He thought back to Jukebox Johnny Maguire sitting on the sidewalk outside B-Side Vinyl, looking like a sad old gunslinger after law and order had come to town. Rick thought about his years in the business. He’d seen all the changes, from the days when it was still about the music and the community to the moment the consultants knocked down the doors with their reams of research proving that the audience wanted radio to sound more like crap. Rick had watched, wide eyed, as management bought it, as research squeezed the juicy life out of the thing, and as deregulation pissed on the grave. Rick had been a witness to the car crash that was FM rock radio and now. . . now he was sitting in a depressing little employees’ lounge thinking, That’s the way it goes. T’ain’t a bit of mercy in the world and I can’t expect market forces to yield to my nostalgia. He thought of the lyrics to a favorite old Top 40 hit. Bye-bye, so long, farewell.
Rick considered his format for a moment. It wasn’t too long ago that he had high hopes, even genuine enthusiasm, for what he was trying to do. But now he had to admit it wasn’t going to work. It was a combination of things. Gaping holes in the music library. Bush league ad copy for the local spots. And his air staff -- well-intentioned and hard working as they were -- lacked the experience or polish necessary to succeed without an abundance of personality which they also lacked. Rob, for all his enthusiasm and knowledge of the music, sounded like someone’s kid acting like he knew what he was talking about. He lacked credibility with the core audience. J.C. talked too much and played more heavy metal than a stoned sixties audience would tolerate. And despite all the tutoring sessions, Autumn’s segues remained so jarring that Rick got calls from people asking if he’d hired the deaf girl for equal opportunity reasons.
Could be better, Rick thought. But then again, could be worse. He smiled and took a bite of his burger. On the bright side, I’ve got a date with a very flexible girl tomorrow night and I may be on the verge of sending Clay Stubblefield to prison. So at least there’s something to look forward to.
70.
Rick finished his show that night with a three song set starting with Spirit from The Twelve Dreams of Dr. Sardonicus. Over the end of Nature’s Way Rick cross-faded the droning Indian sarod that led to the opening drum licks of On The Road Again. Five minutes later as the Hooker-esque groove gave way to the sarod’s irregular thrum, Rick started his next record. A few halting solo electric guitar licks laid over the end of the long fade of Canned Heat. Then an acoustic piano and rhythm guitar joined the electric and then drums and before anyone knew what had happened, Donovan was singing Barabajagle.
Uncle Victor entered the studio with more praise for Rick’s music selection. “B. Mitchell Reed would’ve been proud,” he said, referencing one of free form radio’s originators.
“You’re too kind,” Rick said as he filed his records.
Uncle Victor cued his first song and put on his headphones. He cleared his throat then opened the mike. “The Jeff Beck Group with Donovan wrapping up the eleven o’clock hour here on WAOR-FM, McRae, Mississippi. Redefining classic rock.” He opened with Blind Faith’s Sleeping in the Ground.
Rick walked out to the parking lot and was pleased to find his windshield intact. As always, he listened to the Wax Museum on the drive home. Uncle Victor went from the Blind Faith to Derek and the Dominos’s Why Does Love Got To Be So Sad?
Rick drove home the same way he always did. Since he usually had the county roads to himself at this time of night he couldn’t help but notice the headlights a quarter mile behind him that made the same two turns he did. Dylan’s Isis came on just as he pulled onto the dirt driveway that led to his trailer. He stopped and killed his lights, waiting with his eyes in the mirror. A few moments later he saw a car pass, going well below the speed limit.
Rick shrugged it off and continued to the trailer. Inside he turned on the radio and went to the refrigerator for a beer. He sat down in the Barcalounger just as Uncle Victor went from Dylan into Phil Ochs’s Outside A Small Circle Of Friends. Rick grabbed his cigar box and loaded his little pipe. He smiled when Phil sang the line about how smoking marijuana was more fun than drinking beer. “Yes,” he said to the stereo. “But it’s a close call.” He took a hit off his pipe, chased it with a gulp, and raised the can to the speakers. He leaned back in the chair and listened to the music.
That’s when he saw the white beams of headlights bouncing through the window. Rick brought the chair to the upright position, wondering who was coming to his place at one in the morning. Traci would’ve called if her plans had changed and he didn’t think Captain Jack’s sister would have come back from New Mexico. Clay seemed an unlikely candidate, so the Ted Nugent fan came to mind. Maybe he’d finally discovered that Amboy Dukes record wasn’t worth five hundred bucks after all.
Rick slid out of the Barcalounger. He went to the kitchen to grab his trusty skillet. He stationed himself by the door and waited. A few seconds later there was a hard knock. It didn’t sound like knuckles, sounded more like a bat. Rick thought about throwing the door open into the face of whoever was out there, hoping to stun them long enough to land a few wallops with his Griswold number five. The doorknob wiggled as the interloper checked to see if it was locked. Rick said, “Who’s there?”
A woman answered, “Sheriff’s department.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” the woman said. “Are you Buddy Miles?”
“Uhhh, yes and no,” Rick mumbled as he crossed to where his cigar box was, shoving it under the Barcalounger with his foot.
“What?” The woman banged on the door again. “Sir? Open the door now.”
“Could you maybe come back during regular business hours?” It was feeble but it was all Rick could come up with.
“Sir, I’ve been out here eight times already,” the woman said. “You ain’t here a lot during regular business hours. We’re gonna talk now.”
“Okay, hang on.” Rick opened the door and found himself looking at a solidly built black woman in her forties with a nightstick in her hands. “What’s this all about, Officer?” He looked at his watch. “It’s one in the morning.” He smiled, trying to charm. “Not that I mind attractive women with big sticks dropping by at this time of night.”
She glanced professionally at Rick’s pupils then, without entering the premises, she looked inside, checking for others. “I got a call from a Lieutenant Smith with the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation, said a man identifying himself as Buddy Miles had called to report a dead body. Did you make that call?”
Rick didn’t think she’d be here if she didn’t already know the answer to the question. He figured she was just giving him the opportunity to produce enough rope to hang himself with. Rick poked his lower lip out, tilted his head, and otherwise tried to look as confused as he could. “A dead body?” He scratched at the back of his head.
The woman wasn’t buying it. “Sir?” She shook her head. “Would you rather tell me about the body or the distinct smell of marijuana coming from your trailer?”
Rick gave a resigned nod. “I see your point,” he said. “Okay, c’mon in.” He turned and walked into the kitchen as the woman entered behind him. As she moved, her leather and chrome accoutrements creaked and clacked.
Rick was pretty sure that possession of a small amount of pot in Mississippi was a misdemeanor so he wasn’t in a black panic about being busted but, on the other hand, it was always a good idea to avoid that first offense whenever possible. “Out of curiosity,” he said. “Does Lieutenant Smith trace all his incoming phone calls?”
The woman looked like she felt sorry for people as dim as Rick. “Caller I.D.,” she said. “And a reverse phone directory. Now, about this body?”
“Right,” he said. “Well, officer. Is it Officer or Deputy?”
“It’s Sheriff,” she said. “Sheriff Terry Jackson.” Rick’s expression led her to say, “That’s right, a black woman elected sheriff in rural Mississippi. What’s this world coming to?”
; Rick shook his head. “Actually that’s not what I was thinking. I’m just surprised you’re working the overnight shift if you’re the boss.”
“It rotates,” she said. “Now if you can try to focus on--”
“But since you brought it up,” Rick said. “How many black women have been elected sheriff in Mississippi counties?”
“You’re looking at her.”
“So you see? My surprise wasn’t--”
“Sir? I can still smell the marijuana.”
“Right, the body.” Rick leaned against the kitchen counter. “Before I tell you about that, I have to ask, didn’t you used to work for the McRae Police Department?”
Sheriff Jackson nodded. “Lieutenant Smith told me about your concerns,” she said.
“Yeah? What’d you tell him?”
“I told him I’d worked for Chief Dinkins and that based on my experience with his department, your concerns were well-founded.”
“No kidding.”
“Sir, I was in the U.S. Army for four years as an MP,” she said. “I came back here and earned a degree in criminal justice. I went to work for the McRae Police Department. Didn’t take long to figure out they’d hired me for window dressing and weren’t about to let me advance. Well, I worked too damn hard to let a bunch of wool-hatted hillbillies tell me what I couldn’t do with my life. So I left the department and ran for sheriff. And damned if I didn’t win.” Sheriff Jackson turned and walked into the living room. She pointed at the Barcalounger. “Now, you wanna sit down and tell me about what you found?”
Rick looked at the Barcalounger, then he looked over at the record collection and said, “Have you ever heard Chicago’s fourth album?”
71.
“You’re probably familiar with the laws on intercepted wire communications,” Rick said as he threaded the tape onto the reel-to-reel.
“Generally,” Sheriff Jackson said, looking at the tape. She was dying to hear it.
“I don’t think I can be arrested on the illegal taping felony since Captain Jack made the tape,” Rick said as he powered the amp. “But the other part of the law is about revealing the contents. That’s also a felony, except in certain circumstances, if you get my drift.” He gestured weakly toward Sheriff Jackson with his hands as if to suggest he needed some help.
Sheriff Jackson eyed the reel-to-reel for a moment. She was in its sway. She wanted to hear what was on the tape. She thought about the statute for a moment then stood up and motioned for Rick to do the same. When they were standing face-to-face, Sheriff Jackson looked at him with that level expression they must teach in cop school and said, “Raise your right hand and repeat after me.” She held up her own hand thinking it looked more official. Rick followed suit. “I do solemnly swear,” the sheriff said.
“I do solemnly swear.”
“That the testimony given here today is. . . true and accurate and . . . given without coercion of any sort.” Rick managed a solemn expression as he repeated the words, after which Sheriff Jackson said, “You can put your hand down now. That concludes the swearing in for the official testimony in a government proceeding.” She sat down on the sofa, pointed at the tape, and said, “You may proceed.”
Assuming that got him off the hook, Rick pushed the Play button. The reels began to turn and a moment later Clay said, “And you know that bitch wanted me to come back to her motel room and piss on her?” Proud as a peacock.
Sheriff Jackson’s reaction was priceless. Her flat expression vanished, replaced by one of pure guilty pleasure. But she regained her professional demeanor quickly and listened to the rest of the tape, all the while making notes and stifling giggles.
When it was over, Rick explained his theory. “I ended up with lots of parts of the story,” he said. “But it was only after I talked to Lori Stubblefield that things started coming into focus. Now I’m not sure about the time frame of this, but it all probably took place within the span of a month or two. And it started with Donna Moore and Clay Stubblefield having an affair.”
“Wait,” Sheriff Jackson said, glancing at her notes. “Is this before or after Moore Furniture burned down?”
“Before. Their affair was before the store burned down.”
“Okay, so Donna and Clay were having an affair.”
“And Holly Creel told Donna that she needed a big loan to pay off her gambling debts and that if Donna knew anybody who could help her, she’d do anything. Donna mentioned it to Clay, who mentioned it to Bernie Dribbling at Universal Financial Services. Bernie said he’d loan her the money in exchange for sex,” Rick said. “But I think she was still obliged to repay the loan. So that got me wondering how Bernie Dribbling planned to get away with making such a conspicuously bad loan.”
Sheriff Jackson glanced up at Rick. “Some of that fancy WorldCom accounting?”
Rick shook his head. “I don’t think so. From what Clay says on the tape, Universal Financial Services is a partnership, the partners being Buddy Alford, Dicky Crumly, Wally Thigpen, and Dribbling. Apparently the board of directors made the strategic error of putting Bernie in charge of the money and he made this loan,” Rick said. “For all I know, he’s made a bunch of them. At any rate, Holly eventually told Donna Moore that the appointments with Dribbling were getting weird and violent and that she, Holly, planned to tell Dribbling that she wasn’t going to do it anymore and she wasn’t paying the loan back and if he said anything, she’d go to the press and the cops and tell ‘em about the deal.”
“So you think he killed her and that’s the body you found?”
“No. I don’t think Dribbling actually killed anybody. I assumed he hired someone. But I wasn’t sure until I talked to Lori Stubblefield. She said that one night, a month or so before Captain Jack disappeared, Bernie Dribbling showed up at their house all agitated and needing to talk with Clay. Lori heard him tell Clay that he had a big problem and that he needed help with it. More specifically she heard him say, The little bitch is going to ruin me. Clay calmed Bernie down with a few drinks and told him he could take care of the matter but it wouldn’t be cheap if he wanted it done right.”
“So he hired somebody?”
“A guy named DeWayne Ragsdale.”
Sheriff Jackson nodded knowingly. “Good old DeWayne. At least he got out of the meth making business.”
“After Dribbling left that night, Clay made a call. About an hour later, DeWayne was in their kitchen talking to Clay. According to Lori, they talked for about half an hour before going to Clay’s gun closet. After DeWayne left and Clay went to bed, Lori looked in the closet and saw that one of the guns was missing.”
Sheriff Jackson looked up from making notes. “Did she know which one, what kind it was? Caliber, anything?”
“She said she wouldn’t know a four-ten from a two-by-four,” Rick said. “But all is not lost.” He went to the wall of albums and pulled Roy Buchanan’s That’s What I Am Here For which includes the song Hey Joe, as in where you goin’ with that gun in your hand? Rick reached into the sleeve and pulled out the yellow duplicate page from the police report Lori had given him. “The next day,” Rick said, “Clay called his friends at McRae PD and reported his gun stolen.”
“In case DeWayne got caught by someone like me?” Sheriff Jackson took the report and looked at it. “A forty-five,” she said. “That’ll kill ya, all right.”
“Of course DeWayne doesn’t work for free,” Rick said. “And, dumb as Clay is, at least he tried to hide the payoff. My guess is that Clay got Bernie to put up thousand dollars that the station would give away in a contest that DeWayne would win for killing Holly Creel. I assume he collected the prize under the name Ken Stigler for tax evasion purposes.” Rick told Sheriff Jackson about Joni Lang’s evidence and the W-9 and how Clay had threatened him not to look into the matter.
“What did Stubblefield get out of the deal?”
“He sold Dribbling an advertising schedule that would curl the hair in your nose. And I can’t prove it yet, but
I bet Clay commissioned it at around ninety percent.”
“Good work if you can get it,” Sheriff Jackson said. “So DeWayne killed Holly Creel for a thousand bucks and Clay got paid with the commissions. You ever figure out how Dribbling planned to get this past his partners?”
Rick made a waffling gesture. “I’m guessing,” he said. “But I suspect that at the next Universal Financial Services board meeting, when his partners asked about the defaulted ten thousand dollar loan, Bernie was going to be sad to report that this young woman had disappeared. Just stopped showing up at work one day according to the police, he’ll say. He’ll report that the car title or whatever she gave for collateral turned out to be bogus. Of course there never was any collateral but he’ll have to tell them something. He’ll probably say it looks like she was a con artist and the local cops don’t have high hopes on finding her. But the good news is they can chalk it up to errors and omissions and cash in the insurance policy.”
After a moment Sheriff Jackson said, “I guess that’s plausible.”
“Okay, so a few weeks pass,” Rick said. “And one day Captain Jack is walking down the hall at the radio station when he hears Clay on the phone talking about Bernie Dribbling and his strap on manhood extension.” Rick gestured at the stereo. “That’s when he made the tape. Then, after trying to extort Lisa Ramey and Donna Moore, he showed up on Dribbling’s doorstep. Now, based on what Lori Stubblefield told me, it was probably later that night that Dribbling came over to their house again. She said he was furious and that it was clear that Clay had fucked up royally and it was causing Bernie bad trouble. He kept screaming, You dumb sonofabitch, what’re you doin’ tellin’ people my business? This is yer damn fault and you damn well better fix it fast!
Radio Activity (The Rick Shannon series) Page 25