“Hell, no,” he said. “It’s going stronger than ever. We got plans to open another store on Deep Ellum in Dallas. I’m never giving up on the music business. Folks are always gonna need their music. It’s just that the profit margins are slim. That’s why I’ve had to move up here for a spell to help Nutsy smooth over our new setup.”
“It’s really something,” I said as I looked around.
Nutsy concluded his phone call and finally looked over at me. He was wearing that same white fedora with a purple feather. His double-breasted suit was gray flannel with broad, chalky pinstripes.
“Last time I seen you,” he said, “some dumb dame nearly cost you your life.”
“I remember,” I said.
“You still seeing her?” he asked.
I answered, “Only in my dreams.”
Both men laughed.
“Tell me about your problem,” said Roy. “Brother Paul says it’s something about music.”
“My partner’s a music fanatic,” Nutsy broke in. “He says there’s big money in music. But I’ll be damned if I ever figured out how to make any.”
“Remember those albums you sold me by Good Friends?” I asked Ranger Roy.
“Sure thing,” he said.
“Well, here’s what happened after I took those records home and listened to them.”
For the next fifteen minutes or so, I laid out the story of Vernon Clay, the hard times he’d endured and how he’d been screwed over. I’m not saying I’m the best storyteller in the world, but I’m not the worst. I realized that if there were ever a time to tell a story right—and make the right emotional impact—that time was now. I gave it my all.
When I was through, Ranger Roy had lots of questions about Vernon, Slick Walters and Bambi Love. I answered them as best I could. Roy was definitely interested, but Nutsy not so much.
“So what’s in it for us?” Nutsy finally asked.
“To be honest,” I said, “I really don’t know. I’m only here ’cause Brother Paul thought you guys might have an idea.”
“The idea of this here operation is to make money,” said Nutsy. “What you got is a charity case. But we ain’t no charity.”
“I understand,” I said. “Thanks for hearing me out.”
Ranger Roy didn’t say anything. For a second, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, I thought I saw a tear, but maybe I was imagining things.
“Any way you look at it,” Roy said, “it’s a helluva story. It’s the kinda story that makes you think.”
“That’s the problem with you,” said Nutsy. “You think too much.”
—
How’d it go?” Brother Paul wanted to know as soon as I got back to Fort Worth.
“Your buddies are big-time bookies,” I said. “They’re out to make a buck.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Suppose so.”
“But what’d they say when you told ’em the story?”
“Not much.”
“So they’re thinking,” said Paul.
“They’re taking bets,” I said.
“They put you in a poker game up there?”
“Ranger Roy mentioned something about it,” I said, “but I wasn’t in the mood.”
“That’s not like you,” said Paul.
“I’m going over to Dallas to see Vernon. I got me an idea.”
HIGH SOCIETY
I got the idea from a movie starring Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra and Grace Kelly. It’s a fluffy love story about rich folks in Newport, Rhode Island. The final scene, a fancy wedding, takes place in a mansion when, all of a sudden, Louis Armstrong and his All-Stars appear outside on the patio and start blowing their brand of hot jazz. The film’s called High Society.
“I need a favor,” I asked Cynthia when I called her the day after my Denton trip.
“What kind of favor?”
“Well, seems as though my promoter found me some bookings in the Dallas area. Looks like I’ll be staying in Fort Worth through the holidays . . .”
“Your family back in Nashville can’t be too happy about that.”
“By now they’re used to living with a traveling troubadour. If I can, I’m gonna bring ’em down here for New Year’s. In the meantime, my band needs a place to rehearse. I got some new tunes to woodshed, and I was wondering if your pool house is available.”
Silence on the other end.
“By any chance are these songs that Vernon could sing?” Cynthia asked with a smile in her voice.
“I suspect so. Or maybe he has his own songs he could teach us.”
“You mention any of this to him?”
“I’m thinking this might be one of those times when action is better than words. What do you think will happen if I just show up with the band?”
“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
—
Me and the band arrived the next day around two in the afternoon. Cynthia led us out to the pool house, where Vernon was in the middle of his weight-lifting routine. Under his tank top, his muscular torso was covered in sweat.
“What the hell . . .” was the first thing he said when he saw me standing there with my Martin guitar. Behind me was Brother Paul hauling his drum gear, plus our bass player and lap steel guitarist.
“No worries, Vernon,” I said. “Cynthia said it was okay. We just need a place to practice.”
“I ain’t in no mood . . .” Vernon began to complain.
“There’s nothing for you to do,” I explained. “Just keep pumping that iron. We’ll stay out of your way.”
Before Vernon could complain anymore, we walked into the room and started setting up. He turned his back to us and kept lifting weights. Fifteen minutes later, we were ready to get under way. By then Vernon had lifted himself onto his cart and wheeled himself into the bathroom and shut the door.
“Okay, boys,” I said. “Let’s see if we can do a version of that song they’ve been playing on the radio. Folks seem to like it. Let’s see . . . goes something like . . .”
I started singing “Crazy Love Is Good Love,” the current Bambi Love hit. The band followed along and soon it all fell into place. We ran it down several times before the bathroom door opened and Vernon came out, pushing his cart until he was right next to me.
“That’s my song,” he said. “That’s ‘Wild Country Night.’”
“No, sir. Bambi Love’s singing it on the radio and saying she wrote it with her producer, Slick Walters. She says it’s ‘Crazy Love Is Good Love.’”
“Marla,” said Vernon. “That’s Marla doing nothing but switching up the lyrics. The original lyrics made sense. These don’t.”
“How’d the original lyrics go?” I asked.
Despite himself, Vernon started singing:
Peaceful afternoon
Sunny and bright
Then the day gives way
To a wild country night
Everyone’ll be dancing
Till we all reach the heights
And have ourselves a ball
On this wild country night
God bless my band, ’cause the second Vernon hit his first note, we were right there behind him, as if we’d been his backup for years. I know he was amazed. I know he was moved. I know, because he didn’t stop singing, he sang the song three, four, five times in a row. Each time he—and we—sounded better. Each time he grew more animated, bending the notes and gesturing with his hands. It was a feel-good, kick-ass party song, making all of us feel great.
“Helluva tune you wrote there,” I said. “Now what about this one Bambi calls ‘Something I Got’? You heard this?”
Without waiting for Vernon’s answer, I broke into Bambi’s version:
You were living your life with nothing to do
Till everythi
ng changed when I came through
I got your attention, whether you liked it or not
’Cause, baby, it’s all about that something I got
Something I got, I didn’t learn in no school
Something I got, made you my fool
Something I got, and it ain’t no shame
Something I got, got you calling my name
“Where’d you hear that?” asked Vernon.
“On the radio,” I said. “Don’t you ever listen to the radio?”
“Never. And Marla was singing it?”
“Calling herself ‘Bambi’ and telling the world she wrote it.”
“She stole it.”
“Let’s hear the original she stole it from.”
Without hesitating, Vernon launched into his version. After the first chorus, me and the band found the right notes and came in to back him up.
I was a lonely soul with nothing to do
But everything changed the day I met you
You grabbed my attention, and cold turned to hot
All ’cause of that certain something you got
Something you got, they don’t teach it in school
Something you got, made me break all the rules
Something you got, has me down on my knees
Something you got, got me pleading, please please please
He sang so forcefully, so passionately, so sincerely that me and my musicians couldn’t help but respond to his performance with hoots and hollers.
Hearing the reaction, Vernon had to smile.
“Marla sang it on the record,” he said.
“I know,” I said, “but she didn’t sing it like that.”
“I wasn’t into singing then.”
“You sang ‘Faith,’” I reminded him. “You sang it beautifully. You made it a hit. Wanna try to sing it now?”
Before he could answer, I played the first notes on my guitar. That got him to singing . . .
Thank you for your faith
I’m not sure I deserve it
Thank you for your faith
I’m not sure I’ve preserved it
I know it’s a gift
I can feel it pure and true
Thank you for your faith—
I’ll always have faith in you
I could see Vernon choking back tears. I wanted to tell him to let go, to let the tears flow, but I knew the best thing I could do was shut up and keep playing.
“How ’bout ‘Dreamin’ in Blue’?”
“Man,” said Vernon, “you really know my stuff.”
“Been listening to it,” I said. “Been liking it.”
“Marla sang ‘Dreamin’ in Blue.’ She nailed it. Is this another one she’s copied?”
“You guessed it. She calls it ‘Dreamin’ of You.’”
“So what in hell did she and her producer do—steal every last song of mine?”
“Something like that,” I said. “But don’t think about that now. Just see if you can remember the original.”
Vernon began singing, and it didn’t take long for us to chime in with the right musical accompaniment.
Spent my days looking for you
Then spent my nights dreamin’ in blue
Dreamin’ you’d come back, faithful and true
So I could stop cryin’ and dreamin’ in blue
Dreamin’ of happiness and a life brand-new
Guess I’ll just go on dreamin’ in blue
I also explained to Vernon how his “Cheatin’ Days” had been changed into “Cheatin’ Ways.”
He just shook his head in wonder and dismay before breaking into the original version. Because I’d listened to his records so many times—and made my band listen as well—I knew all Vernon’s songs. Like most songwriters, he hadn’t forgotten a note or lyric of what he’d written. Going from one tune to another—from his “Cheatin’ Days” and “Leaving Ain’t the Last Thing on My Mind”—we barely gave him time to catch his breath. He even agreed to special requests—Skeeter’s “Easygoing,” a song he sang with relaxed charm and a big smile on his face. I wondered if, by asking him to sing “Surprising Love,” a song he wrote with Jill, I would be pushing him too far. I decided not to ask him, but much to my delight, he sang it of his own volition.
I could see that, whatever attitude he tried to cling to when we’d begun, now he was transported. Now he was in another place altogether, a place where the music—his music—took hold of him and had him energized and I’d even say happy. Yes, for the first time ever, I saw that Vernon Clay, singing these songs in a voice filled with power and purpose, was a happy man.
Two hours after we started, I asked him, “How you feeling, man?”
“Not bad. But what happens now?”
“That’s up to you.”
THE LONGHORN BALLROOM
I got a funny story about Dewey Groom, the owner of the Longhorn Ballroom over in Dallas. This also happened in the strictly segregated 1960s. Just ’cause he was so great, I had Charley Pride, the then unknown black country singer, get onstage with me. When Dewey saw what I’d done, he went nuts. To add to the fun, I responded by kissing Charley full on the mouth. Naturally that enraged Dewey even more. But once Charley started singing, the beauty of his voice quickly calmed Dewey down.
In somewhat similar fashion, I knew Dewey wouldn’t take well to the news that my band would be featuring a singer who’d be singing from a wheelchair. It was two weeks before Christmas, when the club was always crowded.
“It’s a time,” said Dewey, “when folks wanna dance. Seeing some guy in a wheelchair don’t make nobody wanna dance.”
“Half of ’em are too drunk to notice who’s singing,” I said.
“I don’t like the idea.”
“I do. It’s my band, and I’m doing it.”
Except I didn’t. I didn’t, ’cause Vernon flat-out refused to come out of the house when we went by to get him.
By then we had spent three afternoons in the pool house, three long rehearsals where we’d damn well nailed down arrangements to a dozen songs of Vernon’s that he could sing the hell out of. At the last rehearsal, when I mentioned the idea of his performing with us at the Longhorn, he said he’d think about it. Given how powerfully he’d been singing, I took that as a yes.
“He says no,” Cynthia told us when we arrived at the house the night of the gig.
“I’ll go back and talk to him,” I said. “I even brought a wheelchair to make it easier for him.”
“He asked that you not go back there. He asked that you respect his privacy.”
“What do you think is going on with him, Cynthia?”
“A lot. I think you woke up something inside him that’s been asleep for a long time.”
“But it’s a positive thing,” I said. “His creative juices are flowing again.”
“Flowing so strong they might even be a little scary.”
“You don’t think it’d do him good to play in front of people?”
“This isn’t about what I think,” said Cynthia, “it’s what Vernon thinks. I don’t have to tell you—he’s been through hell. For a long time he’s been hiding from his feelings. His music is beautiful, but his music brings back all those feelings. And now, learning how he’s been swindled, he has a whole bunch of new feelings to contend with.”
I saw Cynthia’s point. I knew she was right. At the same time, I had my heart set on seeing him sing in front of a crowd. I was sure the crowd would love him, and that love would make him feel great. Or at least make me feel great. On second thought, maybe I was thinking more about myself than him. It wasn’t about making me feel good, it was about making Vernon feel good. And if Cynthia was right, as I suspected she was, right now he wasn’t feeling good at all. He was feeling confused. Best to leave him alo
ne.
We went on and played the Longhorn that night and the night after. The crowd was large and enthusiastic. I played my best, but my mind was elsewhere. I couldn’t stop thinking about Vernon and how this same crowd would react to him. In my gut, I just knew it’d be good for him to get the recognition he deserved.
“Where’s your wheelchair singer?” asked Dewey Groom. After all his objections, he sounded halfway disappointed.
“He’s under the weather. Another time.”
“I see where that singer—the one you said stole his songs—is coming to Fort Worth.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Bambi Love. Isn’t she the one?”
“What about Bambi Love?”
“Something about her doing a special Christmas Eve concert at Leonards department store.”
“What!”
“From what I hear, Nutsy Perkins is promoting the whole thing. He got old man J. M. Leonard to turn part of the store into a stage. Right back there by the toy department. It’s gonna be a huge event.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said.
“You don’t have to, but from what I understand, Nutsy once did Leonard a solid, and now Leonard’s paying him back.”
That just didn’t compute. Nutsy Perkins wasn’t a music promoter. He probably never even heard of Bambi Love till I told him the story. Of course Ranger Roy Finkelstein, who ran the Record Dump, knew how popular she was. Was Ranger Roy behind the whole thing? But why would he encourage Nutsy to do this? A quick way to make a buck? A way to spite me? It made no sense. I didn’t get it. Something wasn’t right.
In all probability, Dewey got it wrong. Dewey, who liked his liquor, wasn’t always the most reliable source of accurate information.
The more I thought about it, the more I knew it couldn’t be true.
THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY
I ripped the poster off the telephone pole, put it in my car and made the drive from Fort Worth to Dallas in record time. I was going to see Vernon.
The poster, in Christmas colors of green and red, had large screaming letters that said:
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