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The Girl Who
Looked Like Marilyn
Chapter 15 of a Mystery Novel
by Claude Hall
Billy's funeral reminded me of a Mardi Gras
celebration four years ago in New Orleans. Cactus,
the tribe's medicine man, was supposed to say some
pretty words. But, as might have happened during
Mardi Gras, Cactus was so drunk he probably couldn't
remember who's body laid on the rack six feet above
the ground out on a hillside or why he was there. He
wore a black hat with a flat top and a rattlesnake hat
band. Three eagle feathers jutted from the hat band.
His shirt was violently red. Around his neck was a
string of turquoise beads on a leather thong and
around his waist was a wide leather belt decorated
with solid silver medallions. The medallion that
formed his belt buckle had the same design I'd seen in
the cliff dwellings and on the hat of Muddy Cardenas,
the owner of the trading post.
"Great dancer," said Zanzibar.
"Hell he is, he's drunk," I whispered back, then
winced because just leaning toward her had set off a
spasm of pain in my side.
"He is not," Zanzibar said.
Billy's girlfriend had covered the body will a
beautiful blanket.
The rack, constructed of mesquite branches, wasn't all
that sturdy. Doug and several other men about his age
weren't very sober either. When someone nudged the
rack by accident, it wobbled. Once, I thought it was
going to collapse.
I didn't know if it was really William Jesus Sandival,
for that was his full Christian name, laying there or
not, but I doubted his body would survive his funeral.
For the funeral, Doug had "gone Indian." Not totally
authentic Hopi or Navajo or Apache, but more than
likely a combination of all with his own personality
playing a major role. He wore high-top leather boots
that looked like ordinary moccasins, but became really
fancy near his knees where thongs swung freely and
several thronged small silver bells jangled with each
step.
Instead of bluejeans, today he wore a short breech
cloth looped over a leather belt. His chest was bare,
but a smear of yellow and red paint clashed starkly
with his dull, dark skin. A brightly painted feather
poked from a headband around his forehead.
In spite of his dark skin, he looked ferociously
Apache as he waved a rather large prayer stick
decorated with colored feathers as he danced back and
forth. His wrinkled face shone with perspiration.
Although some men wore dark business suits and others
merely bluejeans and cotton plaid shirts, other men
and women wore full Indian regalia including huge and
very beautiful feather bonnets. A girl about Doug's
age had "liberated" one of the bonnets and now danced
near someone wearing a buffalo head, complete with
decorated horns.
Several men were dancing and chanting around the
mesquite rack. Three men in business suits didn't
look so much out of place as ridiculous. And so did
one young girl about high school age in a dress more
suited for a cocktail party than a funeral.
In the distance, an older woman pounded a tom-tom with
steady, boring rhythm. Sometimes, the wind swept the
sound away and other times give my headache a headache
of its own. Doug had wanted a rock'n'roll band, but
Cactus over ruled him in favor of the tom-tom because
"that's the way Joe wants it." Joe, so far, hadn't
bothered coming to the funeral.
The news of my earlier beating by the sheriff's deputy
hadn't caused much reaction. Cactus had offered to
help seek revenge at some point in the future.
"I'll fight my own battles."
"That's real heroic of you, but slightly dumb. I've
heard how well you handle knives and you can't see
well enough to handle a rifle."
"There are other ways of fighting."
"You're greatly mistaken if you think that," Cactus
said shortly before going into his "dance."
Some of the women wept during the funeral. A women
dressed in a very sedate black suit was Billy's
mother. I tried to express my sympathies, but it was
difficult to talk to her. First, because I didn't
know what to say. I didn't even know how Billy had
died. Second, because now and then tears would erupt
and she would lean on the shoulder of Muddy Cardenas.
The funeral was held in late afternoon just as one of
the perennial summer Arizona thunderheads reached high
into the sky out on the prairie. Lightning danced
around the edges of the brewing storm, blue and now
and then white. There was no sound of thunder yet.
The thunderstorm was still too far away, but wind from
the storm raced over the hillside and cooled
everything down.
The prairie, dotted with catclaw and prickly pear
cactus and a random towering saguaro, swept south and
west from the low hillside. Out on the prairie, a
dust devil wheeled and bobbed amidst a few saguaro
cactuses that looked like lonely warriors.
"Billy's soul," said Cactus as he stopped to stare at
the whirlwind.
"His soul is probably still somewhere in Central
America," Muddy Cardenas pointed out.
But Cactus, unsteady, had drifted away without waiting
for his response.
"I didn't know the Apache buried their dead this way,"
I said.
"In the old days, they sometimes tossed the bodies
into caves. I'm surprised to see you here," Muddy
said.
"Me, too."
Frankly, after the beating by the sheriff's deputy two
or three hours ago, I was surprised to see myself
still standing. I'd taken a couple of Nuprin tablets,
but they hadn't helped much.
I had been allowed-after some debate pro and con about
permitting a gringo on this part of the reservation-to
attend the funeral because Zanzibar insisted and
because Doug pointed out that I was now "El Colorado
Grande." A nod of the head from Muddy Cardenas had
ended the debate and I stayed.
"Are you just going to leave the body there?" I asked.
"Some tribes left their dead out like that," Muddy
said. He wore a dark suit today to fit the occasion,
but he still had on the same hat with the same design.
"But that's all ancient history. Later, Doug and
some of the others will bury him in a graveyard beyond
the hill. Tombstone. The whole works."
"How did he die?"
"I don't know. Cactus might know."
"Bit difficult to talk to Cactus right now."
"Yes. He is caught up in the spirit. His dance is a
sad one."
Evidently, Muddy Cardenas, too, didn't realize Cactus
was drunk. Or, perhaps, he didn't want to admit it to
a mere gringo. Even one now called El Colorado
Grande.
The wind from the thunderhead was picking up. Some
clouds that had formed in the heat of the afternoon
were now flocking in to join the thunderhead, to be
sucked up in its underbelly and consumed. These were
adding strength to the thunderhead and it was growing
rapidly.
As the smaller clouds sped across the sun, the light
over the hillside and over the funeral changed. The
mourners and the dancers, who may also have been
mourning in their fashion, didn't seem to notice the
sunlight fading away nor the approaching thunderhead.
"Did you bring an umbrella?" I asked Zanzibar.
She frowned at me as if to say she wouldn't be caught
dead carrying one of those things.
We stood off to the side about 10 yards from the
mesquite rack. With us were Muddy Cardenas, Billy's
girlfriend, Billy's mother, and two people I didn't
know.
"Where's Billy's father? I'd like to express my
condolences."
"There," said Zanzibar. "In the buffalo head."
The man in the buffalo head was now leaping up and
down. He, too, carried a small stick which he shook
at the mesquite rack at the peak of each leap.
"Guess I'll wait. That's a pretty prayer stick he
has, though."
"That's not a stick. That's a kachina doll, a doll of
a benevolent spirit. He is asking the spirits to help
Billy in the happy hunting ground. It will later be
buried with Billy's body to keep him safe."
I could hear thunder now. Sharp, quick explosions.
The storm was packed with electricity. Off to the
south, a jagged burst of lightning tongued the earth
and I silently counted one-thousand-and-one,
one-thousand-and-two, one-thou.... The storm was
rushing toward us.
Suddenly, the rising wind whipped the blanket off of
the rack and I understood why his girlfriend had
covered the body. Part of Billy's face was missing.
He was still clothed in army combat fatigues with a
soft camouflage cap on his head. An M-16 had been
placed at his side and his right arm cradled it. But
his left cheek was missing.
"He was shot," I said.
Billy's girlfriend ran forward between the encircling
dancers and covered the body again. She tucked the
blanket under his body so the wind wouldn't blow it
away.
"Yes," said Muddy very softly and very slowly, his
breath hissing from his lungs.
"Who killed him?"
"He was not shot here," said Muddy. "He was killed
yesterday in Nicaragua. That's why the spirit of
Cactus is dancing the sad dance; his medicine didn't
work."
Cactus grew constantly less steady on his feet. Doug
was still relatively sober. Buffalo head would wake
up tomorrow feeling like he'd grown one. I wondered
where they'd stashed the booze. None was visible.
Then I spotted Doug as he darted out of the line of
dancers and dogtrotted over the slope of the hill.
Zanzibar went to help Billy's girlfriend tie the
blanket around the body as the wind now began to whip
right, then left. Following Doug was no problem.
Either he didn't care who saw him or was too
intoxicated to notice. Maybe both.
He slipped into a clump of prickly pear cactus.
Someone had chopped a path into the dense green
growth. A few feet inward, a space had been cleared.
Here, a galvanized washtub full of ice and beer was
providing all of the male "mourners" energy for their
enthusiastic suffering. Nepi would have enjoyed this
funeral after all, considering the amount of beer in
the tub.
"Hi, Colorado."
"Hello, Doug."
"Beer? We have some Coors."
"I could use a diet soda?"
"Club soda?"
"That'll do."
"It's mixer for the scotch and whiskey. No one's into
diet Pepsi today, I'm afraid. And, frankly, some of
the guys are now even bypassing the mixer."
"I noticed that."
"Dancing juice," Doug said. He drained half a can of
his Coors in a gulp.
"Sorry about Billy."
"My best friend."
"How'd it happen?"
"We landed near San Jose de Bocay. It's a remote
village not too far from Matagalpa, Nicaragua. The
job was to flush out a few enemy of the day. Raise
some hell, you know?"
"You're part of the contras?"
"No. We're Joe's Bandits. We hire out just for quick
strikes to help out the good guys. If the good guys
pay enough, I guess."
"Isn't that damned dangerous?"
"I guess. I've been wounded three times. Now and
then somebody buys the whole farm."
"And the trading post is the arms depot."
"Some of those weapons, you don't want to keep around
the house. May be even against the law. I don't
know."
"Hasn't anyone tried to stop you?"
"Who? The CIA wouldn't stop us. They are us, so to
speak. The FBI prowls around now and then. But it's
very difficult to infiltrate an Indian reservation."
He took a long pull at his can of Coors before looking
directly at me. "You aren't FBI, are you?"
I shook my head. "Isn't it a little late to ask
something like that?"
"Yeah. I guess so."
"Hell of a business."
"Don't put it down. At one time, Indians around here
were on a not-so-fancy kind of welfare. Degrading as
shit. Close to starvation. Today, on some
reservations, Indians operate bingo parlors. Shit on
bingo. Casinos. On other reservations, Indians sell
beads to tourists. Shit on beads. Here, Walking Wind
set up a little profit center to take advantage of a
skill the government taught him in Vietnam--fighting.
He is very, very good at it."
"And he trained the rest of you," I said.
"If you aren't FBI, who in hell are you?" asked Doug.
I shrugged. "An out-of-work college professor."
"I doubt that," said Doug.
"Cheers," I said and downed the rest of my club soda.
Somehow, everything tied together: Billy's death, the
shot at me at the cliff dwellings, the beating by the
sheriff's idiot deputy this morning. But how?
"Who foots the bills for these private wars...the
CIA?"
"They used to. Until the Iran-Contras affair. Now,
the money comes from some rich guy in Dallas, another
in Colorado Springs. Muddy handles the business
aspects of it, makes the deals, arranges
transportation, food, arms. We fly out to Yugoslavia,
Albania, South America. In a few hours, we're back on
a plane and home. We aren't the only strike teams
around. One up in Cleveland or Detroit poses as a
soccer team. There's a bowling group of ex-Nams in
Little Rock that hires out. Others, too."
"And Billy?"
"Billy got it as we approached one of those goddamned
adobes up a dirt road. After the mop up, Joe and I
carried him back to the plane. Carried his body. His
medicine just wasn't strong enough this trip."
"Seems like a hell of a way to make a living."
"Good pay. Not many jobs around, you know? Nobody in
town here will hire an Indian except to carry out the
trash, clean up the yard. Some Indian kids--Tucson,
Globe, Flagstaff--are integrated. Civilized. Here,
children on the reservation go away to boarding school
much of the year. That's okay, I guess. But when we
finish public school and return to the reservation,
some kids have trouble. We are neither fish nor
fowl." He finished his beer. "I'd better get back."
I felt very uncomfortable that an Indian kid had died
just because he couldn't get a job where people didn't
shoot at you.
"How long will the dancing continue?"
"Until nobody's dancing."
"An unusual tribute to a dead man."
"Beats crying," Doug said.
The wind, now flecked with beads of moisture, slapped
me in the face as I came out of the clump of cactus.
My glasses were quickly screwed up. I took out a
handkerchief to wipe them off. Rain and mist were the
pits for anyone who wore spectacles.
"I thought I'd find you here," Zanzibar said as I
slipped my glasses back over my ears and could see who
the blob approaching was.
"Club soda.
"I'll bet." She sniffed at my breath. "Well! Club
soda."
"Health kick," I explained.
"You're the only one. I think you were also right
about Cactus. He's skunk drunk."
"At the very least."
"Mrs. Sandival is worried that something terrible is
going to happen and Jean-Jean, Billy's girlfriend, has
a premonition."
"Another one?"
"What do you mean: Another one?"
"She was certainly right about Billy a day or so ago."
"This one is also about Billy," she said.
Just then, Cactus lurched past us, no doubt heading
for more dancing juice.
I barely recognized him. My glasses were obscured by
the quickening mist. It didn't pay to clean them
anymore. I rubbed the lenses with my fingers. The
grease from my fingers would cause some of the water
to roll off.
Now I could see, though everything was blurry.
"Are you over your huff?!
"I seldom huff," she said. "I was damned mad. How
could you assume we had an understanding. I will
decide what I understand, with whom, where, and when.
Is that clear?"
"You're absolutely right. I apologize for my
mistake," I said. "It was merely part of my male
chauvinist pig upbringing. Texan, you know."
"When you going to get it fixed?"
"I can apologize for what I am. Changing what I am is
not all that easy. But I realize that no person
should make assumptions of possession about another.
You may not believe it, but I'm against slavery of any
form."
Somehow or another, Zanzibar's hand found its way into
mine.
I didn't understand her. And I honestly wanted to.
One night, she screws with you; the next day, she
won't even let you touch her. But now she takes your
hand and her thigh rubs against your thigh as you
walk. If God made Eve from one of Adam's ribs, the
rib must have been cracked.
The mesquite rack was swaying in the wind, which now
surged over the hillside. Like a broom, the wind
shoved debris before it, including gum wrappers,
someone's hat, dust.
A woman chased the hat.
Mrs. Sandival was closer to the mesquite rack now.
She protected her eyes from the mist and the dust with
one hand and kept her dress down against her legs with
the other.
Several Indians still danced. There was no sign of
Buffalo head.
Suddenly, a rain squall walked up the slope and across
the hillside. The raindrops seemed as large as
marbles and, thrown by the wind, stung my face and
hands.
Some of the mourners and even a few of the dancers ran
off to their cars down by the dirt road.
The rain moved in sheets like ghosts dancing across
the low swell of the hill. Wind whipped at the
tumbling rain and threw the spray up under the
umbrella of a woman who fled toward her pickup down
below the hill.
Out of the gray wall of the rain, a figure walked
toward us in jerky steps like a soldier.
As he grew closer, I recognized the sheriff even
through spectacles smeared with the rain.
I heard a word that sounded like "deputy," but I
couldn't be sure because a bolt of lightning just then
cracked across the sky.
The sheriff had lost his hat. His hair was streaked
and hung about his forehead in strings. But he didn't
seem to notice.
Before I could say hello, he swung. His fist hit me
on the side of the head and I went flying and landed
on my shoulder.
I didn't know whether to try to get up or try to
pretend I was unconscious. I think I was too groggy
to fight back anyway. But I'd had enough beatings
from the law this day. You can't just go on getting
the hell beat out of you. It's bad for the nerves.
Not to mention the head and the arms and various and
sundry ribs.
I rolled to my feet and when I came up I had one of my
little throwing knives in my hand. It's not a combat
knife. A K-Bar would have been better. But I was
desperate and I was still hurting from the morning and
I was fed up. I certainly wasn't going to take
another beating. I wasn't even sure I could survive
another beating.
He looked at the knife in my hand with a strange,
satisfied expression on his face.
"You've got three seconds to put that toy up or I'm
going to blow your brains out."
I stared at the gun in his hand. It had appeared
there by some magic trick.
Very slowly and very carefully-so he wouldn't have
even half an excuse to pull the trigger-I slid my
throwing knife back into its scabbard in my pocket and
raised my hands.
"Aren't you supposed to throw yourself in front of me
to protect me from getting shot?" I asked Zanzibar.
"Not me," she said. "I'm not that dumb."
The sheriff shouted something as inane as "freeze."
His gun in his hand, he moved forward.
While I was still wondering what he meant to do, Doug
hit him with his prayer stick.
The sheriff slowly folded. He looked funny laying on
the ground in the still falling rain. A dinosaur
someone had carelessly tossed away.
Doug prodded him with the stick.
"Those sticks can come in handy," I said.
"And I'll bet you thought I was very religious," he
said.
"Looks like you answered my prayers anyway."
"We'll both need something more than prayers if he
comes to while we're still here," said Doug.
"What was all that about his deputy?"
"He said his deputy had been murdered."
"Who would do that?"
"I think he thinks you did."
"Why would I do something like that?"
"Revenge. The beating this morning."
"But I'm scared of guns."
"He was killed with a knife," said Doug. "A hunting
knife."
"I am definitely in trouble," I said. "Mine was
stolen."
"Big trouble," said Doug.
He took off running toward some cars down the slope.
The rain fell upon us with a frenzy.
Tugging Zanzibar behind me, I headed for the pickup
camper. The exercise helped ease the pain in my side.
I still had the headache.
Between the rain and the wind, it was difficult to
force the screen door open enough to squeeze inside.
I locked the door behind us so the wind wouldn't tear
it off. Some rain had come in one of the windows. I
cranked it shut and cranked out another window on the
side away from the storm. It was damp and cool and
pleasant in the camper.
"Here's a towel," I said.
She began to take off her soaked clothes and I began
to watch her. I wondered if I could somehow locate an
old copy of the Playboy with the centerfold of her
mother to compare what I saw now. Hell, with the
comparison! It would be nice to have the centerfold,
though. The centerfold would give me fond memories
down through the years.
The rain brought thunder with it. Now and then, a
sharp flash of lightning was followed by a
ground-shaking roar of thunder.
"You want something to drink? I've got some diet
Pepsi in the icebox."
"Sure," she said. She stood completely naked,
stretching slightly and bending over to look out the
window by the table. "Everybody's left the funeral."
"I'm not surprised."
I took a diet Pepsi out of the icebox and used half of
it to down a couple of more Nuprin tablets and wished
I'd had some plain and simple aspirin. Chemists keep
inventing new versions of aspirin, but the real thing
is usually the best.
She looked around. Just like I'd read about her
mother, her breasts were firm; they didn't wobble at
all as she moved.
"I wonder if that bed of yours is good for screwing,"
she said.
This, I didn't understand either. Could slavery be
one thing and sex another? But I certainly wasn't
going to quibble about the distinction at the moment.
Summer thunderheads in the southwest seldom last long.
This one lasted long enough. Raindrops pelting the
roof of the camper made pleasant music. Now and then
there was a sharp burst of thunder and sometimes the
thunder was more like the roar of some nearby train.
But the sound of the rain obscured everything and
everything was muted and far away.
About the time the storm ended, we were ready to
venture forth. The additional exercise had done
wonders for my aches and pains. Only a vague headache
remained.
Zanzibar wore one of my tee-shirts and a pair of my
bluejeans which needed a belt to keep them around her
waist.
I put on a pair of combat fatigues I'd purchased in an
army surplus store a few months ago. The top was
loose and comfortable.
We walked back up the hillside. The dry earth had
soaked up the rain like a sponge. A few drops of rain
still sparkled from the slender blades of a clump of
Spanish bayonet, but already the sun had attacked and
soon they would be gone. It was as if the rain had
happened long ago.
The sheriff's car was parked at the slope of the hill.
What was left of it. The windshield had been blasted
out. The tires had been shot to ribbons. The engine
had been shot several times; holds dotted the hood of
the car in several places.
Zanzibar poked her finger in one of the holes on the
hood.
"Mice?"
"That's what happens when you shoot an M-16," I said.
"Holes."
She looked through one of the shattered door windows.
"No one here."
I snapped my fingers.
"I'd forgot all about the sheriff," I said.
Zanzibar turned and placed a finger on my lips.
"Thanks," she said.
"That wasn't meant to be a compliment."
"Still...."
"Women!" I said.
"Men," she said and smiled.
Up the slope, the rack had fallen. Mrs. Sandival had
somehow weathered the storm. She was soaked and
looked miserable. She stood looking down at the ruins
of the mesquite rack.
"He took him," she said very quietly.
"Billy?"
"Joe took him," she said.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
|
October 9, 2006
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
Remember these days? Picture
discs! Anyone even recognize who these people are? My musical
generation; I know them all and can even hear this moment in
mind's eye some of their songs. I believe these were in the
collection of Jeff Salgo. Somewhere in this house is a picture
disc of Elvis. Wonder if it's worth anything these days? Hey,
most people wouldn't even have the equipment now to play it!
(Photo by Claude Hall)
COPOUT: This is
another item written for the project
assigned to me by Dr. Bill Randle for a communications
class that I took under him around 1983. As for the
personal secretary mentioned, guys at that level
usually had a "girl Friday" who was usually pretty and
usually quite capable. And, I've heard, extremely
well paid. They will go unsung in radio history. A
pity.
GLASCOCK MATTERS
Harvey Glascock was my first real friend in Metromedia
Radio. He was then vice president and general manager
of WNEW-AM-FM in New York City and the FM side was not
much of anything, but the AM station was perhaps the
greatest radio station on earth while he was there.
His Metromedia story is not unique, but dramatic.
I remember a lot of things about Harvey Glascock and
most of the things I remember are good. Or, if not,
then slightly humorous. Such as the time he sat
across the table from me at lunch and told me that FM
would never make it.
You should understand: I respected this man immensely.
Liked him immensely. And considered him then and
always one of America's premiere radio men. And I was
working very hard at that particular time to make FM a
reality.
Harvey Glascock was a classy person. Dressed very
well. Was a bit overweight, but this just helped him
standout better in a gathering. And he stood out very
well.
He smoked a cigar, but wasn't overbearing with it. It
was just one of the pleasures that he allowed himself.
Another slightly humorous thing I remember about
Harvey was his secretary. She was typical Manhattan;
impeccably dressed and impeccably made up. The only
other girl I've ever seen with that kind of perfect
makeup was Barbie Benton when she was living with Hugh
Hefner and kept a cosmetician on the Los Angeles
estate.
When he was moving from Manhattan and leaving WNEW
forever, Harvey tried to get his secretary a job with
Billboard. I think that Hal Cook, then the publisher
of Billboard, actually hired her for a while. A
temporary thing just because Harvey had become a good
friend to Billboard. In fact, for two or three years
running, WNEW and Billboard co-sponsored a music
industry golf tournament out at the Westchester
Country Club. Need I say more about the power of WNEW
and Harvey Glascock in that part of the world?
The story of how Harvey came to leave New York,
however, is not so humorous.
WNEW-AM was going great. One year that I remember,
the station grossed about $12,000,000...and that was
superb for the mid-60s. I was now and then in
Harvey's office for one reason or another. And I
remember sitting in on the air with William B.
Williams one day and that was probably set up by
Harvey.
How I first met Harvey, I don't remember. It may have
been through a public relations man named Martin Grove
that I'd known at WMCA who'd gone then to WABC and
thence to Metromedia's WNEW-AM. Or I may have called
him cold and set up a meeting for a story. Whatever,
Harvey and I became good friends. We were comfortable
around each other.
And he taught me a lot during those learning days. He
was the first person I met who wanted "disc jockeys"
called "air personalities" and while he maybe didn't
coin the term, he certainly popularized it.
He was always tossing "parties" for the media and
especially the Madison Avenue crowd and inviting
someone such as Tony Bennett or Sammy Davis Jr. to
perform for them. I remember a couple of the parties
were tossed in the old Blue Angel. William B.
Williams, of course, hosted the event and the
performance was taped and later played over the
station. These were highly successful with the
timebuyers.
Harvey was virtually a star in Manhattan, though not
on the order of Willie B. But I remember his picture
once in all of the newspapers sitting between two
members of the football Giants.
Though he didn't think FM was going to make it, it was
Harvey who told an account executive named George
Duncan that if he wanted to take a shot managing
WNEW-FM, he could.
The way that Harvey left Metromedia was this: John
Kluge wanted to start a record company. He'd been
sold a music publishing company and felt that he might
as well have a record company, too.
Harvey was made president of the record label.
Metromedia Records. The label actually had one
superstar during its lifespan. Bobby Sherman. But
the label didn't make money and eventually it closed
down.
Kluge, out of the generosity of his heart, offered
Harvey the chance to then go manage WHK in Cleveland,
which was then not doing very well at all. However,
Harvey had managed WHK before coming to Manhattan. He
didn't want to go that route again...especially not
after doing so well with WNEW-AM and especially not
after getting used to a high style of life in New
York.
Kluge, I understand, told him that he could take it or
leave it. I got this from Harvey.
Harvey left it. He cashed in his stock, bought WSTU
in Stuart, FL. He later told me that it was great.
Said he counted his listeners every day on the golf
course. "There's no Pulse or ARB in Stuart."
Several major personalities worked with him off and
on. I remember Chuck Doughtery, a very well-known
personality at the time, worked at WSTU for a while
and may still be there.
So far as I know, Harvey enjoyed life until the day he
died of a heart attack. He may have resented his
treatment from Kluge, but he never resented Stuart,
FL.
ENDNOTE: Next week, L. David Moorhead. A week later,
probably Bill Ward.
OTHER MATTERS
I mentioned a while back that George Wilson was up to
something. Well, you can check it out yourself now.
Tap into Georgewilsonmemorytunes.com. No sound yet.
Just wait until you hear the music! Maybe next week.
Jack Gale: "Like I said...us old guys never know when
to quit. I've just purchased a radio station in
Dothan, Alabama. As soon as the FCC approves, we will
move to Dothan and I'll do mornings again. Joining me
will be my old buddy Chris Morgan, who spent many
years at WQXI in Atlanta. Also worked for me at BIG
WAYS and WPDQ. Also hired Kevin Larkin, who worked
for me at WITH. I'll continue my national voiceovers,
plus produce country artists in Nashville. I'll be
there the end of this month producing an album for
Petrella, who Whoopie Goldberg calls 'The Queen of
Country Soul'. If I have enough breath left, I'll
keep doing my show on ULTIMATEOLDIES.COM. If you know
any old radio salesman who'd like to help me 'save
radio'...have them contact me. Best to Barbara, after
all...she called my show 'cute'."
George Wilson said that Jack Gale called to tell him
about buying the radio station, a daytimer, and wanted
to know if George would like a job doing nights there.
Ron Alexenburg and Jeff Beck were mentioned in one of
the fascinating diatribes issued en masse by Bob
Lefsetz. I don't know who Lefsetz really is, but he
seems to have a rather tremendous grasp on the real
music scene. Anyway, I forwarded that particular
diatribe to Ron Alexenburg.
Ron Alexenburg: "I miss talking with you and I hope
all is well. Joey Reynolds and I speak of you often.
The Jeff Beck story that will be in my book is, I went
to see Jeff play at Wembley and at the end of his set
50k to 80k people gave him the loudest standing
ovation I had ever witnessed. Jeff walked off the
stage looked at me and said 'I SUCK.not that great a
performance'. He also would have (I think) his
grandmother make the most beautiful hand-made quilts
that he would give as gifts. It was my honor to be at
EPIC and work with Ira Sherman and Jim Charne with
Jeff's brilliant musicianship."
Jay Hunt, jay.hunt@sympatico.ca:
"I understand you
have some Mad Daddy airchecks on one of your CD
compilations. I have one of the largest Peter 'Mad
Daddy' Myers aircheck collections around and am always
looking to add to it. Can you please let me know what
ones you have? One in particular I am looking for is
from WINS New York in the summer of 1963. I know it
exists because I have some clips from it but don't
have the whole thing. I am also looking for the full
second hour of his final WHK, Cleveland show from June
26, 1959."
I steered Jay in the direction of ReelRadio.com. My
son John Hall prowls swapmeets in California and buys
old airchecks. Just bought an old one of Tom Donahue.
And "a collection of bits dealing with the 'death'
of Paul McCartney hoax. I have listened to the latter
and it was a blast. I also remember that the song
'Hadacol Boogie' was a topic of your column a few
months back. Well, Jerry Lee Lewis has a new album
called LAST MAN STANDING which is full of duets. One
of them with Buddy Guy is 'Hadacol Boogie'. I bought
the CD a few days back and have really enjoyed it.
His guest stars range from George Jones and Willie
Nelson to Bruce Springsteen and Ringo Starr."
Timmy
Manocheo recently at the Santa Maria Inn in mid-state
California. Timmy is on left. Other person unidentified. (Photo
courtesy of Timmy Manocheo)
Timmy Manocheo,
ticds@sbcglobal.net:
"Yep, you're
right, that IS a picture of me. But, it's not in
Hollywood, nor Ventura...it's in front of the landmark
hotel Santa Maria Inn. It's a little further north in
California. My wife & I stayed there a couple months
ago. She thought I looked comfortable with the frog.
Hey, by the way, If you know of, or find anyone who
would be interested in some old airchecks of The Late,
Great China Smith, let me know. I've got hundreds of
cassettes of his radio shows from the 70s through
2001. My telephone is: 805-653-1448."
Lord, China Smith! Somewhere I've got a picture of me
and China and Jimmy Rabbitt and a couple of others. A
KTNQ promotion. Both Jimmy and I have copies of that
photo. Something both of us treasure. A fun day to
Catalina Island.
FALACIOUS MATTERS
Cut and run
Rhetoric by an idiot for idiots. "Cut and run," after
all these years and all of these depictable and
totally uncalled for deaths it is doggone well not
"cut and run," it's about time! And, anyway, the
applicable term should be "flee and stagger."
Regardless, it's time to get the hell out of Dodge and
there's nothing "running" about staying there and
fouling up the lives of the Iraqis further and losing
additional lives of American soldiers. Death is not a
very pleasant price to pay for "staying the course" in
a situation founded on Buchenwald's lies and
stupidity. You hear Republicans using these terms
against Democrats, you realize immediately that
they're floundering. Like someone down the street
calling you a sissy. When it comes to bombs in the
dark of night, I'm probably the biggest sissy you ever
saw.
Staying the course
What course? This is not a golf game, for god's sake!
It's a strictly idiotic political foray so that,
basically, old Chitchat can earn his $34 million bonus
(in effect, stolen from the pockets of people like me,
by the way). Iraq? No real reason, no known purpose.
Does Buchenwald propose that we war forever? How
absurd! Actually, to achieve any known rhyme or
reason, the foray should have ended long ago. To
continue providing American targets in hope of
eventually stealing that oil beneath the sand is not
exactly a noble cause. And the possibility of
"converting" them to an American-style democracy is
rather foolish. Any form of government, whatever it
turns out to be, must be born from within with the
heart and mind of the people. Buchenwald's idea is
merely enforcing a form of slavery on the citizen's of
Iraq. Naturally, they're going to protest in any way,
shape, or form that they can. You and I would also
fight such enslavement by "outsiders." To stay the
course, as Buchenwald advocates, is not only
impossible, but a stupid idea.
Plan
Republicans claim Democrats have no plan for Iraq.
What plan does Buchenwald have? The violence is
escalating. Is that the plan? The death toll on
American soldiers is climbing; Baghdad has become a
shooting/bombing gallery. Is that the Republican
plan? Iraq is in chaos. Is that another Republican
plan?
Economy
Don't hang your hat on this one, folks! Republicans
are talking about the "growing economy."
Unfortunately, any growth is fiction! It hangs on the
outrageous deficit and is based on a war. War goes
bust, economy goes big bust! Terrible economic chaos!
I know someone who has a farm and I think: That
sucker is smarter than the average bear. A far way
out yonder may become the only stable, safe place in
America when a war economy collapses. As it must
eventually. John F. Kennedy had his flaws (girls at
the Waldorf-Astoria, etc.), but he'd switched.or
started the process.of changing our economy to a
peace-time base. Buchenwald, god bless his pointed
head, has changed it back. Dumb, dumb, dumb!
Buchenwald, Chitchat, and Runnynose have really
botched up this one, folks! Except for a mishmash
wartime economy, which benefits only the wealthy, the
United States appears to be going down the drain. My
problem is that I think it's on purpose. And that
leads to the big question: Why?
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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