ready for tonight, gotta get my good Chi flowing and ready to channel Patsy Cline’s voice.” She looked back at the bedroom door. “It takes me all day before a performance as important as the Bluebird. Chuckie doesn’t understand. He wants to talk or do things. He’s trying to be sweet and doesn’t know how he’s messing with my Chi. Think you and Cal could get him out of the house? Go somewhere, anywhere, and let me do my thing?”

  I was skeptical that a day of good Chi would make a difference. I wasn’t a psychic or a singer, so what did I know? “We’ll try.”

  Cal and Charles came in the living room at the same time—synchronized waking.

  Cal rubbed his hands through his thinning, long hair. “What’s for breakfast?”

  I glanced at Heather and said, “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we go out and grab something to eat? I could drive and you and Heather could show us some of the sights outside downtown. It’s been years since I saw Vanderbilt, or maybe we could go over to the Hermitage.”

  Charles looked at me like, “When did you take an interest in universities and historic sites?”

  Cal said, “Good idea. I don’t need to do any walking today.” He lifted and wiggled his bare foot like it was nodding.

  Heather said, “Great idea. I’ve already had breakfast. Why don’t you boys go ahead and I’ll hang around here and practice.”

  Charles didn’t ask her what she’d found in the bare cupboards to eat, and said, “Sure, why not.”

  Waffle House fed our stomachs, a quick ride past Vanderbilt University fed our intellectual curiosity, and Charles making me stop at three used bookstores quenched his, and only his, need to stock up on books he didn’t have. Cal asked me to drive by some of the publishing houses he had been familiar with during his times in Nashville. Several wrong turns later, I managed to find Music Row, an area southwest of downtown where Cal said hundreds of music-related businesses were located. Cal pointed out every house that had been converted to “publishing businesses,” more traditional looking office buildings, and a few empty lots he swore used to be buildings where everyone knew him. I asked Charles and Cal to keep a look out for a sign indicating Starr Management was in one of the structures. They said they would. I wasn’t optimistic.

  We were on Seventeenth Avenue when Cal pointed to a spot in the middle of the street. “Guys, remember when Heather met Starr in Cal’s.”

  Charles said, “Sure, why?”

  I said, “You were concerned that he didn’t list the address of his agency on his business card.”

  “Your point, Cal?” said Charles.

  “I said he didn’t want every Tom, Dick, and nutcase singing wannabe knocking on his door.”

  Charles rolled his eyes and repeated, “Your point?”

  “I remember back in the 1970s, not sure what year. My mind was a bit fluttered back then. Anyway, one of those wannabes wanted to get an appointment with Chet Atkins in his office right over there.” Cal pointed across the street. “Chet was one of the biggest of the biggies in this town in those days, yes he was.”

  Charles said, “Cal.”

  “Hold your nosy nose, I’m getting there. Well the wannabe stood out in the center of the street, stripped jaybird naked, and stopped traffic until he got his appointment.”

  Charles said, “Did he get an appointment?”

  “He sure did, got himself a ride in a Nashville police car, and an appointment with a judge. Don’t think he ever got to show Chet anything other than his naked butt. That my friends is why many record agents and bigshots don’t put addresses on their business cards.”

  I smiled, more at Charles’s irritation than at Cal’s story, and said, “Cal, thanks for sharing that bit of Nashville history.”

  After driving in circles, more accurately, rectangles, ar
ound the Music Row area for what seemed like hours, Cal said he was getting dizzy and suggested we park and “walk a spell.” We walked two blocks down Music Square East and stumbled on a small park named for Owen Bradley. Cal shared that Bradley had been a songwriter, performer, and influential publisher. I wasn’t particularly interested in Mr. Bradley, but was interested in the shade-covered benches in the park. I’d told Heather I would keep Charles and Cal away a few more hours, and was tired of driving.

  Charles tapped his ever-present, handmade, wooden cane on the back of the bench. “Fellas, Heather’s sure hyped you’ll be there tonight. It didn’t keep her tears from flowing after you hit the hay last night.”

  Cal asked, “Why?”

  “She’s afraid she’s been snookered. After the server told her he didn’t think an agent could help her get gigs at those restaurants and bars, she’s wondering if Starr can do anything for her. That’s if he’s on the level.” He looked over at a homeless man shaving on the next bench, and back at us. “If he’s a fraud, she’s afraid she’ll end up like that poor guy.” He nodded his head in the direction of the man shaving.

  Cal pushed his Stetson back. “That’s just one singing server’s opinion. A good agent can work wonders.”

  A good legitimate agent, I thought.

  Charles said, “I’m sure you’re right, Cal.”

  “I know I am. Music’s a tough industry to get a toe-hold in, and Nashville’ll chew up and spit out thousands of aspiring youngins each year. Heather won’t be able to make it on her own; she’ll need all the help she can get. It don’t come quick, no it don’t.”

  “Cal,” Charles said. “You’re an expert on this stuff. Be honest. Does Heather have what it takes to make it?”

  I looked toward the front of the park at the life-size statue of Owen Bradley seated at a piano and imagined his head shaking.

  Cal took off his hat and set it on the bench, and took a deep breath before speaking.

  Charles said, “Well?”

  “There’s a history of untalented folks making it here, not many, but a few. Some guys and gals with limited talent have succeeded, again, only a few. And there are numbers too large to count of singers who have talent out their ears, and mouths, who never make it. Can I say your gal will? Absolutely not. Can—”

  Charles interrupted, “But.”

  Cal waved his hand in Charles’s face. “Let me finish.”

  Charles stopped in mid-interruption.

  “On the other hand, can I say Heather won’t succeed? Nope.”

  Charles waited for Cal to continue. He didn’t and Charles said, “The odds are against it.”

  Cal looked the Bradley statue and at Charles. “A billion to one.”

  6

  We returned to the apartment and Heather’s moods swung from euphoric to morose and back again. One minute she was a few feet above cloud nine about her pending performance; the next, her expression said she was ready to bite the head off anyone who dared speak to her. Cal, who had been around performers all his life, understood her fluctuations and said he needed to get some fresh air and “mosey around lower Broadway.” He told Heather he knew she had to mentally prepare and would rather be alone. She said it was a good idea and Charles, Cal, and I took a leave of absence.

  “Heather ain’t the Heather I knew,” Cal said as we walked along Broadway. "I saw her every time she was in the bar and on the stage. Always happy, always bouncy. And, how about those times she'd sing at the farmers' market back when it was held in that parking lot beside The Washout restaurant. I can still see her standing by the restaurant's wall singing and strummin'. Her beaming personality charmed whoever stopped to listen."

  I was glad he’d said it first. I had noticed the change in her moods and behavior. She was quieter, sullener, and did something I’d never imagined from her, she leaned toward the negative. She had been one of the most positive people I’d encountered. It was a big part of her endearing charm.

  Charles stopped walking and pointed his cane at Cal. “You can say that again.”

  Cal grinned. “Heather ain’t—”

  “Got it,” Charles said. “You’re right. Half the time she’s happier than a mouse in a cheese factory. She’s lived all her life for this.” He waved his cane at the bars on either side of the street. “Now she’s pissed at the world.”

  “What’s the problem?” Cal asked.

  Charles lowered his cane. “Two words: Kevin Starr.”

  Cal shook his head and pointed at Charles’s cane. “Don’t hit me with that thing. It strikes me that it may be a couple of other words.”

  Charles said, “What?”

  “Can’t sing.”

  I took a step away from Charles and his wooden weapon. Instead of swinging it at Cal’s head, Charles lowered his head. “I know. She’s put all her eggs, and a lot of our bucks, in Starr’s basket. Now it’s up to more than six-thousand dollars. She thinks he can—”

  “Whoa,” I interrupted. “Last I heard you’d given him $2,900 for a demo.”

  “Yeah,” Charles said. “I’ve been afraid to mention the other expenses. Knew you’d blow a gasket.”

  Cal moved closer to Charles, no longer afraid of his cane. “What’d it go for?”

  “Full-service marketing campaign.”

  “What in Sam Houston does that mean,” the Texan asked. “Marketing what? The gal ain’t even got a record.”

  “Starr told us it was the latest in getting word around Nashville, heck, even getting to the music industry big-wigs in New York and Los Angeles. He said all the newcomers who make it bought the service. He told us because Heather was special, he could swing the deal for only $3,700. He said other agents charge more than five grand for the same thing.”

  “What’s the pot load of money get her?” Cal asked. “I’ve been out of the business for a long time. I ain’t ever heard of it. Back in my day, hawking singers meant an eight-by-ten glossy and a howdy.”

  Charles shrugged. “It gives Starr access to the inner-offices of the publishing and recording companies; gives him money to create marketing materials, mostly digital and electronic, called an EPK. For you newcomers to the music biz, that’s an electronic press kit. It’s to accentuate her strengths for the potential publishers and recording companies; and …” Charles hesitated and looked around to see if anyone was listening. “To grease a few palms to get Heather past some of what Starr called gatekeepers who’d keep her out.”

  Cal leaned against the brick wall in front of Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville Restaurant, glanced at me, and turned to Charles. “When I was growing up in Texas, we called that a crock of shit. Those things are what agents bankroll. Hell’s bells, it’s what agents do. I think we need to have a confab with this Kevin Starr.”

  “That’s what we’re planning to do tonight,” I shared.

  Cal said, “If the slime bucket shows.”

  The Bluebird Cafe hosted an open-mic night on Mondays and five times in the last three months Heather was, in her mind, the featured performer. Each week between thirty and forty aspiring songwriters have their three and a half minutes of fame in front of a packed audience. The event began at six o’clock so I wondered why we had to leave at three-thirty for the five-mile drive.

  We weaved our way out of downtown and past churches, a residential section, and several suburban shopping areas, and pulled into the parking lot of a large furniture store near the Bluebird. I realized why we had to leave early. Two security guards stood in front of a faded blue awning with The Bluebird Cafe in script on it. If Charles hadn’t pointed it out, I wouldn’t have noticed the iconic venue in the nondescript strip center sandwiched between a Chinese massage parlor, and a hair salon. What I did notice was a line of thirty people standing in the parking lot.

  Charles said, “Good, we beat the crowd.”

  “Are they here for open-mic night?” I asked.

  “They sure are,” Heather said. “In an hour, there’ll be three times that man
y. Now we’ll be able to get in.”

  Charles explained the Bluebird only held about ninety patrons and most every Monday there were more in line than its capacity. Charles also said since we were in the furniture store’s lot a couple of us should do some furniture shopping or we’d get kicked out of the parking space. He said he and I looked the most like we could afford a couch so we went shopping while Heather and Cal got in line. None of the couches were to our liking, nor would fit in Charles and Heather’s apartment, so we joined the others in the line which had grown in the short time we’d been couch hunting. The number exceeded the occupancy limit of the building.

  “Hey, Gwen!” Heather shouted. She looked at the people near us and back at the woman at the end of the line. “Here we are. Get up here. What took you so long?”

  I glanced at Charles who gave a slight shrug. The newcomer strolled past forty people in line behind us, and sidled up to Heather. The group behind us appeared far from happy at the line breaker.

  Heather ignored those around us and said to the woman who was around Heather’s age, trim, and attractive. “You singing tonight?”

  I thought the guitar case in her hand would have given it away.

  The newest member of our group said, “You bet.”

  Heather said, “Meet my friends. You know my guy, Charles. That tall drink of water’s Cal Ballew. He’s also a country singer. Honest to God, he had a hit record.”

  “Cool,” Heather’s friend said. “Have I heard it?”

  How would Cal know? I wondered.

  Cal tipped his Stetson at Gwen. “It’s called ‘End of the Story,’ hit number seventeen on the national charts.”

  Gwen said, “Don’t recall it.”

  Heather leaned closer to Gwen and whispered, “It was before you were born.”

  Cal smiled. “A classic.”