Tinseltown Tango

by Phil Swann

  “Callaway, take over for Wallace at defensive end,” he ordered.

  As I was snapping on my helmet, the coach gave me another command. “Whatever you do, Callaway, stop number forty-four.”

  Now, number forty-four, as it turned out, was a two-hundred-ten-pound senior, who would go on to play fullback at Ohio State. As a reminder, I was a five feet five, one-hundred-and-twenty-pound freshman with bad skin.

  The last thing I remember was looking at a red jersey coming at my face with the number forty-four plastered on it. The next thing I knew, I was on my back, inhaling ammonia and looking up into the sad eyes of my coach.

  “Cecil,” he said, not unlike a doctor delivering bad news to a patent. “I think your football playing days are over, son. You’re just too small.”

  In that moment, I recall having two simultaneous thoughts. One, my life is over, and I’ll never have a girlfriend. The other was thank God I don’t have to do that again because my head feels like a herd of rhinos just ran over it. I’m pretty sure that was when I decided to start taking music more seriously.

  “Callaway, wake up. Come on, Callaway, you’re okay.”

  I opened my eyes, and through the fog saw the face of Square Head. Not exactly the first mug one wants to see after a near death experience.

  “Come on, up we go,” he said, taking my arm and pulling me into a sitting position.

  “What happened?” I asked, rubbing my head.

  “You had a visitor,” a voice answered from across the room.

  I looked over and saw Agent Clegg standing behind Tonto, who was tugging on my bedroom window.

  “It’s locked,” Tonto said to Clegg. “Whoever it was must have picked the lock to the front door.”

  “A pro then,” Clegg replied.

  Tonto nodded.

  “I don’t suppose you saw who it was?” Clegg asked me.

  I shook my aching head.

  Clegg looked back at Tonto. “Get a couple of our guys out here to dust for prints. They probably won’t find any, but let’s do it anyway, just in case.”

  Tonto nodded and headed for the door.

  “And be discreet,” Clegg added. “Tell them to look like plumbers or something.”

  Tonto nodded again and hurried out.

  Clegg walked over to me, put out his hand, and he and Square Head helped me to my feet. I stumbled over to the bed and sat.

  “You have any ice?” Clegg asked.

  “I think there’s some frozen peas in the icebox,” I mumbled.

  Clegg nodded to Square Head, who hustled out but was back with the bag of frozen peas in seconds.

  “Here you go,” Square Head said, handing me the bag. “A little something for your pea brain.”

  “You’re a riot,” I replied, placing the vegetables on the back of my noggin. “What are you guys doing here, anyway?”

  Clegg answered, “My job.”

  Square Head chimed in, “Agent Stephens and I found the note your new girlfriend put on your car. When you didn’t show up at HQ after rehearsal, the boss thought we should pay you a visit. Good thing we did, wouldn’t you say?”

  Clegg said, “Didn’t that little episode with Miss St. James teach you anything, Lieutenant?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Do I have to remind you of the reason you’re here?”

  Again, I didn’t respond.

  “Here’s a hint: it’s not for your love life. Your first and only priority is to find out everything you can about—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Look, I was going to call you, but then—” My head started pounding again. I squinted and laid back on the bed.

  Clegg let out a long sigh. “So, you didn’t see who conked you. Any thoughts about who it might have been?”

  “One of Cabaneri’s goons would be my first guess,” I mumbled.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because ol’ Tony and I had a little chat after rehearsal.”

  “And?”

  “And, I think he knows more about me than you do.” I sat back up. “I don’t know how, Clegg, but I think he knows why I’m in his girlfriend’s band.”

  “Did he say he did?”

  “No, not in so many words, but—”

  “Then don’t worry about it. If he knew, you’d be dead.”

  “Thanks. That’s comforting.”

  This triggered a rare chuckle out of Square Head.

  Clegg went on, “We checked out that warehouse you visited yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing but empty crates. Whatever was in there isn’t there now.”

  “Figures,” I replied. “What about my illustrious conductor? Have you learned anything about him?”

  Clegg shook his head. “Argentina changes regimes like I change my socks. Getting information out of whatever government happens to be in power down there at any given time is challenging, especially when it comes to information about their citizens. I’ve got our State Department digging into it.”

  I nodded. “Well, I know his name is Ricardo Goetz, and he’s Gabriella’s father, if that helps.”

  Clegg’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. “And when were you planning on sharing that little nugget with us?”

  “Relax, I only just found out.” I took a whiff. “Hey, you guys smell that?”

  “Smell what?” Clegg shot back, still peeved.

  I got up from the bed, staggered out of the bedroom, into the living room, then into the kitchen, and then back into the bedroom. “Yeah, it’s all through the apartment. It’s faint, but it’s there.”

  “What’s there?” Clegg asked.

  “Cigarette smoke. Some lowlife’s been smoking in my pad.”

  “I don’t smell anything,” Square Head said.

  “Trust me. Next to my ears, my nose is my most reliable accessory. Besides, that particular rancid aroma is hard to forget. I’ve smelled it before.”

  “Where?”

  “Where do you think? It’s a brand of tobacco two of my Argentinian bandmates smoke.”

  “Which ones?” Square Head asked.

  “The bandoneon players. They’re twin brothers.”

  “You saying it was them who attacked you?” Clegg asked.

  “Maybe not both. Maybe just one.”

  “Which one?”

  “How about the one who wasn’t at rehearsal today. Cabaneri must have ordered him to ditch rehearsal and dig up stuff on me. Or maybe it was Goetz who ordered him. I suppose it doesn’t matter if they’re working together.”

  “Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Clegg said.

  “Too late,” I replied, rubbing my head.

  Square Head left the room but returned seconds later. He handed something to Clegg. “I found this in the trash can in the kitchen. I didn’t think anything of it, but now—”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Clegg studied the small object for a moment and then handed it to me. It was an empty matchbook. The cover was red with the logo of a golden horseshoe embossed on it. The words “The Palomino” were written in black.

  “We’ll check it out,” Clegg said, reaching for the matchbook.

  I pulled it back toward me. “No, I will.”

  “Why? You know the place?” Clegg asked.

  “Sort of. But more to the point, if you guys show up asking a lot of questions, then Cabaneri will know for sure I’m working undercover. If it’s me, he’ll just assume I found the matchbook here in my apartment and decided to play Sam Spade myself.”

  Clegg smiled and patted me on the back. “When do you leave?”

  I looked at Clegg and shook my head. “Why do I get the feeling I’ve just been played?” I looked at my watch; it was just past three. “I suppose now?”

  Clegg nodded. “Good idea. Do it before dark. It’ll be safer.”

  Square Head added, “Besides, aren’t you’re tied up with a clarinet player tonight?”

  I didn’t respond.


  When Clegg asked if I knew The Palomino, I replied sort of. What I should have said was that I’d heard of it. That was mainly due to it being owned by a couple of brothers who hailed from my home state of Indiana, Bill and Tom Thomas. I didn’t know either of the men personally but knew of them. They had become somewhat legendary back home for moving out west and making good. Something I hoped to do myself one day.

  The other reason I’d heard of the place was that over the years The Palomino had become a country and western music honkytonk of some note. And even though that particular art form was not my cup of sarsaparilla, I had to tip my Stetson to the Brothers T because The Palomino was now considered to be the hottest country and western music nightspot west of the Mississippi. It frequently hosted an impressive array of name talent, as well as being responsible for launching the careers of some bona fide stars. It had basically become the Village Vanguard for fiddles and banjos on the west coast. Not too bad for a couple good of ol’ boys from Indiana.

  I left Clegg and crew behind in my apartment to finish up whatever it was that they needed to finish up and headed out. I will admit to not having the Falcon halfway out of the carport before I began questioning the sanity of volunteering for the job myself. Beyond putting life and limb in harm’s way again, there was the little matter of not being entirely clear on what my mission was supposed to be. If indeed it was one of the bandoneon twins who bonked me on the head, as I strongly suspected it was, what good would it do knowing where they got liquored up. And if by chance I came face to face with one of the old codgers, what was I supposed to do? Confront the ill-mannered hooligan with an indignant I know what you did? As tempting as that would be, I doubted it would be fruitful. I also doubted it would get me any closer to learning what Cabaneri and Maestro Goetz were up to. Be that as it may, I did volunteer for the assignment, so…once more unto the breach.

  The club was a solid thirty-minute drive from downtown Hollywood to an area of the San Fernando Valley known as North Hollywood. The longer I drove, however, the less Hollywood-like things became. Before long, the view out of the Falcon’s windshield was nothing but warehouses, boarded-up businesses, and low-rent apartment buildings. The road was narrowing, and I couldn’t fathom how a club with such a stellar reputation could be located in such a less-than-stellar neighborhood. I was ready to declare myself in the wrong zip code when I finally saw it.

  It was a plain, white structure, large in square footage, but wanting in architectural ingenuity. As unremarkable as the building itself was, the sign in front was another story, a gigantic golden horseshoe with a prancing stallion in the middle of it. The words The Palomino were scripted in neon underneath. Its sheer gaudiness rivaled anything on the Glitter Gulch, and I was impressed, and more than a little surprised. I steered my steed into the gravel parking lot adjacent to the club, got out, and moseyed into the saloon like I belonged.

  I think I might be over-dressed, was my first thought upon entering. It’s definitely not the Copa Room, was my second. The cavernous hall, with neon beer signs supplying most of the illumination, had all the class of a hayloft. Not that I’m a snob, mind you, but come on. Pool tables in a venue that presented live music? No, I’m sorry, but that’s just not right.

  It was late afternoon, so I was not expecting there to be many customers. I was wrong; the place was half full. Most of the patrons were sitting at small tables facing a modest stage located on the far side of the room. The musicians on the stage were either wrapping things up or just starting, I couldn’t tell which, and it was at that point I remembered the curious little oddity The Palomino was famous for. Customers could watch all daytime rehearsals for the acts performing in the club that evening. It was a house rule, and you didn’t perform at The Palomino unless you agreed to that stipulation, star or not. I suppose the rule was designed to make the entire experience of The Palomino homier and less show business-ee—like there’s anything wrong with being show business-ee. For the record, Trip’s stance on the subject is rehearsals are rehearsals, and shows are shows. Audiences only attend shows. So sayeth me. Amen.

  I scanned the room to see if I recognized any of the faces in the crowd, specifically those of the bandoneon twins, or any of the other gentlemen from the tango band. I didn’t, so I unbuttoned my sport jacket like a regular bumpkin and saddled up to the bar—pun intended.

  “What can I get you?” the rotund bearded bartender in a red plaid flannel shirt asked.

  “Whatever you got on tap is fine,” I replied.

  “Comin’ right up.”

  I’m generally not much of a beer drinker, preferring more aged and refined spirits, but as they say, when in Rome.

  The man delivered my libation posthaste. “Seventy-five cents,” he said.

  I tossed a sawbuck on the bar. “Keep the change.”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Thank you, sir. Mighty kind.”

  “Don’t mention it. Is the band about to start, or did they just finish?”

  “Just finished,” he answered.

  “Too bad. Any good?”

  He smiled. “Best I ever heard.”

  I smiled back. “Why do I get the feeling you say that about everybody who plays on that stage?”

  He chuckled and started to walk away.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

  He turned. “I didn’t toss it. It’s Rusty.”

  “Nice to meet you, Rusty. My name’s Trip,” I said, extending my hand.

  “Hiya, Trip,” he replied, coming back to shake my hand.

  “So, Rusty, I was wondering, do you recall seeing a couple of gents in here recently? You’d remember them because they’re identical twins. Older gentlemen. Not from these parts. You might have even noticed they spoke with an accent. A foreign accent.”

  The bartender let out a sigh and slid the ten-dollar bill back to me. “Sorry, friend. I can’t help you.”

  “So, you’ve never seen them?”

  “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t. Either way, I don’t rat on my customers.”

  “I’m not a cop,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t matter if you were. I still don’t finger my customers. A man’s business is his business, and that’s none of my business. I’m paid to pour, and that’s all I do. You’ll have to get your information from somebody else.”

  I nodded. “I see. Well, that’s most admirable. I respect that.” I slid the ten back to him. “Thank you anyway, Rusty. I’ll inquire no further.”

  Rusty picked up the money, gave me a salute, and then headed for the other end of the bar where a waitress was waiting to put in a drink order.

  I raised my mug and took a sip. Dismissed but not defeated, my next move was to see if I could locate one of the owners. My plan was to use the Indiana connection to play on some Hoosian goodwill. I was about to ask Rusty the bartender if either of the Thomas brothers were around when I heard my name being called out.

  “Trip Callaway? Is that you?”

  I looked over and saw a wiry guy in a cowboy hat jumping off the stage.

  “Pinky? I said back.

  The man came toward me with his hand extended. “Trip Callaway, as I live and breathe. What are you doing here?”

  I didn’t know Pinky Leibovitz well, being what I called a gig friend. We’d played some casuals together and had a few mutual buddies, but I had always considered him to be a likable chap and a reasonably accomplished piano man. The cowboy hat, however, looked ridiculous.

  “I could ask you the same thing, Pink,” I answered, shaking his hand.

  “Good Lord, Trip, I haven’t seen you since we did that gig together in Henderson two years ago. You look good, man.”

  “As do you, Pink. Last I heard you were playing a piano bar in Paradise.”

  “I was. Fun little gig too. Money was short, but the tips were great.”

  “But now you’re in L.A?”

  “I am.”

  “And you’re playing here at The Palomino?”
/>   “In the house band. Yee Howdy,” he yodeled, tipping his cowboy hat.

  I chuckled. “When did all this happen?”

  “About a year ago now, I guess,” he answered. “Sandy got transferred out here—you remember Sandy, my wife, the aerospace brain? Anyway, we tried to do the long-distance thing for a while, but the commute was killing us both. So, since she was the one with the real job, I moved.”

  “Understandable. Well done, Pink. Things going okay?”

  “Yeah, you know, it’s…different.” He took off his ten-gallon and ran his hand through his thinning black hair. “To be honest, Trip, it’s been tough. I knew there were great players in this town, but I wasn’t counting on it being so clique-ee. You got to know the right people. I’m working on it, but it’s been a challenge. Thus…” he put back on his cowboy hat and cocked his head. “I take every gig I can get. Rock ’n roll one night, jazz the next, hillbilly music the night after that. But music’s music, I suppose, and a gig’s a gig. Know what I mean?”

  “Of course,” I said, turning up the sincerity knob.

  He added, “Guess all those late nights in that piano bar paid off. Taught me how to play everything.”

  “And nobody does everything better than you, Pink.”

  This brought a sad smile to his face. “Not sure about that, but thanks. Okay, enough of my bellyaching, what about you? I didn’t know you were out here. When did you move?”

  “No, I’m still at the Sands,” I said. “Just came out here to do a movie gig, and now I’m on a TV job. I’m heading back as soon as it’s over.”

  No sooner had the words come out of my mouth did I regret it. I always prided myself on being able to properly read a room and then act accordingly. I had completely failed on this occasion and felt terrible about it.

  “You broke into film and television, and you don’t even live here?”