|
"Murder
at the Busted Bird Cafe"
by Claude Hall
Chapter 15
Astonishing! In spite of everything that
had
happened, it was still only morning as I drove over to
Wilshire Boulevard and went east. I turned north on
Doheny and drove up to Sunset Boulevard. A few
minutes later, I turned right half a mile from
K-Oldies and parked a couple of blocks away from the
radio station on a back street.
I just sat there. Numb. I even had trouble thinking.
My brain refused to work.
What could I do? I didn't own a gun. I didn't even
know how to shoot a gun if I had one. As a kid, I'd
talked my father out of a serious spanking. That led
to the discovery that I could usually talk my way out
of trouble with half an opportunity. Over the years,
I'd honed the skill to a fine art. Yes, there was
that thing I did for the U.S. Army. But, I guarantee
you that I never had to carry a gun.
Once I entered radio, I quickly developed into a
professional voicemaster. I didn't have the golden
tongue of a Gary Owens or a Reggie LaVong, once a
great radio personality in Philadelphia even better
than Georgie Woods, I didn't have the quick wit of a
Charlie Tuna or a Rick Dees, the hard sarcasm of a Don
Imus or the late Robert W. Morgan. I certainly didn't
have the knowledge about records of a Jim LaBarbara or
the late Eddie Hill. But I was good. Really good.
Big deal. How could that help Jo?
The only other ability I possessed? Research. I knew
one hell of a lot about research. Again, big deal.
Academic research was not exactly called for in this
situation.
I locked up the pickup and walked the rest of the way
to the radio station, going the long way around.
I was lost in thought, I guess. Because I almost
walked past K-Oldies. When I looked up and saw the
familiar sign alongside the doorway, I realized that I
had missed the entrance. I turned and went back and
entered the station.
General manager Sandford "Woodie" Roberts said hello.
I waved as I walked by.
Dude Daniels followed me down the hallway toward my
office.
"What happened?"
"Those bastards, whoever those bastards are, have
kidnapped Jo."
"What are you going to do?"
"If I could just talk to them, I might have a chance
to get her back."
"Stupid idea."
"I'm open to suggestions."
"I don't have any." He turned and left.
I sat down at my desk and stared at the Rolling Stones
poster, the one that almost got them into trouble many
years ago except that the Stones could get away with
just about anything, whether it was offensive to
anyone else or not. The poster was a collector's
item. I put on a Tony Bennett album. I even bought
an expensive Diet Pepsi from the soda machine in the
DJ lounge. Nothing helped. I changed to a Johnny
Cash album. Still, nothing. Ah, Elvis...where are
you now that I need you?
I don't know how long I sat there, but Dude came back
with a couple of hamburgers.
"Thanks."
"The Acapulco offer still stands," he said.
"Thanks."
"But you won't go."
"No. Guess not."
"Let the police do their job, Buddy."
"Sure," I said.
He left again and I was alone with Johnny Cash singing
"Old Apache Squaw."
I ate one of the hamburgers.
I called the veterinarian. Jo's dog was doing fine.
I don't know what I did after that. It's astonishing
how time falls into a black hole. I don't know how
long I sat there. After a while, Dude poked his head
in the door and said, "Go on home."
"Okay," I said.
Dude reached over and cut off the record player. I
hadn't noticed, but the arm had lifted from the album
a long time ago and the turntable was just spinning
silently.
"I said: Go home!" This time, Dude's voice
carried a
tough edge.
I nodded and got up and wandered out of the radio
station. Night had fallen on Los Angeles.
Astonishing.
According to my wrist watch, it was only a little
after 5 p.m. Too early to go to bed. Anyway, a
camper is not a home. Unless you're parked along some
ocean or high in the mountain by a towering pine, you
only go to bed when there's nothing else left to do.
My mind was still fuzzed up. However, I'd realized
that I was desperately short on information. If
Sawyer was correct and no one with a punk hairdo had
been found among the bodies, I wanted to talk to the
punk. How do you find a weirdo in a town loaded with
them? There is absolutely nobody normal in Los
Angeles or San Francisco and San Diego is only half
sane.
It had occurred to me a few minutes ago as I walked
out of the radio station that the Society for Critical
Studies must have a lot of information on hand by now.
If it was actually some kind of government operation.
That seemed like a good place to start.
To tell the truth, I couldn't think of anything else
to do.
First, I telephoned Sawyer to give him the phone
number of the cellular phone Mr. Travoti had loaned
me. He was still in his office.
He had nothing to report on Jo's kidnapping.
"We're doing everything possible at the moment, Buddy.
Every cop in this town has been alerted. We also
have three detectives checking every known lead,
including her parents, that record producer, the man
behind that benefit the other night."
"Chuck K. Davis of the Busted Bird?"
"Right."
"Right," I echoed.
"Why would he get involved in a benefit?" asked
Sawyer. "Doesn't seem like the person you introduced
me to the other day."
"You're right. Davis never did anything for anyone
that didn't put some money into his pocket in some way
or another."
I asked him if anything new had come up on the Society
for Critical Studies.
"Nothing. No phone. No address. The
society simply
doesn't exist. Tomorrow, I'm contacting the FBI. See
what they've got."
"Would they tell you?"
"Depends, I guess."
I told him about the office over in Tarzana. "Thought
I'd drive over there and talk to them."
"Remember what Davidson said."
"All he said was that he was looking forward to our
next meeting."
"But that wasn't what he meant," Sawyer said.
"Stay
away from him."
"I can handle Davidson. Didn't I mention my studies
of the great Miyamoto Musashi?"
"No you can't handle Davidson," said Sawyer.
"Anyway, I'm not going over there to talk to
Davidson," I said.
"Stay away from Davidson," Sawyer said.
"That's an
order. That son-of-a-bitch could kill someone and
never even think twice about it."
"Everyone keeps talking about my death and I'm not
even sick yet. Anyway, he doesn't seem all that
mean."
"The good ones never do, Buddy."
I followed Sunset to the San Diego Freeway and took
that over into the valley to the Ventura Freeway.
Everyone complains about the freeways. The truth is
that Los Angeles could not exist without them. For,
while the traffic was bad, it was still fast by
comparison. So it didn't take long to reach the real
home of Tarzan of the Apes. Also the burial ground of
Edgar Rice Burroughs, his creator.
But not the Social for Critical Studies.
I had little trouble finding the building. Only a
couple of people were still working in some of the
offices. No one knew anything about any society. The
offices upstairs had been vacant for several
weeks..."right after that last earthquake."
The first office I'd been taken to, so far as I could
remember, was somewhere off Ventura. That could be
virtually anywhere in the valley. I could remember
how long the trip had taken...about half an hour. All
I could recall was following the Chevrolet of
Sorrowful Jones from my apartment over to Ventura
Boulevard. We had turned left and a few blocks later,
maybe a mile later, we had turned north off Ventura
and almost immediately came to a building that had an
elevator.
I'd never find the building in the dark, even by
accident. But I had to try. Instead of driving up
Ventura toward Burbank, I weaved back and forth from a
block to two blocks north of the boulevard. Several
buildings looked right. But when I drove up or parked
and walked toward the entrance, the rightness
disappeared.
The search was not only boring, but frustrating. Too,
a lot of the shock I'd experienced had worn off and
was replaced by a terrible feeling of anxiety.
I guess I wasn't the aloof radio disc jockey that I
made myself out to be. I was very worried about her.
And the worry was compounded by an overwhelming
feeling of depression because I was so helpless.
I tried listening to the car radio. For the first
time that I could remember, the local Spanish station
irritated the hell out of me and I cut it off.
A Burger King drive-through provided me with a cup of
coffee and some French fries. I never got around to
eating the fries. The coffee, however, was good and
hot and I needed it.
I found a building that not only looked right but felt
right a couple of hours later.
The building was three blocks off Ventura Boulevard
and five stories tall. The windows of an office on
the fifth floor were lit up.
Leaving the pickup on a side street two blocks away, I
walked back.
The building was semi-modern. Brick partitions on
either side gave way to solid glass across the front
of the foyer and in the center of this was a glass
door. To the right of the door inside the foyer was
the habitual potted plant; it looked like a twin of
the one in Dude Daniel's office at K-Oldies.
The door was locked, but there was a doorbell for some
reason, maybe deliveries if the door was also locked
during the day. No sign, no marquee.
I rang the bell sporadically for 10 minutes. Nothing
happened. But I had little choice. Whoever was in
that office on the fifth floor, even if just a
cleaning lady, had to come out eventually.
I had no plans. Gut instinct had taken over. My body
wasn't under control of my brain, but under some
primeval force of nature. I acted without thought,
without deliberation.
When the elevator in the lobby opened, I stepped back
out of view.
"Hello, Davidson," I said as he opened the front door.
When his right hand reached for a gun, I slammed the
glass door against him. The impact of the door threw
him off balance just enough to slow him down. I
jerked open the door and hit him as hard as I could
with my fist in the throat. I'd aimed for his nose.
He coughed and struggled to breath.
It suddenly occurred to me: Maybe he hadn't been
reaching for a gun. True, I was, as they say, running
off half cocked, whatever the hell that meant. I was
psychologically and physically disturbed. No doubt
about that. And I was angry. Very angry. Call
it
damned mad! I had no time to take chances. Somewhere
in the city, Jo was in terrible danger. I don't know
why, but I thought it was because of me.
That's when I decided that I may be a coward; I didn't
dare assume otherwise. But a lot of damned heroes had
better get out of my way!
One of Davidson's hands was still inside the jacket of
his suit coat. I thought I'd better check. I was
right. A gun in a shoulder holster. It was an
interesting gun. Looked like one of those old German
lugers you saw in a World War II movie. Maybe a
little smaller. More like a museum piece than a real
weapon. I didn't quite know what to do with the
damned thing, so I jammed it beneath my belt.
"I'm looking for Tricia," I said.
He was still struggling to breath. To help Davidson
breath a little better, I shoved him against the
window and hit him as hard as I could in the stomach.
Unfortunately, it didn't help that much. He let out a
sharp groan, grabbed his stomach, and doubled over. I
shoved him back against the window.
"There. Feel better?"
He shook his head.
"Tricia," I said, just to remind him what this was all
about.
He still had trouble breathing. He nodded toward the
elevator.
"Excellent," I said. "I'm pleased you're
eager to
cooperate. I was worried that you might vomit on me.
I suggest you not do something like that. I'm
allergic to vomit. Just one of my many little
quirks."
I shoved him in the direction of the elevator and
pushed the button. The door opened. I slammed him
against the wall of the elevator and pushed the button
for the fifth floor. He could barely stand. I
figured it was his billfold weighing him down, so I
relieved him of it. The elevator was slow. I had
plenty of time to scan the contents. They were quite
interesting.
The elevator door opened on a small lobby with a
receptionist desk and a lamp and the mandatory potted
plant. This one was a table model. It, too, was as
phony as they come.
Tricia Rizzo was sitting at a desk in one of the
offices off the lobby doodling on a legal pad with a
pencil. A ballpoint pen was aligned alongside the
legal pad. Looks as if she had some quirks, too.
Sorrowful Jones stood by a computer printer scanning a
long scroll of information.
Davidson stumbled and fell against the wall with my
help. The noise caused Sorrowful Jones to look
around. He shook his head.
"I wish you hadn't done that," Sorrowful said, staring
at us. "He was already upset because you banged his
head yesterday. You've made a big mistake."
"I've made a lot of them lately," I said.
"One more
and it may become a habit."
Tricia didn't say anything for a moment. She placed
her pen down on the table and stared at me as if she
didn't even know who I was.
"Hi," I said. "I'm looking for some
information."
She picked up her pen again.
"Slugging someone is not necessarily the best way to
ask a question," she said.
"I was afraid he would say no," I said. "I
decided to
save him the trouble."
"He has Davidson's gun," Sorrowful pointed out.
He
pointed at the gun tucked in my belt.
"You must have hit him from behind," Tricia said.
I shrugged.
"You can give his gun to me," said Sorrowful. He
started my direction.
I shrugged again. He stopped. His hands dropped to
his side.
"What kind of information are you after?" Tricia
asked.
"Everything you know about the Busted Bird killings."
"I'm afraid that's confidential," she said.
I walked over to the telephone on her desk and picked
it up and dialed Sawyer's cellular number.
"Put the phone down," said Sorrowful.
Like Davidson earlier, his hand darted toward his vest
pocket. Unfortunately, I didn't have a door handy to
slam at him. I used the telephone.
The phone hit him in the temple. He collapsed to the
floor.
The gun he'd half drawn out of a shoulder holster fell
out of his hand. I picked up the gun. It, too, was
some kind of small pistol with an extended barrel. I
jammed it under my belt on the other side and picked
up the phone. Sawyer was still there.
"Hey You, this is Buddy."
Davidson had recovered his breath. His shoulder
dipped slightly. I shook my head and wagged the
receiver of the phone at him. He hesitated. Then
looked at Tricia. She shook her head. At that, he
stood still. One hand massaged his throat.
"What was all that racket?" Sawyer asked over the
phone.
"I had to use the phone a minute," I said.
"Sorry.
Can you give me some help?'
I explained where I was and how to get there.
Breaking and entering," Sawyer said.
"Don't be silly," I said. "No one would
dare do that
sort of thing to a Mafia hangout. Anyway, I wasn't
breaking and entering, I was entering and breaking."
"Jesus!" said Jesus "Hey You" Sawyer.
"Tsk, tsk! I knew that sort of thing was
catching," I
said and hung up.
I sat the phone down carefully on the table, but kept
my hand on it.
"How absurd," said Tricia. She frowned
disapprovingly. "The Mafia?"
"So I lied a little. I need help. Two against
three
will be better than one against three. Especially
such desperate villains as I suspect you are, dear
lady."
She leaned back in her chair. Her hands fiddled with
the ballpoint pen, turning it around and around.
"If you're thinking about pulling a gun," I said,
"I'd
like to remind you that I'm deadly with a telephone."
"So I've noticed. No, no gun."
"While we're waiting, some questions," I said.
"Almost everything we do is confidential," she said.
"Put the pen down," I said. I put a lot of
emphasis
into the words so she would not doubt my
determination.
"What?" Her eyes had that innocent, wide look.
You
can tell a woman is up to something or lying when
their eyes go like that.
"I've known for a long time," I said, "that the
pen is
mightier than the sword. Whether it's mightier than a
gun, I don't know. To be honest, I'd rather not find
out."
"Just a ballpoint pen," she said. She placed it
carefully by her legal pad.
"Sure," I said.
Her eyes glanced at Davidson. He immediately shifted
to the right. The movement put him out of view if I
looked at Tricia. It was easy to look at her. But I
had something on my mind tonight besides sex.
Evidently her glance his direction had been some kind
of order.
When Davidson moved, I stepped to the side and kicked
him in the shin with the toe of my boot. The toe of a
cowboy boot makes a good weapon at times.
He yelled and fell against her desk.
"Some people never learn," I said. I kicked his
other
leg out from under him. He fell on the floor, still
groaning in pain, and tried to sit up. "Don't bother
me again," I said with emphasis.
Tricia reached quickly for her ballpoint pen. I hit
her hand like a hammer with my fist doubled up. Not
hard enough to break her hand, but hard enough so she
wouldn't use the hand for a few minutes. The pen
skittered across her desk.
She cried out, clashed both hands to her chest. Her
eyes were wide this time, but not with innocence. Her
face lost its stunning beauty; the rage showed
through.
I walked over and ripped off the sheet of computer
paper that Sorrowful had been examining as I entered.
I folded it and jammed it into a hip pocket.
"You can't do that!"
I shrugged. "Why not? You going to order
Davidson or
Sorrowful Jones there to stop me?"
Sawyer, just then, came through the door, gun drawn.
He looked at the limp form of Sorrowful on the floor,
Davidson sitting with his back against the desk, and
the angry Tricia Rizzo behind the desk. He didn't put
his gun away, but he let his hand drop to his side,
the gun barrel pointing at the floor.
"What took you so long?" I asked.
"The door downstairs," Sawyer said. "You
forgot to
come let me in."
"I was busy," I said.
"I see that."
"Arrest him!" Tricia demanded.
"In all probability," said Sawyer. He turned to
me.
"Would you please explain to me what in hell's going
on?"
"The other office supposedly occupied by the Society
for Critical Studies was vacant," I said.
"Someone in
the building said those particular offices had been
vacant since the last earthquake. Took a few hours,
but I finally located this place. This was the place
they brought me that day I was drunk."
He put his gun away in a hip holster.
I handed him the two guns I'd taken from Davidson and
Sorrowful.
Sawyer tucked one under his belt and examined the
other one closely.
"Special makes," he said.
"Be interesting to know if they have permits to carry
those toys," I said.
"These are not toys," Sawyer said. He popped the
clip
in the handle and looked at the bullets. "Dum dums.
Tear a hole in you that you wouldn't believe."
Two uniformed officers ran into the room. They
stopped when they saw that everything seemed to be
under control.
Sawyer told one to standby, the other he posted
downstairs at the entrance.
"What did you need me for?" he asked.
"To see what that computer over there can tell us
about the Busted Bird," I said.
"I warn you: This is a government operation,"
said
Tricia. Her voice carried considerable venom.
"Feds generally don't carry .22 caliber specially made
pistols," Sawyer told her.
"This is a top-secret organization," she snapped.
"Both of you will be facing federal charges in
addition to breaking and entering. If you touch that
computer, tampering with classified information could
be added to the charges."
"Evidently, she doesn't know who you are, Buddy,"
Sawyer said.
"Oh?" I suppose that I had the feigned,
wide-open
innocent eyes this time.
"I did some checking after the way you handled
Davidson the other day," Sawyer said. He smiled at
Tricia. "Our friend here is a very unusual person.
Maybe that's why someone tried to wipe him out the
other night at the Busted Bird Cafe."
"Him?"
She had moved her chair closer to the table. One hand
was resting on the table not far from the ballpoint
pen.
I stared at it a moment. The pen looked unusual to
me. Just so she wouldn't be tempted to cause trouble,
I reached over and picked up the pen and handed it to
Sawyer.
"You might want to check this out," I said.
"Big pen," Sawyer said.
"I wouldn't point it at anyone, though," I said,
"unless you feel like writing them off."
"It's just a pen," said Tricia.
Sawyer leaned over her desk and wrote something with
the pen and handed it back to her.
"Just an ordinary ballpoint pen," he told me.
"See?" she said. She threw a smirk at me.
"Something's still slightly out of kilter here,"
Sawyer told Tricia.
"If can open my purse, I have identification," she
said.
She reached for her purse.
I slapped her hand down. She jerked it back and
glared at me.
"It's not that I don't trust you," I said.
"But I
already know who you are. Or should I say what you
are."
I pulled Davidson's billfold from my pocket and tossed
it to Sawyer.
Without a word, Sawyer thumbed through the contents of
the billfold.
"Interesting," he said as he glanced at a couple of
the papers. Sawyer sat down on the edge of the desk.
"So you really are feds of some kind. I'm interested,
however, in the purpose of the Society for Critical
Studies. Perhaps you can tell me what it is the
society does."
"Field research."
"On what?"
"That's classified."
"She's a broken record on the classified stuff and
everything's classified," I told Sawyer. "Go
look at
the computer."
"Legally, I can't," said Sawyer. "We need a
warrant."
"To hell with the warrant. If this so-called society
has been doing research, they might have some
information on what happened to Jo."
"Calm down," Sawyer said.
"To hell with calming down!"
"We'll get a warrant," said Sawyer. "Right
now, out."
"I'm not leaving until...."
"Now!" ordered Sawyer.
He began backing toward the door, shoving me along
with him.
"My gun," said Davidson.
"You can pick your gun up at the police station
tomorrow after 10 a.m.," said Sawyer. "But
here's
your billfold."
He dropped Davidson's billfold on the floor.
"I'll be seeing you," Davidson told me. His face
looked like a boil someone forgot to lance.
"I wouldn't advise it," said Sawyer.
"Don't give him advice!" I told Sawyer.
"If you're smart, Davidson or Grant, whatever your
real name is, you'll leave town. You do not want to
mess with Buddy under any circumstance at any time."
"Yeah," I said. "Hydrophobia."
Sawyer nodded, laughed.
"Yeah. Hydrophobia."
(To be continued)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
|
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
August
18, 2003
(Randle, Zhito, and me--part two)
A Bill Randle story. Before he became a legend on the
air in Cleveland, Bill worked on the air in Detroit.
While on the air in Detroit, incidentally, he would
let someone else do his show for a few weeks, fly to
Europe, fight as a commando, fly back to Detroit and
take over his radio show again. "No one ever
knew,"
he told me. Once, he hid in the cellar of a building
in Yugoslavia while Nazi storm troopers marched down
the street searching for him. He remained in the
cellar several days. Fortunately, he said, it was a
wine cellar.
Hal Cook, publisher of Billboard, and I usually took
the same train route home in Manhattan but seldom the
same train because one or both of us were usually
working late. He lived in Ardsley, NY; I lived in
Hartsdale, the next-door poor man's version of
Ardsley, which was sort of a poor-man's version of
Scarsdale. Normally, it was about a 15-minute walk
from the office to the train station in Manhattan,
then an hour train ride, then a 15-minute drive home
from the train station. I read many books on that
train, including Marshall McLuhan's "War and Peace in
the Global Village" and Tolstoy's "War and Peace"
and
Dostoevski's "The Brothers Karamazov." You get
the
idea. One day, we left the office together; the train
was delayed about three hours in Grand Central and Hal
threw a hissy and a half, me trying to cool him down,
and he almost got both of us tossed off the train at
the Harlem stop. I heard him say, "There must be
another place where we can publish this magazine."
And not long after that, I was offered the chance to
move with Hal Cook and Lee Zhito, editor-in-chief, to
Los Angeles and the Billboard headquarters was soon
ensconced on the 11th floor of the 9000 Sunset
Building. My moving to Los Angeles was logical. I
expected soon to be named music editor of the magazine
because Paul Ackerman, soon to retire, had decided not
to go west. Zhito had also virtually promised me the
editorship of Billboard if he were ever named
publisher. Later in Los Angeles, he reneged on this
deal, telling me that Bill Littleford had demanded he
keep the title of editor-in-chief as well as his new
title of publisher, an illogical situation, but giving
him more power. I've always doubted whatever happened
regarding the leaving of Hal Cook to an island off
Seattle and the assumption of Zhito of the publishing
position. Whatever. However, it became obvious to me
real quick that I was not to participate either in the
wealth rolling in nor a promotion. I was in a
profit-sharing plan, but they kept cutting back my
percentage so that while Billboard increasingly made
more money, my bonus didn't go up much. If any. I
began to wish more and more that I'd taken that job
with Hill & Range Publishing. Even the atmosphere of
the magazine was becoming a little cruddy in Los
Angeles. I could never understand why we hired people
who didn't do anything.
After we moved the headquarters of Billboard to Los
Angeles in early 1971, I ran into Rudy Mageri, then,
as I recall, the music director of KFI. I had heard
that he'd once been a member of the Crewcuts. I asked
him if he was familiar with the name Bill Randle.
"Hell, yes!" He said that not only had Bill told
the
group to get crewcuts, but had given them their name,
and produced their records.
The next strong memory regarding Bill Randle: me, no
longer the Billboard flash and working quite well,
thank you, on my humble, serving as chauffeur for Bill
Randle as we drove over the prairie toward Oklahoma
City so he could time the drive to the Oklahoma City
University School of Law and Bill announces with some
delight that yonder is a Hardee's and we've got to
stop and have a sausage biscuit. From five-star
restaurant in Cincinnati to an Oklahoma Hardee's?
Hell of a trip, as Bobby Vee would say.
For the record, I was forced out of Billboard. Lee
Zhito did not dare fire me, though he once said it
after hearing a Wall Street rumor that someone was
seeking funds for me to start my own magazine...and
then immediately rescinded it, telling me to forget
about it. FYI, that rumor may have had some validity,
I don't know. In any case, Bob Bennett, general
manager of a radio station in Puerto Rico, and I had
lunch once or twice with Tony Hope, Bob's son, about
buying Cashbox and revamping it to focus greatly on
radio. These events, however, only happened after I
told Lee Zhito that someone on the magazine was
involved in payola and he began to make life very
uncomfortable for me up to and including shortchanging
me $4,000 on a bonus that I was supposed to receive.
I wrote a memo complaining about the bonus situation
to Bill Littleford, head of what had become virtually
a publishing empire, and received the same note back
with a scribbled message at the bottom: "Don't make
waves or we won't help you down the road." I swear!
And I was at this point so Billboard, I hurt. I was
by now organizing and doing radio programming
conventions and Billboard had taken my modus operandi
on these and spun off other conventions of various
kinds, including music, disco, etc. I had advised
regarding U.S. radio for the World Radio-Television
Handbook; the first such section in this book that was
on most ships at sea was mine. I even performed some
work for the music trade magazine we now owned in
Japan. Maybe the one in England, too. I was a member
of the five-man Billboard Editorial Advisory Board
(see how big we had become). I can not even remember
all of the things that I was doing on the magazine and
for the magazine. Because of constantly being on the
phone, I often wrote stories at home until about
midnight.
That payola person, incidentally, was later fired by
Bill Littleford, who was still in control of the
magazine at the time. Littleford flew into Los
Angeles to do the number personally, I was told by
Tommy Noonan who'd spent time at Columbia Records as
head of promotion between stints with Billboard
magazine. But I had informed Lee Zhito about this
person four or five years earlier...in fact, about two
years before I left Billboard. I know all of the
details, including who and what and how, but I suppose
none of that matters much anymore. I've put the
information in a music industry novel. No, not the
novel you can read on this website. Not yet, anyway.
At one point, Zhito walked into my office and told me
that I had to move to Nashville. Me? Sell my home
and take my kids out of school and move to Nashville
to become country music editor? Not likely; I told
him that I wouldn't do it. Another time, I had an
assistant named Samantha Bellemy who was very good and
he took her away to be his secretary, leaving me to
pull the job, once again, alone. He then named Eliot
Tiegel as managing editor and told me that I had to
report to him regarding all radio matters and Tiegel
insisted that I write everything in present tense.
Once, he assigned me to do a "Day in the Life of..."
on a guy named George Grief. Boring! Worse than Paul
Drew. Tiegel then invited me to a party at his house.
I didn't need another party and didn't go. Zhito
called me on the carpet and demanded to know why I
hadn't gone to the party. This sort of crap went on
day after day, but I especially disliked the meetings
that Zhito would call and then not show up. As you
can imagine, my last two years at Billboard were a
living hell. Only L. David Moorhead, by now a good
friend, knew. However, I had three kids, a wife, a
dog named Popsie given to the kids by the virtually
legendary New York photographer of that name (Buddy
Holly, industry parties, etc.), mortgage
payments...you know the story. I left the magazine as
soon as I could, but not as soon as I would have
wished. And it hurt to leave. I'd devoted so much
personal attention, heart and effort into the
publication that I actually thought it was mine. My
mistake. It belonged virtually to Bill Littleford and
perhaps a bank in those latter years. Earlier, he had
forced his own brother, Roger, out of the magazine and
financially shed some of the other relatives by paying
them off. Many, I suspect, didn't want to be shed. I
don't know this for a fact. But I understand that
Roger was fairly angry. Roger was the guy who would
come around and sit on the corner of your desk and
shoot the bull. He was also the reason I stayed with
Billboard when Hill and Range, a major music publisher
in those days, offered me a job at much more money.
When I told Roger that I'd like to buy a house in
Hartsdale, he told Bill Littleford and the first thing
I know I've been granted a $7,500 loan for the down
payment, interest free, and given a raise that just
happened to be enough to cover the loan payments.
Goodbye any idea of Hill and Range. But later on,
long after the loan had been repaid, I came to the
realization that I was far underpaid for the work that
I was doing.
The major profit center that I mentioned earlier would
have made Billboard probably $10 million profit a
year. Maybe more. But I was going to demand that I
be in charge and out of the clutches of Lee Zhito.
Opportunity to present the venture never came about.
Such is kismet.
Also for the record, after I left Zhito hired a guy
named Doug Hall as radio-TV editor, paid him $20,000
for a virtually non-existent tipsheet, let it be known
that he was my son (not so). I heard that Zhito ended
up hiring four people just to replace my workload.
The magazine tried to do a radio convention in New
York City; it was an abomination. Later, Zhito
replaced Doug Hall with Rollye James as radio-TV
editor and that, too, was not a smooth job marriage,
but that story is not for me to tell. Needless to
say, when the magazine publication firm was eventually
sold, it went for what I heard was $41,000,000. When
I was there, Billboard magazine alone was worth at
least $70,000,000. Probably more. So, the
publication firm literally took at least a $29,000,000
financial bath and, strictly from the standpoint of
ego, I'd like to think it was because I left. This
may not be so, of course.
Lee Zhito also killed my book "This Business of Radio
Programming" just as it was going into a second
printing. I had bought copies out of my own pocket to
send to various radio professors and the book had been
adopted by at least 22 major universities, thus it
would have sold for several years to college students.
I then tried bringing computerized date to the
industry with my own magazine; no one wanted real
information in the music business so I couldn't bring
in the necessary advertising support. During this
period, I took Jeff Salgo with me to meet Bill Randle
at an academic conference in the Laguna Hills region
of Southern California, i.e., the indication of yet
another Bill Randle. I believe we put that interview
on tape and printed much of it in my magazine; Bill
later insisted that I erase the tape so I will not
discuss some of the things on that belated tape here,
but I will point out that he'd taught at other
universities and once had been chancellor of a
community college for a couple of years. A while
later, I folded the magazine and took a job as
editorial director of a monthly entertainment magazine
put out by legendary magazine publisher George von
Rosen (Modern Man, Guns, etc.) and that failed within
a year. Meanwhile, I had applied for a job teaching
at a small Oklahoma university. They gave that job to
Bill Randle, but said Bill had recommended me for a
job as public relations director of the university.
Bill Randle advised me to take the job and study for a
master's degee in night classes. This I did. I also
taught journalism while there.
One of my first tasks on the university job was to
write a news release about the hiring of Bill Randle
as a professor. In this release, I mentioned that he
was America's greatest radio personality. The
president of the university, a preacher named Joe R.
Jones, called me on the carpet and asked for
verification. This was my first indication that
everything stated in the academic modus operandi must
be documented; everything--whether research project,
in-depth study, whatever--must be capable of being
replicated. My explanation that I was formerly
radio-TV editor of Billboard and knew this as a fact
didn't mean one damned thing with Dr. Jones.
One of the interesting aspects of Phillips University
is that I got to know Bill Randle a lot better. Even
took a mass communications course under him en route
to a master's degree in education. For the course, I
wrote and assembled a vast notebook on Metromedia.
George Duncan, then president of Metromedia, provided
me with stockmarket reports, etc., etc., and it was
clear to me that the FM stations which included
WNEW-FM, WMMR-FM, KMET-FM were making vast amounts of money.
In the report, I wrote personal commentaries on such as Duncan,
L. David Moorhead, Scott Muni, and others. Moorhead tried
for years to see that notebook; never showed it to him.
Thus, one benefit of the ouster from Billboard by Lee
Zhito is that I earned a master's degree and above
that garnered about half of the requirements (mostly
in communications theory and research) at the
University of Buffalo and later UNLV toward a Ph.D. in
communication.
While I was earning a master's degree, Bill Randle was
earning a law degree. This, in addition to teaching a
full schedule at Phillips University in Enid, OK. For
a while, I found it difficult to believe that he would
want to teach at that university; later, I came to
believe that he'd been admitted to one of the few law
schools that would take an older person and he was
amortizing his studies by teaching as near to Oklahoma
City as he could get. Just FYI, he was number one in
his graduating class a year or so after I obtained my
degree and took a full-time teaching position at the
State University of New York at Brockport. Upon
graduation, Bill asked for a letter of recommendation
from me and was soon afterwards admitted to the bar in
Ohio. Unless he has earned another degree since, he
has a Ph.D. from Case-Western Reserve University in
American Studies, two master's degrees from Columbia
University, two master's degrees from the New School
of Social Research in Manhattan, and a law degree from
Oklahoma City University School of Law. Not bad, eh,
for a disc jockey who at one point was doing a daily
shift in Cleveland, flying to New York to do a
one-hour daily show, flying back to Cleveland to
produce records.
But, of course, he was not just a disc jockey...he was
a hell of a disc jockey. Earlier, I mentioned that he
had command. He also had power. One of his most
fascinating stunts was in making "The Battle Hymn of
the Republic" by the Morman Tabernacle Choir a hit
record. Randle took another old song, changed a couple
of words to make it strictly gringo and took copyright
on the subsequent hit record; rightly so, in my
opinion. I believe the original song concerned Emily
West, a free African-American servant captured by
Santa Ana's army in April 1836. Supposedly, she
entertained Santa Ana in his tent during the Battle of
San Jacinto (which helped the Texicans win the
conflict) and thus entered southwest myth as "The
Yellow Rose of Texas." (Texas State Library & Archives
Commission, Internet, Aug. 7, 2003)
By Enid, Bill was grey-haired. Once or twice, I
caught him walking in the distance stoop-shoulder like
an older person does. This was a rarity; normally he
walked faster than you, thought faster than you, and
was entirely too busy to even consider the possibility
that he was old. Just how old he was, I do not know.
But you can contrast this against several factors.
First, I only noticed his "age" once or twice.
Second, I don't think he slept much; he went, went,
went all of the time. One night there was a knock on
the door and when I opened it, Bill was standing
there. Refused to come in from the dark. He said
he'd fallen off a mountain and asked if I had anything
to kill pain. I had two military-version APCs left
from a dentist visit two years previous. He said that
would be okay. I asked why he didn't contact a
doctor. He said he didn't trust any doctor in Enid.
The next day or so, I asked him about his hip and he
said he'd called the Pentagon and talked to someone
who helped him see a doctor at Vance Air Force Base
outside Enid. Just FYI, he once taught generals at
the U.S. War College; what he taught, I do not know.
He was a pilot and told one story of flying with
Arthur Godrey.
Another time in Enid, he showed me a video of the
Okeene, OK rattlesnake hunt that he'd taken; I think
this was in correlation to teaching television, but
most professors would have taught students in a studio
setting and Bill, instead, took them out to film
rattlesnakes wriggling, being skinned, being fried.
He had an Osborne computer, highly portable, and was
also teaching students how to do music research at
this point. Another time, we went out to a high
school in a small town an hour or so from Enid and he
showed a videotape to a group of students of him
introducing Elvis his first time ever on TV...also
showed a red-suited Elvis at a performance at a high
school in Cleveland with which Bill had been involved
(supposedly Elvis' first such venture out of the deep
south). Another time, he literally shoved his way
into my house and began plowing through my albums
because he wanted to give some to Phillips University
in lieu of a donation the administration was
demanding. I just hope he didn't give away one of my
favorite Johnny Cash albums. Another time, he
"borrowed" my quad TEAC tape deck for use by a local
FM radio station (I think he was going to produce a
radio show out of Enid on tape); the tape deck was
ruined by the time I got it back. So, to some extent,
you paid a price to know Bill Randle. Funny thing is
that I think it was worth it; I don't regret the loss
of the albums or the TEAC. I don't know why; perhaps
then and now I was in awe of him.
Often, you would see him on the campus in Enid wearing
what he told me was a Shaker jacket. Thus, he
appeared different from both students and his fellow
professors. At some point, he gave me an Amish cook
book he'd written that had been published by the New
York Times. Without question, Bill Randle had to be
at least a dozen people to do and accomplish all that
he did during his heyday and even his now day.
I never met his wife. He told me that she was willing
to meet him in Hawaii, but not in Oklahoma. I think
he mentioned a daughter. I still do not know very
much about his wife or daughter. I know other things
about him, but they are personal and do not warrant
telling. That is always the case, isn't it?
I still wonder what happened to Lee Zhito. The man in
Los Angeles was not the man in New York City. I liked
the man in New York City; I learned to detest the man
in Los Angeles. Everything about him.
Years and years ago, perhaps while in Enid, I saw an
art film titled "Hiri Kiri" on one of the old movie
channels. A great film. I would like to see it again
some day. Anyway, the concept of the story is that
the survivors write the history from their viewpoint.
I guess you could say that I'm a survivor . At the
moment anyway. Randle and Lee Zhito might have
different stories to tell from what I've mentioned
above. Randle is still on the air. WRMR in
Cleveland. Zhito stepped out in front of a car in
Santa Monica, CA, a few years ago. I must have a very
weird sense of humor for I laughed when I heard about
it. And still find it humorous. Shortly after
hearing the news about Zhito, one of David Moorhead's
five ex-wives, Judith Carney, called to ask if I was
in Santa Monica that day. I assured her I was not.
OTHER MATTERS
Dave Donahue, DaveDonahue@clearchannel.com,
program director of WCTH-FM Thunder Country in Tavernier, FL:
"Your story of Bill Randle was great. I can add to it
somewhat; fact is I don't know how many know this. It was
a huge pleasure to get an invite from 'Professor'
Randle of Kent State. It was about a year after changing
the legendary WHK in Cleveland to country that I got a call from
Bill inviting me to visit his senior communications class and
explain how we turned one of rock's legends to country and
raised its rating to overall #1 24-54 in 1973! It was that
time country had become the MOR of its day in the early 70s on
AM. Shortly after that, FM began to shine big time, recalling
WMMS was starting to cut a trail in FM, and soon FM would be the
position of most listeners. He
even picked me up and flew me over to Kent State in
his own aircraft! I ask him about the payola days and
he just laughed and said, 'There were some DJs that
more that likely still had TV sets, pinball machines,
pool tables in their attics, and tarp-covered cars in
their garages'. It was a moment in my life I'll never
forget. Here was a legend I'd heard as a kid, now
bringing me into his circle of knowledge. Image, if
I'd been lucky enough to have had him as my broadcast
instructor. Awsome!"
Mike Hankins, hankinsm@swbell.net:
"I was one of the
large legion of fans that read your Billboard column
each and every week, without fail. I was
professionally known as Mike McCormick for many years.
I worked for Todd Storz at WDGY/Minneapolis...Gordon
McLendon at WAKY/Louisville...and programmed
WMAK/Nashville and KAAY/Little Rock for LIN
Broadcasting. Don Burdon hired me for
WIFE/Indianapolis and then moved me to KOIL/Omaha and Star
Stations' home office. If all of these years and
experiences were not enough I was later employed by
ABC Radio and served at WLS/Chicago twice ... KQV/Pittsburgh...and
was vice president and
general manager of KAUM/Houston. And every week, at
these radio stations, I read your column without fail.
My loyalty was not just the content...it was the style
as well. But (I know I should not have used
but...BUT) just today, I discovered your 'Gone and
Also...' piece. I knew and/or heard many of those
persons that you included in the very best-written
tribute/column of your career, in my personal and
humble opinion. For some reason I have been thinking
lately of Sam Holman. He was a very good friend...but
time passages cause drifts between friends. I was
quite stunned when I originally heard of his death.
Last week I cruised the Internet picking up places and
dates of his distinguished years in radio. I am not
quite sure what I will do with the information...or
why I was compelled to gather it. I just wanted to
let you know how much I appreciated 'Gone and Alone'.
Indeed...a work in progress."
Ah, Mike, 'Gone and Alone'. A faux pas? Or the
reality of the situation? To tell the truth, I don't
think any of us are really alone these days. Most
still have friends, some still have fans. And we're
all bound together by something odd and wonderful
called radio. Sam Holman, unfortunately, died alone.
And maybe Alan Freed, too, come to think of it. Maybe
a few others. But most of us have been lucky and are
still lucky. Some can still be together. For
example, the dinner Oct. 18 in Houston of the Texas Radio Hall
of Fame. Maybe George Carlin won't be there, but a vast
number of others, many of them big names, will be at that
dinner. Guarantee it. Check out RadioDailyNews.com
or TexasRadioHallofFame.com
if you'd like more information
about the dinner.
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
|
