“Uh, umm, yes, this is Gantry Elliot,” he said.
“Got your note. Do you know you spelled ‘Euless’ wrong? It’s “you less,” he said phonetically. “Not useless.” This became a running joke for years.
Before Gantry could reply, Alex laughed and said, “That’s okay. I like your idea about Buddy Holly’s plane crash. I like it a lot. I’d like to talk to you about it.”
Gantry didn’t know how to respond. He was paralyzed. Not only was he talking to the publisher of the country’s premier rock magazine, but said publisher liked his idea a lot.
He took a deep breath and got into gear. “Yes. I’d like that. I’d like that very much. You’re in San Francisco, aren’t you?” He tried to sound worldly, having never been out of Texas.
“Yep. Give me your address and I’ll send you an airline ticket. Next Monday okay with you?”
A meeting tonight in a woodshed would be just fine. Are you kidding?
Gantry closed his eyes and savored the memory. So many years had passed since then.
The respect and admiration cut both ways. Alex knew that first month that he’d found a diamond in the rough. Gantry’s obsession with the integrity of the music, his detail-oriented stories and his creativity were the perfect complement to Alex’s tough-minded business style.
One of his Hendrix favorites was softly drifting out of his vintage Emerson radio…“There must be some kind of way out of here said the joker to the thief…” Hendrix’s cover of Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower,”[2] voted the best cover of all time. So good that Dylan was now covering Hendrix’s cover in his concerts.
Bam!
A loud thud awakened Gantry, who, despite multiple cups of coffee, had dozed off, his feet up on his desk, his disheveled salt-and-pepper hair scattered across his face. Anyone passing by might have thought he was just in a state of deep concentration. A shard of bright sunlight had filled his office through his east-facing window, pouring across his dark, old oak desk and illuminating a credenza, a worn brown-leather couch, and a bookcase filled with old LPs.
The afternoon mail had arrived, as always, piled in a cardboard box on his side of the wall, under a small opening he’d asked maintenance to cut so the mail boy could leave it without disturbing him. Glancing over, he saw that the envelopes were piled higher than usual, a sign that it was time to rummage through a week’s worth of unread mail. He did it in a hurry, giving only a passing glance to most of it as he fanned through the envelopes, promptly trashing them.
Rarely did anything catch his interest. He figured, as he did with his e-mails, that if something was important enough, it would resurface or someone would call to follow up. He was known to ignore e-mails for weeks, and then just clear out his inbox and let it start all over, which drove his colleagues crazy. But what they hated more was the fact that he rarely answered his antiquated cell phone, one of the few remaining not-so-smart phones in Manhattan. Only Alex knew how to reach Gantry most of the time, knowing that he would either be in the office, at home, or down at Marty’s for an after-work whiskey.
The sound of mail hitting the bottom of the box was followed by a knock on the door.
“Yeah, what is it?” he yelled out.
“Mr. Elliot. There is one more package. It’s too big for the slot. Someone left it downstairs at the mail room counter.”
Gantry swiveled around and opened the door and took the large manila envelope from the boy. As he began to close the door, he could hear the kid muttering sarcastically as he walked away, “Thank you Dustin, for picking up the package for me.”
Gantry took the envelope to his desk and grabbed a letter opener out of a coffee cup. The opener was lethal looking, with a sharp blade and a heavy knob on the top embossed with a black-and-white skull and crossbones; a gift from Keith Richards for a favorable review of his solo album back when Richards and Jagger were having problems.
He turned the envelope over to see who the sender was, but there was no name or return address, just a handwritten message scrawled with a Sharpie, that read: To Gantry Elliot. Personal and Confidential. Now he was intrigued. It was the first piece of mail worth opening in months.
He reached in and pulled out a single sheet of paper. He slipped on his readers and read the short typewritten note: Brian Jones was murdered. It was not an accident. There were others. Look and see.
Suddenly all the mystery and fun was gone. It was obviously a prank. Jones, the founding member of the Rolling Stones and their lead guitarist, had been found floating facedown in the pool behind his country house outside London in 1969. His death was the first casualty of the Age of Aquarius.
Gantry started at University of Texas the year before Jones died. Everyone had read the media reports—death by drowning—and heard the flood of rumors and conjecture that followed for years, just like the reports of all the other stars who had died, usually of an “excess” of alcohol or drugs.
He’d heard all the wild conspiracy theories before. So not giving it a second thought, he tossed the note into the wastebasket and thrust his prized letter opener back into its coffee cup sheath. As he did, he flashed back to 1965.
That year the Stones dominated the airwaves. “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” from the Out of Our Heads album was the number one song in the country and was the first song on the flip side (Track 7). The opening eight note guitar riff exploded from Keith Richard’s Fuzz Box. It was the most electrifying sound anyone had ever heard. When Gantry and his friends heard that the Stones would be playing at the Will Rogers in Fort Worth, they had to go.
The show was sold out, their seats sucked, the sound system was unbalanced, and the venue was hot, humid, and filled with smoke, some of it from cigarettes. Still, Gantry and his friends were in heaven. In fact, when it was over, they were uniformly speechless: it had been their first real rock concert.
Starved for a beer and food, they piled into Randy Melendi’s El Camino and drove to the famous Cattlemen’s Steakhouse. Squeezing through the huge throng, they saw with stunned amazement that the Stones were now holding court at the bar, and Brian Jones was the center of attention.
Gantry had never seen anyone dressed like Jones…His outfit was like a costume out of a Renaissance fair, a multi-colored coat…his blonde hair glowed, seeming to turn different colors under the lights; a life force unto himself.
Gantry and his friends pushed their way through the crowd for a closer look, but couldn’t make it past the fourth row of tightly packed bodies. Disappointed and needing to pee, Gantry squeezed his way in the direction of the men’s room. When he finally got to a urinal, next to him, another guy unzipped his pants…He could not believe his eyes…Peeing next to him was Brian Jones...Holy Shit!
Gantry swiveled in his office chair, laughing at the memory of almost pissing on Brian Jones. He remembered the incident in minute detail.
“Mr. J-Jones, you and the b-band were fantastic tonight. It was the best concert I have ever been to.”
Jones laughed. “Cheers mate! ‘preciate that.”
Pausing in silence, they both zipped up.
“You from Fort Worth, then?” Jones asked.
“No. Austin. We’re all at the university... going back tonight.”
“Well then, let me buy you and your mates a drink before you leave.”
Gantry was dumbstruck as he and Brian Jones walked out of the men’s room together…then a sea of women descended on Brian and he was quickly swept away.
They never did have that drink.
Gantry was startled from his daydream when a red light began to blink on his phone, the Alex hotline, as he liked to refer to it, which usually meant trouble, personal or business.
“Hey, Alex, what’s up?”
“Hey, buddy. Did I wake you?”
Gantry pulled his boots off his desk and straightened himself.
“Naw, just going over that copy for the induction ceremony. Guess I’ll never get used to watching it on TV.”
“Okay. This is a pop quiz…Who were the inductees?”
“Do I get a bonus for the right answer?”
“Nope, no bonus, just testing your short-term memory, old man.”
Gantry rocked back in his chair clearly stung by the comment. “Oh, now you’re gettin’ on me with the old-guy shit, too? Just like the mail boy and the other adolescents here.”
“Come on Gantry, quit stalling.”
Gantry smiled. “Do you want ‘em alphabetical?”
“Yeah. That’s good.”
“Last name or first name first?”
“First.”
“Alex, that’s too fucking easy: Albert King, Donna Summer, Heart, Lou Adler, Public Enemy, Quincy Jones, Randy Newman, and Rush.”
“Gantry, you are good. You even put the two R’s in the right order. Bravo.”
“Cut the shit, Alex. You know I could do that for every year if I wanted. What are you looking for, buddy?”
“I’ve got something I need to talk to you about. Marty’s at six.”
“Sure, six…Marty’s…”
That was it. The phone clicked in Gantry’s ear and went dead.
Odd call, why not talk now?
He looked at his watch. It was five–still too early to leave the office. Gantry caught himself glancing down at the mysterious envelope and note he had tossed in his wastebasket.
Remembering his crazy reverie about Brian Jones, he bent over to pick out the note and envelope when he noticed a small, thin piece of paper caught inside of the envelope. Gently tugging so as to not rip the vintage waxy paper, he extracted it, and squinted hard to read the faded words. He was immediately struck by a major deja-vu taser.
My Little One. What the fuck? There can’t be more than a dozen people who know about this recording. And most are dead. My Little One. Brian Jones and Jimi Hendrix. Exceptional. 1960s psychedelic gem. The very best of both artists, recorded shortly before Brian Jones died.
Collecting his journalist thoughts, Gantry spun his chair and opened the file cabinet, then flipped to his Jimi Hendrix file and read with a need to know interest:
Hendrix died in September of 1970 in a hotel in London. The official reports listed asphyxiation with a note, choked on his own wine-induced vomit.
Brian Jones died just a year earlier to the month.
Gantry spun his chair back to the desk, now staring at both notes fanned out between his fingers. There had been murder allegations at the time of Hendrix’s death that involved a management contract dispute, but nothing was ever proven, and the case closed.
Both twenty-seven years old when they died. Part of the Myth of 27.
“Naw, probably from some weirdo whack job…but Jesus…My Little One,” he said under his breath.
He felt his heart rate speeding up a bit as he stood up and gazed out the window at the traffic below. He totally lost track of the time as he fixated on the stalled cars and the weird message. He checked his watch.
“Damn, Alex at Marty’s in twenty minutes.” He grabbed the envelope and a couple of overstuffed files titled 'DEAD ARTISTS' and ran out.
The room at Marty’s Bar and Grill on Fourteenth Street was right out of a Hemingway novel, everything was made of mahogany, including the booths. The ornate mirror behind the bar was framed in the same wood and featured hand-carved figures in the style of Michelangelo.
Gantry took his seat in the well worn red-leather booths in the back, nodded and smiled to Marty, who was already walking over with his drink, two fingers of Booker’s, neat. Surprising to newcomers, Marty was a woman, the granddaughter of Marty Boyle who’d opened the New York establishment more than fifty years before.
Gantry loved the authenticity and the quiet of his surroundings. On any other night, he’d be home in his rent-controlled apartment on Twenty-Third Street by 6:30, pulling one of the hundreds of dusty, cracked cardboard LP jackets off his shelves and gingerly placing its contents on his Technics turntable. Then he’d start to type on his IBM Selectric, just the way he liked.
Because his was in a pre-war building, the insulation was excellent, which allowed him his musical passion and kept the clamor of the streets and neighbors out.
He’d been in the booth for almost twenty minutes when Alex walked in, squinting and trying to find Gantry in the dark. Dressed in a black suit, no tie, and a crisp white shirt; his wavy hair was glistening, and he wore his perfected “say cheese” photo-op smile. When he slid in, Gantry smiled and held out his hand.
“Hey, pardner. Late as usual.”
“Late for what? Where are you in such a rush to get to? It’s not even Friday night.”
“Ah, they’re all the same to me.”
“That’s depressing.”
The waiter returned, immediately recognized Alex, took his order, and quickly disappeared.
“So, what’s up, your phone call was pretty weird?” Gantry asked. “Business?”
“No,” Alex said, nervously smiling from ear to ear.
“Must be fun, whatever it is.”
Alex said, “We go way back Gantry?”
“Hey, we go back to my college days, brother.”
“I know. Believe me I know, and that’s one of the reasons I want to talk to you,” Alex said, as the waiter returned with a vodka martini.
“I don’t know how to say this,” Alex said, fidgeting uncharacteristically.
“Oh, come on. You can tell me anything. What’s up?” Gantry suddenly became worried that this may be the “it’s time to move on” talk.
“Gantry, I want you to be my best man.” Alex took a large gulp of his drink.
“Holy shit! You’re getting married again? Who’s the lucky girl?” A relieved Gantry blurted.
“Well, buddy, that’s just it. It isn’t a girl. His name is Daniel,” Alex said, taking another swallow of his drink. He waited for his friend’s reaction.
There was an awkward silence.
“Well, now, ain’t that some shit,” Gantry said lamely.
“Come on...What do you think?” Alex asked nervously.
Another pause, but longer this time for affect. Gantry took a slow, thoughtful sip of his drink, put it back down on the table and looked his friend squarely in the eye.
“Buddy, I think it’s fantastic. Of course I’ll be your best man. I’d be honored.”
A smile creased Alex’s face. “I’m glad. I didn’t know how you would react.”
“Are you shitting me? I’ve known you were gay since we were kids. It never bothered me. I’m surprised you’d think I’d judge you.”
Gantry held up his glass. “Here’s a toast to you and Daniel.”
Alex raised his glass.
Gantry was truly surprised because he’d always assumed that Alex knew that he knew Alex was gay. “Pay no attention to what critics say,” Gantry said in toast. “There has never been a statue erected to a critic. May you both live long, happy lives together. Amen.”
The two men clinked glasses vigorously, downed the remainder of their drinks, and headed out into the clamor and rush of New York City.
“Hey Alex, one more thing?”
“Sure, but you still don’t get a bonus.”
“You ever hear of a secret recording by Hendrix and Brian Jones called “My Little One”…sitar and guitar…psychedelic...?”
“Can’t say I have…But maybe your old vinyl record guy might know?”
“Dennis? Maybe…probably too obscure.”
“G’night pardner.”
At that, they gave each other a bro hug, and Alex jumped into his waiting limo.
Just as Gantry was spinning on his heels to head home, Marty came rushing out.
“Gantry, glad I caught you. Did you leave this on the table, got your name on it… Personal and Confidential?”
Gantry caught himself taking a step backward, emotion draining from his face, as he stared at the manila envelope–then exhaled.“Shit.”
“You OK, Gantry, looks like you seen a ghost…need a
drink?”
“Naw, it’s OK Marty, some crank is sending me love letters–did you see anyone drop it off?”
“Nobody but you and Alex in the back booths tonight.”
Grabbing the envelope and carefully inspecting it, he looked Marty in the eyes, and gave her a sly, “you’re not shitting me look.”
His name was clearly written on the envelope with a Sharpie. Same as the first one.
“Must be a special delivery, from Alex…maybe it’s your retirement package…?”
“Don’t think this old cowboy is going out with a package…”
“Come on then…drink is on me, Gantry.”
“No thanks...G’night Marty.”
Gantry was certain that Alex did not have a package with him, although in all their years together he’d rarely known Alex to act so … tentative…so vulnerable, if that was the word to describe him. Gantry had never judged him. To the critics, Alex was arrogant and even tyrannical when he wanted to be. To Gantry, he was just Alex, the same friend who’d given him a chance more than four decades ago, and the same Alex who still believed in him and still needed him.
He stared at the envelope again and thought out loud,
“Alex, if this is a fucking prank…”
Gantry kicked the door open to his apartment–junk mail and old copies of Rolling Stone were caught on the transom, and he brushed those out of the way with his foot. The whole place was his man cave…so clean and tidy came in bi-annual purges. He dropped the manila envelope onto the dining table that doubled as storage for his vast record collection and noticed that there were four messages on his answering machine, none from Alex, so he clicked the off button without listening to any of them and fixated on the offending envelope.
This was getting a little sick, he thought, two envelopes in one day, and whoever made the drop, knew of my meeting with Alex. Must be a Stone insider.
He ran through a list of possible culprits.
The mail kid? A staffer at the editorial meeting…? Naw, these kids are too self absorbed to pull off this prank. Alex’s weird behavior at Marty’s. He could’ve slipped the envelope on the table…
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