by Jack Huber
I made coffee in my new pod machine and sat down on the sofa, not bothering to turn on the TV. I wasn’t interested in news. Guy came to me and sat next to the sofa close enough to let me pet him, which I did. When I rubbed behind his left ear, he yelped and grabbed my hand with his mouth, careful not to bite it. I put my coffee on the counter and looked closer at his ear, both inside and out. There was a lump. When I touched it again, he flinched.
“Okay, Guy, time to go to the vet.” I got his brand new retractable leash and hooked him up. I opened the passenger door of my classic Chevy Malibu, leaned the seatback forward and watched as Guy jumped in the back seat. I closed the door and began walking to the driver’s side. Before getting in, I saw Bonnie waving to me from the top step of her motorhome.
She hurried over, saying, “Wait, Pat. Can you escort a couple here from downtown?”
“I can’t right now. I’ve got to take Guy in for a checkup.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Hopefully nothing serious,” I replied. I opened the driver’s door and continued, “He has a lump behind his ear that’s causing him some pain. I need the vet to look at it.” I climbed in and closed the door, then cranked open the window. “I’ll see if I can do that for you when I get back.”
“Okay,” she sighed. “I’ll let them know.” She stepped back and paused. “You didn’t sing last night.”
“I really don’t do karaoke much, especially if there are good singers in the rotation. You did Madonna really well. I was impressed.”
“Thanks,” she replied with a laugh. “But that 45-year-old guy who sang Sinatra and Johnny Cash stole the show, I think.”
“Yeah, he was really good. Anyway, see you later.”
I started the car and Bonnie returned to her rig. I headed out and realized I didn’t know where a vet was located. I pulled over after leaving the front gate and searched for one nearby on my phone. There were four within 10 miles but only one had a high rating, “Two Rivers Animal Clinic, 4.7 stars.” I clicked on the directions button and my navigation program popped up. I set the phone in its holder and began to follow its turn-by-turn instructions.
In about 20 minutes I arrived at the clinic and took Guy into the waiting area, on leash. There were two other dogs and a small pig, also on leashes, in the waiting room already. I signed in and we sat in the corner of the room facing the television, which streamed one veterinary commercial after another instead of TV shows. While we waited, Guy got bored and lay down. I felt somewhat empathetic.
One at a time the other two dogs and the pig were called and were guided from the room. After about an hour, it was Guy’s turn and we left the waiting room empty. We waited 10 more minutes in an exam room for a vet tech, Samantha, to show up and take some vital signs. She was very young and petite her light blue scrubs and I wondered if she was even out of high school. Her otherwise blond hair was dyed pink, which I thought clashed with her very light complexion, but what did I know?
I answered Samantha about why we were there and she gently felt the lump.
“I think this is a tick,” she said quite authoritatively, which still sounded cute with her Tennessee accent. “Or at least, the mouth parts of a tick. The dog probably scratched the body off, leaving the head embedded.”
“That sounds awful.”
“Yeah, it does, but it’s pretty common. The doctor will want to see him, but … “ She looked at the paperwork. “… Guy, here, will probably need some antibiotics after we remove the nasty little bug.”
“Will he get Lyme Disease or Rocky Mountain something or other?”
Samantha chuckled. “Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. He could, or a few other common infections. You’ll need to watch for rashes or loss of hair, anything out of the ordinary, and bring him back right away if you see it. But probably, everything will be fine.”
I was relieved. The doctor eventually made her visit and she confirmed everything Samantha had said. Doctor Tolbert was a bit older than the tech, but still very young. She was taller and had some weight on her, though was not obese. She also spoke with a southern accent milder than Samantha’s. Her olive skin reminded me a lot of Amanda’s.
I missed Amanda and still thought about her after all this time. Little things like skin tone reminded me of her often. I never really got over seeing her killed by the Native-American youngster in Upstate New York. I had been so hopeful of rekindling our relationship. But, right now I needed to focus on Guy’s predicament.
Doctor Tolbert gave Guy a shot, removed the tick remains and gave him another shot when she was done. Evidently no stitches were necessary because she launched right into preventative care. Apparently there is a tick spray I should have been using on top of the flea and tick treatment he was getting every month, mostly because of our camping lifestyle, and I was told what and where to buy it. I promised I would and the session was over.
When I returned to my campsite, Guy was a bit lethargic but not enough to cause me worry. He climbed into the motorhome, found his favorite spot on the sofa and went to sleep. I left him there and joined Bonnie, who was sitting on a lounge chair under her awning.
“Everything okay?” she asked. She pointed toward a lawn chair for me to sit on but I remained standing.
“Looks like it. He got a tick and they took care of it. He should be fine.”
“That’s a relief. Did they give you any tick spray?”
“I didn’t know that was a thing … but no, they didn’t. They just told me what to buy.”
“Pat, can you pick up that couple? I can watch Guy for you, if you need me to.”
“What’s the story?” I was a little annoyed at her persistence. “It seems urgent.”
“Yes, I’m sorry, it is. They already had an appointment but something has come up. It might be something about their careers. They are Bobbie and June, one of the few popular country/western duos who are lesbians. They have their problems, which is why they come see me, but the country music world hasn’t exactly embraced them.”
“I see. Where are they?”
“The Hutton. That’s a hotel that accommodates musicians here in Nashville. They say there’s nothing like it.” She reached out and handed me a slip of yellow paper with their names and the hotel address on it. “They’ll be waiting out front, so you can just pull up to the valet station.”
“Okay, I’ll go. Guy should sleep for awhile, so he should be fine.”
“I’ll check on him in a while.”
I sighed and looked at the paper again. “Bobbie Baylor, June Thompson,” I read aloud. “Anything else I should know?”
Bonnie shook her head.
Chapter 3
I was getting to dislike the traffic in and around Nashville. Even though it wasn’t yet rush hour, traffic was hardly moving on the interstate and on surface streets. Downtown was worse, as I waited through two or three signal cycles at each intersection. It took a half hour to drive a mile, I estimated, but I finally saw the Hutton and knew I would be able to turn in soon.
The valet lane was backed up almost to the street and I waited in line past the sidewalk. I was just about to look for an alternative pickup point when I saw two ladies jumping up and waving their arms. I opened my door and stepped out as they came closer. “Bobbie and June?” I called out.
“That’s us!” one called back and they continued towards the car. Before I could get out and open the passenger door, they were jumping in, the thinner of the two jumping into the back seat.
“Which one’s Bobbie and which one’s June?” I asked in as friendly a tone as I could muster.
“I’m Bobbie,” the back seat passenger answered. “That’s June.”
“Glad to meet you. I’m Pat.”
In the brief moment I saw them I could tell they were different, as many musicians are. There were almost imperceptible signs — a little extra sparkle in their eyes, despite the tell-tale pupil constriction of long-term opioid abuse, a spring in their steps and a confid
ence non-performers don’t usually possess. Both were wearing expensive clothes. June, the medium-sized partner, was sporting a black zip-up sweater with an oversized collar and no blouse beneath it, along with tight black denim slacks bedazzled with sequins up the side seams. The smaller Bobbie was wearing a white turtleneck sweater, rust leather vest and ivory slacks. I definitely felt under-dressed.
June, my front-seat passenger, shook my hand. “Very happy to meet you, Pat. “ I couldn’t quite place her southern accent. It sounded somewhat Texan. “Thank you so much for fighting this traffic to come get us.”
“Think nothing of it.”
“Yes, Pat, thanks.” A hand was thrust to me from the back seat and I shook it. Bobbie’s accent sounded Georgian. “We really appreciate it.”
I pulled out of the valet lane and entered traffic once again. “How long have you been seeing Bonnie … Dr. Mann?”
“A long time,” June replied. “Our lifestyle makes for relationship nightmares, sometimes.”
“You talking about professional singer lifestyle or couple lifestyle?”
“Both,” they answered almost in unison, then broke out laughing.
“Jinx, one, two, three,” Bobbie yelled and launched herself toward June, punching her in the arm while June turned sharply to try to avoid the smack, without success.
June was left rubbing her arm near her shoulder. “Ow,” she over-emphasized.
The two singers talked almost non-stop during the 45-minute return drive to the campground. Much of it was TMI and I tuned some of it out. I was thankful that I didn’t have to hold up my end of a conversation.
We reached the RV resort and I dropped them off at Bonnie’s motorhome before parking in my site. I checked on Guy, who was still sleeping comfortably, and made myself a sandwich. I grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and had just sat down for a between-meal snack when my phone rang. It was Bonnie.
“Can you come over for a minute?”
“Yeah. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing immediate. Just have something you might be able to help with.”
“Be right there.” I hung up the phone and sighed. I had a feeling I was about to receive a proposition for more work. “I’m retired!” I yelled at my phone.
I ambled over to Bonnie’s rig, not especially in a hurry, and entered without knocking. “What’s up, ladies?” I asked the women, who were all seated in the small living room.
Bobbie and June were on the straight sofa and Bonnie was across from them in a circle-shaped cushioned chair. The entire motorhome was decorated in a country kitchen theme and all three of them looked at home.
Bonnie began her explanation. “Bobbie here has been my patient for six years. June joined her when they became a couple two years ago. I have been helping them since before they started making headway in the country music business.”
I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. “And?”
“And, as I mentioned, the country music industry is not … up to … current social standards in their handling of talent. Bobbie and June have been dealing with some difficult blacklisting and other issues.”
“I’m not sure how I can help with that. I don’t have any ties to the music world, country or otherwise.”
“We’ve been threatened,” June jumped in. “Our lives have been threatened.”
I was surprised by the statement but still unsure what they were asking. “How so?”
“It’s not the first time, but there is a group of thugs telling us to stop recording or they will make us stop. The inference was pretty clear. They would hurt or kill us.”
“Have you called the police?”
“The last singer to complain about these guys has been missing for weeks. I don’t think that’s an option unless we have someone helping us. Like you.”
“Me? I’m not sure what you are asking me to do?”
Bobbie answered, “Can you go with us to the cops and be our bodyguard for a few days?”
I didn’t answer right away. After a minute or two, I said, “I’m retired. You know that, right?”
“I know,” Bonnie replied. “I told them, but I also told them how you help people.”
I was getting miffed. It wasn’t fair. “Bonnie, please. I’m no spring chicken. I can’t protect them from a gang. I’m retired. I’m finally trying to enjoy my life.”
“I’m sorry, you’re right,” Bobbie said. “It’s our problem, not yours. It’s not fair to even ask you. You deserve a life, too.”
“You know,” June added. “Bobbie’s ex is crazy. No tellin’ what she’d do.”
“Again, I’m really sorry. I can’t help you.”
There was silence while I tried to think of a way I could help without a great time commitment or risk of confrontation. I said as much.
“Anything you can think of would be appreciated,” Bonnie said. “Can you accompany them to the police, at least? Help them navigate the paperwork and talk to a detective?”
“Do you have any proof that it happened, with the thugs, I mean? Any recordings or photos?”
“I did take a few pictures with my phone the last time they threatened us,” June said. She pulled her phone from her purse and fumbled with it. Finally, she held it up to show me a photo on her screen. It showed a group of about a half dozen young men, most of them scowling, and the one in front talking angrily. Surprisingly, they weren’t all the same race.
“What was this guy telling you?”
“He said, ‘You aren’t wanted here. We can take care of that.’ Then he said something about meeting with Ron-Ron, or somebody. We didn’t stick around to meet with anyone.”
“Had you ever heard of Ron-Ron before?”
They both shook their heads.
“I’ll take you to the police and stick around for the interview, but that’s all I can promise.”
They looked very relieved and thanked me. Bonnie even stood up and hugged me. I hoped I didn’t just step into a pile of something smelly.
Chapter 4
On the way to returning Bobbie and June to the Hutton, I arranged to pick them up the next morning. During my return trip I called the Nashville PD and asked to talk to a detective. They gave me a veteran, Mike Ronin, and I was thankful he wasn’t a rookie. I brought him up to speed and we planned to meet at 10 a.m. the next day.
Before heading out the following morning, I took Guy to a local dog sitter whom was highly recommended. I was unsure of my time commitment with the country duo so it seemed prudent. Then I drove to the hotel and picked up my new temporary clients, who seemed to be in a cheerful mood despite the dreary, drizzle-filled day. I almost rolled my eyes when I saw that they were dressed in the same red and white pantsuits.
“About time!” Bobbie said and she climbed into the back seat.
“Sorry,” I replied, bristled more than a little. “I took my dog to a daycare this morning so I can focus on you guys.”
“Oh!” June said as she got in the front seat. “Was that your black Lab yesterday?”
“Yeah, his name is Guy.”
“I’m glad he won’t be alone today because of us,” she replied. “Let us pay for that.”
“Not necessary,” I said flatly. “I’m sure he’ll love being with the other dogs for a while.”
“You’re probably right,” Bobbie agreed as she sat back in her seat and buckled up.
“You guys seem chipper,” I mentioned when I pulled away. “You decided to be twins today?”
“We do that pretty often, actually,” Bobbie replied. “It helps with the stress of performing.”
“Well, I hope you at least sound solemn when we talk to the police detectives.”
“Don’t worry, we will,” June replied with a bit of resignation in her voice.
“It’s just that you want them to take you seriously. This is important.”
“Cool car!” was the response from June. “Don’t you think, Bobbie?”
“Awesome,” Bobbie deadpanned.
There was silence for the rest of the drive to the police station. Navigation guided me to the south end of the facility and I had to drive around to find public parking, which I located in an open lot on the north side of the building.
“C-17,” I said aloud after observing there was a pay terminal I would have to punch the space number into. I walked the 10 spaces to the terminal and used a debit card to pay for parking. “Shall we?” I asked the ladies and they joined me on the sidewalk.
“You’d think there would be covered parking,” one of them said. The other agreed.
The station was a very plain, gray, two-story concrete building without much ornamentation. Even the white sign over the entry had simple navy-blue block lettering that said, “Nashville Police Department.” Inside was much nicer than the outside appearance indicated. Most of the walls, partitions and built-in desks were constructed with a beautiful polished blond teak wood and the floor was in beige and black marble. There was a metal detector just inside the entrance, so we waited in line with a wide variety of people to go through it.
Finally inside, I told the clerk at the front desk that we had an appointment with Detective Ronin. The clerk must have punched 15 numbers into the desk phone but eventually got Ronin and let him know we were waiting. “He’ll be down shortly,” the clerk relayed. “You can wait there,” the clerk added, pointing to the waiting area off to the left. “In the meantime, please fill out this report form and give it to the detective when you see him.” He handed June the form and a pen.
We sat while June feverishly filled out the paperwork. We waited for about 20 minutes before the detective found us. He introduced himself as Detective Michael Ronin and shook each of our hands. Ronin was a big dude, maybe 6-foot-6, 230 pounds, African-American and young — I guessed about 28. Like many younger detectives, he was dressed impeccably in a dark brown three-piece suit, pale yellow shirt, rust-colored tie and, remarkably, Italian leather shoes. As they get older, detectives learn that clothing was meant to get ruined on the job, so their wardrobes become more disposable over time. He obviously hadn’t gotten there yet.