Writing will keep you from going nuts.
Writing will save you.
So this is my way of saving myself. This is my writing. This is my way of staying sane. This is the story that, by telling it, can’t do me any more harm. I’m releasing it. I’m sending it up into the sky. I’m putting it out there so it can no longer put me down.
I’m writing so I can set my troubled soul free.
GONE
Gone? What do you mean, Vernon’s gone?” I asked Chester.
“Damnedest thing,” he said. “Soon as me and Essie got back from church this evening—we been there the better part of the day—we found this note. You can read it if you wanna.”
Dear Essie and Chester,
Words can’t express the gratitude I feel for you both. I call you saints. I loved living here, but it’s time to move on. When I get settled, you’ll hear from me again. Until then, though, please accept my deepest love.
Your friend for life,
Vernon
“We went back to his room,” said Chester, “and all his stuff—his papers and pencils and notebooks—everything was gone.”
“How could he move out on his own?” I asked.
“A neighbor said someone came by with a van and helped him. Said it was a woman.”
“A young woman?”
“Neighbor said it was a pretty woman. Maybe a relative.”
“According to his story, he doesn’t have any relatives,” I said. With both hands I was holding his stack of pretty paper.
“You read all that?” asked Essie.
“I did.”
“What’d it say?”
“It says . . . well, it says a lot of things. But mainly it says he’s had a hard time.”
“And how did he lose his legs?” asked Chester. “Did he talk about that?”
“He didn’t.”
“He’s the mystery man,” said Chester.
“But a good man,” added Essie. “A loving man.”
“I need to find him,” I said.
Why did I need to find him?
Well, for one thing, I had to know what happened next. Where’d Vernon go after he left Skeeter Jarvis in Austin? What became of Marla and Willard? Did Vernon form another band? Did he have any success? How did he wind up in his present condition? And, for God’s sake, why did he cut off the story in midstream? What was the point of leaving me hanging?
“So you really have no idea where he could be?” I asked Chester.
“None. He’s the Lone Ranger.”
“And no friends who would know?” I asked.
“Only you,” said Essie.
“Hardly a friend,” I said.
“A friend is someone who cares,” Essie explained. “I know you care. I think he knows that too.”
“Well, if you hear anything, will you let me know?” I asked the couple, scribbling my phone number on a scrap of paper and handing it to them.
“Naturally,” said Essie. “But if you catch up with Vernon first, tell him he always has a home here. Tell him that Essie and Chester love him like a son.”
“I’m sure he knows that. Maybe I should leave his story with you.”
“No,” Essie quickly replied. “He wanted you to have it. You keep it. Maybe there’s a clue in there about where we might find him.”
“Maybe,” I said.
I left Chester and Essie feeling all sorts of frustration. Usually I can lose my frustrations by playing music. But it was a Sunday night and that meant no gigs. So I went home. I got there in time to tuck the kids in bed and sing them their favorite lullaby that really wasn’t a lullaby at all but a song I’d heard “Guitar Boogie” Smith play called “Redheaded Stranger.” While I was singing it, I remembered what Skeeter had told Vernon: You don’t talk kids to sleep. You sing ’em to sleep.
Having a hard time falling asleep, I picked up Vernon’s pretty papers and read ’em all over again, looking for clues about where he might have gone. Couldn’t find a one.
Come Monday evening I was back at Big Bill’s. I got there an hour early and was happy to see Brother Paul sitting at the bar nursing a beer. In his black cape and black hat, he looked like Count Dracula.
“You had dinner yet?” I asked him.
“No,” he said.
“Let’s go down the street for a little chili rice,” I suggested.
“Good idea.”
The line was long, and when I got to the front, Chester smiled.
“Checking to see if we’ve heard from Vernon?” he asked.
“Haven’t heard a word,” said Essie, looking up from a steaming vat of chili. “It’s only been a day.”
“What are they talking about?” asked Brother Paul.
“I’ll tell you while we eat.”
We brought our chili rice back to Big Bill’s and ate at the bar. I gave Brother Paul a shorthand version of Vernon’s story.
“You know,” he said, “I remember that song ‘Faith.’ They were playing it around here some time ago.”
“I think I heard it too. But what about a tune called ‘Willing Woman/Willing Man’ and ‘Leavin’ Ain’t the Last Thing on My Mind’?”
“Never heard ’em,” said Paul. “How about you?”
“Don’t know those songs.”
“I’ll tell you who damn sure would know,” Paul offered.
“Who’s that?”
“Ranger Roy Finkelstein.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“He owns the Record Dump over in Garland. He’s got every damn record that’s ever been made. He’s got piles of those shellacs from the old days. Boogie-woogie, Western swing, polkas—hell, there ain’t nothing Ranger Roy don’t carry and nothing he don’t know. The man’s a walking encyclopedia of music.”
“How do you know him?”
“Nutsy. Him and Nutsy are partners.”
“I didn’t think Nutsy cared anything about music.”
“He don’t. Him and Ranger Roy run a bookie operation out of the back room.”
“Didn’t they close it down when Nutsy was busted?”
“They closed down Nutsy’s Fort Worth operations. But they didn’t know about Garland. No one pays attention to Garland. But Garland’s where all the big action is. There’s more to Garland than meets the eye.”
—
Garland is a flat, dusty suburb on the eastern flank of Dallas. They say Garland should be renamed “Carland” because of all the used car dealers dotting the landscape. On a small side street right off Garland Avenue, sitting between a gas station and a deserted lot, I spotted a small frame house that had been converted to a store. In the window was a stenciled sign that said THE RECORD DUMP.
I arrived, alone, the very next day after Brother Paul had mentioned the place. I was eager to see whether Vernon’s story could be verified.
What had been the house’s living and dining rooms were filled with wooden record bins containing long-play 33⅓ rpm albums. The walls were lined with shelves that contained 45 singles, as well as 10-inch extended play records. There was a whole huge section devoted to 78s, both singles and multi-sleeved albums. The massive inventory was divided by category—country, R&B, rock and roll, show tunes, and the like. Hanging from the ceiling were colorful posters for shows, most of them from Dewey Groom’s Longhorn Ballroom, a popular Dallas dance hall where you could see everyone from Ferlin Husky to B.B. King.
Sitting at a desk, his feet propped up and a slim unlit cigar hanging from his lips, was a man I presumed to be Ranger Roy Finkelstein. I say that because he was wearing a fire-engine-red sweatshirt that said SUPPORT YOUR TEXAS RANGERS OR PAY THE CONSEQUENCES. Under the words was a drawing of a smoldering pistol. On the man’s head was a beat-up blue baseball cap with U.S. POST OFFICE stitched above the brim. His dark eyes popped out l
ike a frog. His long eyebrows tilted down and met in the middle. He wasn’t ugly—he had a friendly face—but you sure couldn’t call him pretty. He spoke in a friendly manner.
“Can I help you with something?”
“Sure can,” I said. “I’m a friend of Brother Paul.”
“The drummer?”
“The same.”
“You a musician?”
“Try to be.”
“Got any records out there?”
“A few you probably haven’t heard of.”
When I mentioned them, he knew every one. He sounded pleased to meet me.
“Actually, I came over here to ask about a band. Ever heard of Good Friends?”
“Out of Round Rock, Texas,” he said without a second’s hesitation. “Put out a few singles and a couple of albums on Ring Dawson’s little label in San Antone. Only real hit was ‘Faith.’ First album was called Good Friends, and the second was Still Good Friends. But by the time the second one came out, the band had busted up. Too bad. I thought they had something going.”
“Ever hear ’em live?”
“I didn’t. But I got copies of both albums if you wanna hear ’em.”
“I do.”
Ranger Roy had no trouble locating both. Each of them had pictures of the band. I was excited to actually see the characters Vernon had written about. The first thing that struck me was that on both album covers, Willard and Marla were standing in front. I knew it was Marla because Vernon had described her as blond and busty with a button nose and dimples in her cheeks. She was definitely a fox. He’d also written that Willard was over six feet tall with blond hair and blue eyes. Well, that’s just what he looked like in these two pictures. Fact is, Willard and Marla looked like a couple. On the second album cover, he even had his arm around her. The other band members pictured were in the background. Sticks was behind his drum set.
Like Vernon had written, Cynthia was certainly a “raven-haired beauty.” I was especially moved to see Vernon standing up straight. With his square jaw and burning brown eyes, he stared down the camera. I could feel his steely determination. He was definitely the leader of the band, but it was clear that someone—probably Ring Dawson—had pushed the All-American-looking lead singers up front.
On the first album, they wore plain clothes. On the second, they had on Western-style costumes—jackets with fringe, and cowboy boots. Other than that, the differences between the two cover shots were slight. In both instances, the spotlight stayed on Marla and Willard.
“How much are these records?” I asked Ranger Roy.
“Oh, hell, you can have ’em both for a buck. They just been lying around here collecting dust.”
I gave him a dollar and thanked him kindly.
“One more thing,” I said. “You ever hear of a man named Skeeter Jarvis?”
“Knew him well. Rebuilt guitars down there in Austin. Helluva guitarist himself.”
“Presume he’s dead.”
“Been dead for years. Crazy as a loon. You’d drop by his shop and he’d give you a private concert. You’d think you were listening to Les Paul or Chet Atkins. But then the poor son-of-a-bitch would get in front of a crowd and freeze up. His face would turn red as a tomato and he’d run off.”
“I believe he had something to do with this band,” I said, pointing to the two Good Friends albums.
“Could be. Couple of times I ran into him at Ring’s studio in San Antone. Him and Ring were good buddies.”
“Is Ring alive?”
“Alive and well. He wound up in high cotton managing Bambi Love.”
“The one who sings that ‘Cheatin’ Ways’ song they’re playing on the radio?” I asked.
“This one,” said Ranger Roy, pointing to the pictures of Marla on the cover of both albums.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that this ol’ gal, whatever her name used to be, is now Bambi Love.”
“You sure?”
“As sure as a bear shits in the woods. Ever seen Bambi Love’s picture?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Well, just take a gander.”
He went to the back, where he riffled through some papers and came up with a glossy publicity photo.
“Am I right,” he asked, “or am I right?”
Ranger Roy was right. Marla and Bambi were the same lady—same flowing blond hair, same emerald-green eyes, same come-hither smile. Bambi was obviously older—a woman in her mid-twenties, while Marla looked like a teenager. Bambi was also sexier. Wearing a low-cut tight-fitting blouse, Bambi seemed especially happy to show off her big boobs.
“Quite a looker,” said Roy.
Still looking at the photo, I had to agree. “You got a copy of that single?”
“Sure do. The thing’s selling like hotcakes.”
“Has she come out with an album?”
“Just this single. Last I heard from Ring, she’s working on an album that’ll be ready by spring.”
“Also wondering if, by any chance, you got Ring’s number?”
“He’s somewhere in my Rolodex.”
Ranger Roy went to an old rolltop desk piled high with papers. He spun ’round his Rolodex and stopped at the card he was looking for. He copied down the number on the receipt for the records I’d just bought.
“Last I heard, Ring’s busy running ’tween San Antone and Nashville. His San Antone number’s the only one I got.”
“I’ll give it a try,” I said.
“What’s your interest in all this, if I might ask?”
“Looking for a friend.”
I paid for the records and was about to leave when Ranger Roy stopped me to say, “If you’re a friend of Brother Paul’s, might be safe to assume that you share some of his favorite pastimes.”
“Such as?”
“Cards. Paul’s been known to like a good game of poker, not to mention dominoes. How ’bout you?”
“I went to Baylor down in Waco for a semester, where I majored in dominoes.”
Ranger Roy smiled. “Then follow me out back and let me introduce you around.”
The back was a big two-car garage converted to a gaming room. There were a couple of desks where some good ol’ boys were taking bets on their phones. There were also three card tables. Two were devoted to poker and one to dominoes. To make a long story short, I devoted the rest of my afternoon to testing my gambling skills. I’m pleased to say that my skills came through. I left Ranger Roy Finkelstein’s enterprising establishment not only with the two Good Friends albums and the Bambi Love single, but over two hundred dollars in winnings to boot.
CHEATIN’ WAYS
I said, “I’ll love you, darlin’
For the rest of your days
And never go back
To my cheatin’ ways”
You believed my words
My heart was true
I’d never do a thing
To ever hurt you
But then he comes along
Like a prince out of a book
And turns me around
With one long lovin’ look
Wish I were stronger
And could stay away
But this man’s brought out
My cheatin’ ways
I was back home listening to this single by Bambi Love. It was a song that sounded more like something a man would sing than a woman. Men are known to be cheaters. Women are the ones we’re cheating on. Women don’t usually sing about wronging but rather about being wronged. And yet this singer—this woman with this low-toned super-sexy voice—was almost proud of her cheatin’ ways. Maybe that’s what made the song a hit. It was daring. And it was different.
Yet it wasn’t all that different from one of the songs on Still Good Friends called “Cheatin’ Days.
” Like all the tunes on the records, the writer listed was Vernon Clay. The melody was eerily similar and so was the rhythm. The only difference was the story. In “Cheatin’ Days,” Marla is singing about how her man comes home at night but runs around during the day. In “Cheatin’ Ways,” Bambi is the one running around. The writer and producer on “Cheatin’ Ways” was listed as Slick Walters. Didn’t know the guy, but hell, there were a lot of Nashville writers I hadn’t heard of. I couldn’t help but think that this writer flat-out stole Vernon’s song. And I also couldn’t help but wonder whether Vernon knew about it.
On the two Good Friends albums, the track I liked the most was the only one that Vernon sang—“Faith.” All the others were either Marla singing alone or with Willard. They were okay. Vernon’s songs were all well crafted. The stories made sense. But the duet singing of Marla and Willard was pretty ordinary. Kinda went in one ear and out the other. Vernon, though, was a different story. He sounded for real. You knew that his feelings weren’t fake. His voice was strong. It carried a cry and a plea that you couldn’t ignore. Damn shame, I thought, that he didn’t sing on some of those other tracks.
—
All this music stayed on my mind as Brother Paul and I packed up and headed down to San Antone. They call it Mission City ’cause of the old Spanish missions there. But I was seeing it as Mission City ’cause it fit my mission. San Antone was headquarters for Ring Dawson. I was sure this booking in a San Antone dance hall was proof that mysterious forces were keeping me on the path of learning more about Vernon.
Soon as I hit town, I called over to Ring’s Records. I got connected to an answering service. Frustrated, I got the address out of the phone book and drove over there.
It was a little warehouse a few miles from the Alamo. It didn’t look much like a studio, but hell, you can put a studio anywhere. Knocked on the door. No answer. Knocked louder. Still no answer. Maybe they were recording. This time I banged on the door with my fist.
“Ain’t no one there, mister,” said a man who came out of a janitorial supply store next door.
Pretty Paper Page 9