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"Murder
at the Busted Bird Cafe"
by Claude Hall
Chapter 20
Finally, Sawyer answered his cellular phone. He
was
not really excited to hear from me.
"I know this will be difficult to believe, Buddy, but
even detectives live a somewhat human existence. A
girlfriend. A glass of wine. A quiet evening at home
watching the Lakers on television."
"How dull. Especially the Lakers," I said.
"I hear noises. You at Martoni's?"
"Just temporarily. I'm hunting Wesley Bird. And all
I've got is a phone number. So I called you for
help."
"Why Bird?"
"The address, Hey You."
"Nothing doing until you tell me why you're going
after Bird."
So, I told him. He didn't like the idea.
"You can't do that."
"Sure I can. I'm just a citizen, remember? You're
the person with rules and regulations and sharp
criminal lawyers just waiting for you to make the
slightest mistake. I can make a mistake whenever I
wish."
"Like with Davidson? It took a doctor an hour and a
half to get his hands separated."
"I thought he looked better with them glued together,"
I said. "Especially at that particular moment."
"And you wouldn't enjoy seeing his face!" Sawyer said.
"Swollen. Matter of fact, he's got lumps all over
him. Fell in some cactus or something."
"Poor guy," I said.
He said that Davidson had been picked up by the
highway patrol. He hadn't gone to Las Vegas after
all. A pity.
"He's not real happy with you."
"I affect some people that way," I said. "Must be
the
Coors cologne."
I told him about the tape I'd send to his office by
messenger.
"I've had enough of radio for the day," he said.
Five minutes later, he called back with an address for
Wesley Bird. Pacific Palisades.
I hung up the phone and went back up front to the bar.
Jo was explaining to Chris Meyers why dogs are as
good as humans. I've known Meyers for some while.
Nice guy. Years ago, he'd been in promotion at
Capitol Records. Then he went somewhere else and
after that somewhere else. I didn't know what he was
doing now.
"You still in the record business?"
"They won't let me out," said Meyers.
He drifted quickly, unobtrusively away in the
prevalent whirlpool that permeates Martoni's.
"Freddie said you could have a beer if you wanted
one," Jo told me.
"Later," I said. "I forgot to ask: How is
your pet
monster?"
"The veterinarian said he could come home tomorrow,"
Jo said.
"If there is a tomorrow," I said. "You ready to
go?"
Something was definitely wrong with Los Angeles. A
wind had come up from the ocean and shoved all of the
smog out to San Bernardino. It was a pleasant wind
and the night was just right for a tweed sports jacket
which no one would even think of wearing in Los
Angeles. However, it was a very nice night and I was
grateful. It happens now and then in the city.
It nice to have a good night when you may have to kill
someone. Not that I wanted to do anything as violent
as that, but a long series of events--all
bad--revolved in some way around Bird. And around Jo.
All of those things had to stop. At the moment, I
didn't know how I was going to stop them, but if it
came down to killing Bird, I might just have to do it.
I didn't want to do it and I didn't know how I'd do
it if I had to. But this deadly roller-coaster ride
had to stop.
We drove by the old Astor Hotel, the home of the first
Oscar awards ceremonies back in the days when
Hollywood was more than a home for weirdos and other
people who make even weirdos look like Boy Scouts.
Make that Girl Scouts.
Time was definitely not of the essence. I went back
over to Sunset Boulevard and we drove out toward
Pacific Palisades, a community that braces the sweep
of the bay. Frankly, Sunset Boulevard is about as
fast as you can get there. But that no longer
mattered. At one time, everyone went to Pacific
Palisades and then the community faded into obscurity
and now no one who was anyone went there anymore.
Absolute no one famous, I guarantee you, lives in
Pacific Palisades. Probably no one even close.
The funny thing is that I liked Pacific Palisades
because of the constant breeze from the ocean and
higher up some of the streets you sometimes found a
startlingly beautiful view of the bay.
The white, wood-frame house where Wesley Bird lived
was on a cul-de-sac. It was an unpretentious house in
a plain neighborhood. Someone walked a cocker spaniel
along the sidewalk.
"Look, there's a mutt your dog could probably whip in
a dog fight."
"Chuck does not dog fight," Jo said.
"You didn't train that dog properly, that's all."
"I didn't train him," she said. "He trained
himself."
I parked in front of a house down the street. There
were a couple of other cars parked under the
eucalyptus trees.
Sawyer got out of one of them.
"What happened to the Lakers?" I asked.
"It's not the same team it was in the days of Magic
Johnson," he said. His voice carried a tone of
regret.
"What happened to the girlfriend and the wine, then?"
"I thought I'd better come out and help."
"I don't need any help," I said.
"Yes, you do," Jo said.
"Killjoy."
We stood at the end of the sidewalk that led straight
up to the front door of the house. There was only a
small porch about a foot high. The door light to the
right of the door was on.
"What are we going to do now?" asked Sawyer.
"What'da ya mean we, white man?" I said. "You mean
you don't have a plan?"
"I though you had it."
"Not me," I said.
"Then what are we doing here staring at a porch light
in the dark of night?"
"I guess I'll invite Bird out for a soda pop," I said.
I went back to the door of the camper, climbed inside
and took out a couple of cans of diet Pepsi.
"What if he doesn't drink Pepsi?" Sawyer asked.
"I said I was going to invite him out for a soda pop.
I didn't say anything about him drinking it."
I threw the can of soda pop at the front window.
"Jesus!" said Jo.
The action caught her off guard. She hadn't expected
me to do something like that. To tell the truth, I
hadn't expected to do something like that either. It
was a spur-of-the-moment decision, if it was a
decision at all. Musashi probably wouldn't have
approved.
The can of soda crashed through the window. Glass
crashed. It created a lot of noise. That created an
even greater amount of noise within the house.
We just stood there.
What if he shoots you?" Jo asked.
"Stand in front of me just in case," I said.
The front door opened just a crack. He could
obviously see us and more than likely recognize us. A
streetlight was just a few feet away and the glow fell
around us. Maybe the light threw our faces into
shadows and we looked like creatures from outer space.
Someplace normal.
I threw the other can of soda in my hand at the front
door. It clunked and fell on the porch.
"Buddy?"
Bird's voice was strained and a little hoarse.
"This is the police. Open up," I said.
"This is not the police," Sawyer insisted in an
authoritative tone. "However, we would like
opportunity to talk with you a few minutes."
"I'm not dressed," said Bird.
"It's only nine o'clock," I said. "Nobody goes to
bed
at nine o'clock."
Jo gave me an elbow in the side.
"Yes, they do," she said.
"Oh," I said.
"Give me a minute," said Bird from the doorway.
"If you insist," I said.
A moment later, he came out of the doorway wearing a
pair of slacks and a pullover white shirt with blue
collars. And sandals. I learned years ago never to
trust a man who wears sandals. Of course, I wouldn't
have trusted him anyway.
Someone's head appeared briefly in the dark of the
doorway and jerked back. I couldn't tell who it was.
I tried to figure out why I didn't like Bird. I've
known people who were definitely crooks of one kind
and another and still liked them. They used to say
some pretty tough things about Morris Levy, head of
Roulette Records, but I found him to be a superb human
being on a trip to New York City when he was still
alive.
On the other hand, I didn't like Wesley Bird the first
time I met him. My fingers felt greasy. Hell of a
reason to develop a dislike for a person, but that's
the way it was. And the dislike had grown.
As he came down the short sidewalk, my fingers felt
greasy again.
"Do your fingers feel greasy?" I asked Jo.
"No."
"Something's wrong with you," I said.
"You never can tell," said Jo.
Bird stopped, facing all of us.
"What's up?"
"We're searching for some information," said Sawyer.
"What were you doing in the Busted Bird Cafe the night
of the killings?" I asked.
"I wasn't at the Busted Bird Cafe," Bird said.
"Funny you say that. Your picture was in the paper
along with Chuck K. Davis," I said. "The picture was
taken at the Busted Bird."
"Oh, that. I got there after it was all over. That's
what I meant."
"How did you hear about it? It wasn't on the news
until a couple of hours later."
"Someone called to tell me about," Bird said. "I
don't remember who."
"It wasn't Vosberg, the editor of Disc Times, was it?"
"I don't remember, Buddy. So help me."
"Chuck K. Davis only called a couple of people. He
called his lawyer, a guy who does publicity for the
night club, and Horace Vosberg."
"It might have been Horace Vosberg," said Bird.
"If it wasn't Vosberg, who was it? That's what
intrigues me," I said, then added in a soft, slightly
questioning tone: "Of course, you could have been
there all along, hiding in the office of Chuck K.
Davis."
"I wasn't there, I told you."
"Where were you, then?" Sawyer asked in a deliberate,
quiet tone.
"God! That was...I'm not sure...oh, yes! I was at
Chuck K. Davis' benefit. Matter of fact, I remember
specifically. That's where I was. Jo received a
standing ovation. What was it you sang? 'Don't Be
Cruel'?"
His voice carried a slightly excited tone, just a
little higher than normal. But maybe because he was
reacting to an accusation.
Regardless, a damned good theory had just gone down
the proverbial drain. He knew the song she sang that
night; thus, he was probably at the benefit concert
and not at the Busted Bird. At least, not until
later. I tried to keep the disappointment out of my
voice.
"There's something else I'd like to ask you about,
Wesley. It's this Tricia Reggo."
"Rizzo," said Bird.
"Right. Tricia Rizzo. Do you know her very well?"
"I met her a few days ago. Down at Martoni's. You
were there that day, Buddy, as I recall."
"That was the first time?"
"Sure."
"But you've become rather good friends?"
"Sure. I guess so. She's a dear, sweet girl."
"Girl? She's quite a bit older than you, Wesley."
"Not that much," insisted Bird.
"We heard she might be Mafia?" I said.
"I've never believed in all of that nonsense about
Mafia this and Mafia that," said Bird. "I've
certainly never met anyone who belongs to the Mafia."
"You see her again, tell her there's an arrest warrant
out for her," I said.
Sawyer stepped in front of me, hand raised chest high
in a placating manner, palm toward Bird.
"Don't tell her that," Sawyer said. "Buddy
shouldn't
have said something as crazy as that. I would,
however, like to talk to her."
"What about?" asked Bird. "Just so I can tell her
if...when I see her again."
"Just a few simple questions," said Sawyer.
"Nothing
serious."
"Like hell," I said. "We want to know what she was
doing in the Busted Bird the night of the shooting."
Bird's head jerked very slightly.
Sawyer whirled around. His face showed considerable
rage.
"How do you know that?" Sawyer demanded.
"I saw her," I said.
"You saw her?" stated Jo.
"I thought you told me you were too scared to notice
anything," Sawyer said. His voice assumed a
confronting tone.
"I'm beginning to suddenly remember a lot of things,"
I said. "Of course, perhaps Davidson told me some of
the things. Someone like a Davidson can really
refresh your memory.
Sawyer shook his head unhappily at me.
Bird, confused, wanted to look back at the doorway of
his house, but restrained himself. His voice revealed
a lot of his confusion.
"Is there anything else I can do to help you?"
"No," said Sawyer with finality. He glared at me.
Bird turned and walked back up the sidewalk. He
stopped on the porch and picked up the can of Pepsi.
He took it inside with him.
I glared back at Sawyer.
"You really fouled everything up, Hey You."
"Fouled up what? You were just making a lot of wild
accusations. I thought you told me on the phone that
you had some new evidence."
"I do."
We started walking in the direction of Sawyer's
Chevrolet. Jo looped her arm in mine.
"Evidence? What evidence? You're lucky, Buddy, that
he didn't call the cops and have you arrested for
breaking a window."
"Hey, Hey You, that guy just stole a can of Pepsi and
you're standing here accusing me of breaking a window!
Anyway, he would never have called the cops.
Especially not any cop standing out front of his
house. He didn't want anyone to see who he had
inside."
"Who was inside?"
"Some cop," I said in an accusing tone. I pointed to
the Mercedes-Benz parked in front of the house next
door. "People who live in Pacific Palisades don't
drive cars like that."
"Interesting," said Sawyer. "You're pretty
perceptive
for a disc jockey."
"Now all you've got to do is have her tailed. An
unmarked car could wait down at the end of the street
and merely follow. She'll be leaving in just a few
minutes. Probably as soon as she can get dressed."
"We know where she lives. Westlake."
"Not hardly," I said. "Someone else lives in
Westlake. I would guess that it's Chuck K. Davis.
She may be staying there, but our girlfriend back
there lives in the Bronx."
"New York?"
"Sure. But that isn't where she'll be going tonight."
"You know where she's going?"
"Me?" I leaned against the fender of his Chevrolet.
A breeze coming in from the ocean carried moisture and
it was growing chilly.
"Don't play games with me, Buddy!"
"It's best you don't know everything, Jesus," I said
softly, trying not to hurt his feelings, keeping my
tone of voice as gentle as possible. "You've got to
follow rules and regulations. That lady back there
follows no rules but the ones she invents."
"Then you really did see her at the Busted Bird?"
"I think so. I couldn't prove it in a million years.
Make that two million. But, yes, I think she was
there. And I think our good friend Wesley Bird and
Chuck K. Davis or Horace Vosberg not only knew what
was coming down that night, but are involved in some
way. I don't know how. But I intend to find out."
"Why did you invite me out here tonight?"
"I didn't. I merely told you I was coming here."
"Yeah, but you knew I'd have to come."
"It was a mistake. And that's why I'm not telling you
anything else."
"Look. If you don't level with me, then I will have
to have you tailed. That's a waste of time, effort,
and energy. Why cause trouble for me? Just tell me,
Buddy. And tell me now!"
I took a deep breath.
"Okay. Why not? I'm going to take Jo home to her
parents and I'm going to spend the night there in my
camper."
"Is that the truth?"
"The absolute truth."
"Jo, will you call me if he attempts to leave?"
"Yes," she said.
"Jesus, we aren't even married and she's trying to
control my life!"
"You damned right!" said Jo.
We said good-bye to Sawyer and got in the pickup
camper and drove back along Sunset to Beverly Hills
and rang the bell to be let into the estate.
Sawyer, without question, didn't trust me. But, on
the other hand, I'd told the truth and, anyway, it
didn't matter a hell of a lot.
From now on, it was up to me. I wish I still had a
copy of "The Book of Five Rings" because suddenly
everything that Musashi advised about strategy and
combat technique was gone from my mind.
I knew, without question, that Tricia Rizzo or
whatever her name was and her goons, whatever their
names were, were going to try to kill William Travoti.
And they would probably make the attempt tonight.
(To be continued)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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Commentary
by
Claude Hall
September
22, 2003
I'm getting rather bored writing about
myself...because I'm a rather boring person and know
it. However, hopefully, some friends will write some
of their memories for this Commentary soon. Viola!
The boring Hall will fade into the background for a
while.
I was always boring. However, when you're moving
fast, few people have time to notice. One year in Los
Angeles, Lee Zhito, by then publisher as well as
editor-in-chief of Billboard magazine, called me into
his office. He rattled a sheaf of papers at me...the
budget he'd requested from me. "You've put down for
about $7,000 in expenses this coming year! That's
more money than me!" I told him that $7,000 seemed
about right, "and, after all, Lee, I'm doing more than
you." And I was. There were the conventions:
The
International Radio Programming Forum, the National
Association of Broadcasters, the National Association
of FM Broadcasters, the all-media convention in
Sydney, Australia, the Country Music Association
meeting in Nashville, etc. I remember dropping by
Dallas once to interview Gordon McLendon in his office
above the movie theater (his son Bart picked me up at
the airport and chauffeured me back later to the
airport; he probably rides in a chauffeur-driven limo
these days; I often wonder if he knows about the
island his dad gave Australia for a monument to WWII)
and I was en route to moderate a panel session at the
National Association of Recording Merchandisers in
Miami at the time. One year, just before I tossed my
desk calendar book in the trash and replaced it with
the new one, I glanced at everything I'd done during
the past 12 months and thought, my god, did I do all
that? That may have been the year that I did the
color on a live concert produced by Bill Graham at
Kesar Stadium in San Francisco (the Grateful Dead and
Bob Dylan performed along with a bevy of the leading
artists and groups on the West Coast and people like
Marlon Brando hungout backstage; the entire 11 or 12
hours was broadcast on K101-FM and Jim Gabbert, owner
of the station, and I and several others were there
for all of it). Or the year I moderated a panel of
some kind in St. Paul. Or the year I covered a radio
meeting in Bar Harbour, ME. Or the year I judged a
contest sponsored by KSON in San Diego. You get the
idea.
I don't remember whether Lee Zhito approved my new
budget or not. Didn't matter. Because by then I was
very willing to give up going to some of the events.
The thing that really ticked him off, however, was
when I was invited to visit Brazil courtesy of Radio
Globo. Forget the fact that he and Hal Cook once took
a cruise courtesy of Capitol Records, with wives, in
the Mediterranean (called it business; filled up a
section of the magazine with photos). Zhito couldn't
understand my popularity in radio. Nor could he
accept it. I had to take a vacation in order to make
the trip. That was the only way he'd let me go and
I'd already promised some very nice people in Brazil
that I would come down.
I believe the first Brazilian that I met was Guilherme
de Souza who could speak 11 or 12 languages fluently
and, in fact, had worked in Washington for Voice of
America. He'd just moved back to Brazil (which is
spelled Brasil by most of the world) because he'd
decided his children were growing up "too American";
one of them had to attend classes to learn to speak
Portuguese, the national language of Brazil. With him
that first time, probably at an International Radio
Programming Forum, was more than likely the national
program director of the Radio Globo chain of stations.
I recall his first name as Mauro, but, quite frankly,
too many years have passed. Guilherme asked if I
would be interested in a trip to Brazil to visit Radio
Globo. Naturally, I said yes. But I thought it was
merely an invite and, while gracious, didn't mean a
thing. A year or so later, at another International
Radio Programming Forum, Guilherme obviously
introduced me to Luis Brunini, director superintendent
of the Radio Globo part of the empire than included
newspapers, magazines, record companies, television
stations, music publishing companies and I don't even
know what all. Mr. Brunini was fairly small and wore
a black mustache and looked somewhat like Charlie
Chapin. He was one of the most polite and gracious
human beings I think I ever met. To this day, I think
of him as a very close friend and I treasure the fact
that I got to meet him and to know him.
Incidentally, I was told that the Vox Jox column I
wrote for Billboard and the other articles I wrote
were translated into Portuguese and distributed to all
Radio Globo stations.
Guilherme asked when I wanted to come to Rio de
Janeiro and that October was a perfect time of the
year. I said okay, but I swear that I was one of the
most surprised people in the world when the tickets
arrived at my Billboard office. People in the music
industry in those days were always promising this and
promising that. The former radio-TV editor of
Billboard had warned me not to get involved in "jobs."
But you couldn't avoid that sort of thing; you knew
where a job might be and if someone called and said he
was looking you told them about it. A guy promised me
a bottle of scotch. He got the job, but was too
embarrassed to phone when he once again needed another
job. I then set my "price" at a bottle of beer.
Everyone thought I was joking, of course; I never
joked about beer in those days. I wasn't joking. And
believe it or not I think I actually received one or
two six packs of beer and once a disc jockey from
Guatemala delivered a whole case to my table at a
music industry event at the Beverly Wilshire in
Beverly Hills. By the time I left Billboard, I think
I was owed at least a shipload of beer. Doesn't
matter anymore because I had to give up beer several
years ago. Cry, cry. Regardless, a guy who only owed
me a bottle of beer never hesitated to call again when
he needed another job. So, I did not really expect to
go to Brazil, although L. David Moorhead and George
Wilson once teamed up to send me and my wife Barbara
down to Acapulco for a few days on tradeouts, a
vacation at the time that I desperately needed and
which probably is one of the reasons I'm still alive
today. I saw the tradeout list at the hotel; I think
it was the Princess; virtually every radio station and
TV station in Los Angeles was doing tradeouts with
that hotel.
Thus, I surmise that the plane trip to Brazil, my room
at the National on a beach south of that statue you
see in all of the movies, and most of the things that
happened to me and for me were tradeouts. That was
radio everywhere in those days. I even heard a story
of one radio guy, a very colorful person, who traded
out his entire wedding and honeymoon; he's gone now,
but I'll bet a can of Diet Pepsi that Scotty Brink and
George Wilson know the person I'm talking about.
I did not greatly enjoy the trip to Rio de Janeiro,
which went first class via Buenos Aires with a layover
and on the trip back they put the fear of God in me
real strong in Argentina. However, my visit to Brazil
was one of the greatest events of my life. Or anyone
else's life. This is the first time I've written
about it, although I used to tell the story to my
students at the State University of New York at
Brockport. I taught "bottom line," i.e., that an
education can help you improve yourself personally as
well as culturally and help you make money. So, I'd
tell them my Brazil story and point out that if all of
that could happen to me, it could happen to them.
"And I was raised in Winters, Texas, and it was all on
the wrong side of the tracks," I used to say, which
wasn't exactly true, but was a decent enough metaphor.
Rio de Janeiro was further from Winters than you
could possibly imagine.
We landed first in Peru and I had time to stroll
around the airport. I could not believe the soldiers
posted in the hallways with automatic rifles. They
were everywhere. I recall that the beer en route from
Los Angeles to Lima, Peru, was Heineken's brewed in
Argentina and it was quite good and they soon ran out
of beer. Probably because of me. After Peru, we had
Peruvian beer and it was awful and one was enough.
I was supposed to be met in Buenos Aires by a soccer
announcer; instead, he sent his limousine and driver
and I was taken on a tour of the city and then to my
hotel. The driver apologized for the hotel; they were
holding a sex convention of some kind in the best
hotel in the city and this was the next best that was
available. It was nice. The next day, I took a taxi
to the airport. The plane on to Rio was not a jet,
but a twin engine plane and I saw two men riding in
the baggage compartment before they close the door.
Viola! Rio!
The National was a round building like the Capitol
Records tower in Hollywood and I had a room up at
least ten floors with a view south down the beach.
They were just developing that area in those days,
circa 1974-77. By now, probably hotels and condos
everywhere south of the National. There were two
ways, so far as I can remember, to get to downtown Rio
from the hotel. One was a road that climbed upward
and passed between that high mountain with the statue
and the other along the ocean. I remember a Sheraton
Hotel on a cliff overlooking the ocean and a swimming
pool that had a phenomenal view and I always wanted to
take Barbara back and stay in that hotel a few days
but that wasn't meant to be.
I fell in love with Rio the instant I arrived. Yes,
the people were extremely nice and I remember faces to
this day even though I can't place names on them all.
But Rio was permeated with the most wonderful
atmosphere. I'm going to probably misspell this word,
carioca, but that was the word used to describe the
people who flocked to the beaches at lunch hour--and
Rio is graced with beach upon beach and beach after
beach--and I thought that word probably fit almost
everyone living in the entire city. They were not
frivolous, per se, but they seemed to insist on living
life with a certain joy. And I thought: How
wonderful!
And I was treated like a visiting god. Or some major
soccer star. One day we went to Sao Paulo to visit
the Radio Globo radio station and I met the host of a
talent show who'd grown rich and famous with a show
that played tapes from his listeners by his listeners,
another day to Metropolis to visit the Radio Globo
radio station there. There were newspaper stories
about my visits hither and yon and newscasts were
aired on the hour about everything that I did. In
Metropolis, I was presented the key to the city by the
mayor. The owner of a local brewery came to a steak
house at lunch and played blues piano while I dined
(he'd attended college in Louisiana and fell in love
with the blues and he brought me a sample of
everything, bottles of beer, whiskey, scotch, etc.
Tito Santos, the recording artist popular everywhere
south of Puerto Rico, became a lifelong friend even
though I have not seen him since.
One day, we visited the island transmitter site of
Radio Globo itself. Here, on an island just off the
coast of Rio, entire families lived just to operate
that radio facility. Barefooted, straw hats...a
comfortable life. And Bruce Miller Earle would have
loved that transmitter; he would have donned a pair of
sandals and an old straw hat and refused to leave the
island! Radio Globo was broadcasting not only its
regular AM wave, but also on shortwave and on two
tropical waves. It could be heard, one way or
another, all over Brazil as well as by ships far at
sea. As for a ground signal, how about this Bruce:
They merely ran wires down to the sea.
One of the most fascinating aspects of Radio Globo
itself, back in the city at the studios, was that the
disc worked in an auditorium to an audience. He
played records. There was always an audience there, I
was told, even until midnight. Occasionally, some
record artist would come on stage and sing live to his
taped band tracks, so the audience had the benefit of
seeing and hearing their favorite acts. This was not
exactly a new modus operandi; I understand that KSFO
in San Francisco once had a band singer named Merv
Griffin on staff. And then, of course, you can go
back to the olden days of radio in the states. But
Radio Globo was doing this with considerable success
in the 70s. One man who introduced himself to me was
actually from England. He was working his way around
the world in radio, taking a job here to get up enough
money to hitchhike on down the road. In Rio, he was
doing production at Radio Globo. Months later, he
came by my office in Los Angeles just to say hello,
knapsack on his shoulder, going on. Wish I could
remember his name.
My entourage in Brazil usually consisted of Luis
Brunini, Guilherme de Souza, the national program
director Mauro, and various others, including a man
who was literally a god in Brazil, Antonio Porto, the
soccer play-by-play announcer. You can not image the
phenomenal power of the man, even though he was,
indeed, portly, dressed like a truck driver, always
had a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Mauro, who
talked loud in the states in fumbling English, in
Brazil was a cultivated, soft-spoken gentleman when
speaking his native tongue of Portuguese. But I think
Porto was the real hero with everyone; us Nets and
Dolphin fans have trouble understanding how big soccer
is in Brazil and other countries of South America.
The soccer stadium in Rio seats 200,000. For every
ounce of his power, Porto was also humble and that
taught me a lesson; the more successful the man, the
more that he should be humble so that his success is
not tarnished with an image of arrogance.
Nights were something else. Every night we visited a
leading night club. I would be introduced from the
stage by the star, who more often than not was also
the owner of the club, and I would stand and wave and
later the star would come and sit with us. Usually,
they presented me with their latest album and
autographed it for me. I later listened to them all.
Phenomenal music by people I'd never heard of! One
night, Guilherme asked if I would like to see some of
their mulattos. I didn't quite understand him, so I
kindly said no. He insisted. The entourage ended up
that night at a nightclub where the stage dancers
(just as the old Copa in New York once had) were all
long-legged and stunningly beautiful women with skin
the color of creamed coffee and these were shown off
as if some magnificent trophies. Here, too, the owner
of the club introduced me and came and sat with us
afterwards. Incidentally, I noticed no color line in
Rio; it might have been there, but I think not.
Another night, they told me that we were going to a
School of Dance. "But I've got two left feet,
Guilherme, and I can't dance!" We went anyway, again,
the whole entourage. We parked and walked a distance
only to find a long line standing at this gate in the
wall waiting to get in. Didn't matter. Antonio Porto
went to the ticket taker and said he was Antonio Porto
and would like to see the manager and the manager came
and escorted us inside, enormously pleased that the
great Porto was visiting his place. Inside to one of
the damnedest scenes I've ever seen in my life! The
wall surrounded a vast plaza much larger than a
football field or maybe an entire stadium and around
the sides were stalls selling beer in huge bottles and
I was handed a rather large plastic container and it
was always full no matter how you tried to empty it
because complete strangers were always pouring more
beer into your glass. There were tables and chairs
everyone. And a stage with a band playing sambas. It
was explained to me that there were several of these
"schools" around the city and they were trying out
songs for the Mardi Gras...only the best made it. A
little old lady in white hair, spurred by that
infectious music, got up from her chair at a table and
samba'd off across the plaza. One of my entourage
called a young pretty girl over just to pat her on the
cheek and tell her how pretty she was and she did not
slap his face, but thanked him. I do not know how
long we stayed, but those who had to drag me in
virtually had to drag me out; I could have stayed
there forever and perhaps a part of me is still there
somewhere on that plaza doing the samba through the
night. There is something about the samba one cannot
explain.
I wanted to experience ordinary Rio, for I was sure
that I hadn't yet, and so I persuaded Guilherme to
take me to a typical restaurant and one noon he did.
But first, I was interviewed for television by two
pretty young things. The result was that nothing was
ordinary the rest of my trip; everyone had seen me!
When I walked into that restaurant, I was recognized.
A star. But, yes, I did get some kind of stew with
falafel. One day I also bought a strange cat's eye
Topaz ring for Barbara and I understand got an
extraordinary deal; there is more gold in gold in
Brazil than in the states. I just asked; Barbara
doesn't have the ring and doesn't even remember it.
Women!
Now, I have a problem. How do I explain that last
night in Rio? I was honored with a dinner. There
were maybe 30 people at the table. The leading
recording artist in all Brazil wrote a song in my
honor and sang it at the dinner. I was presented with
a solid gold wrist watch. A little gold crown. But,
this, of course, doesn't really give the flavor of
that wonderful evening. The laughter, the
conversation, the excitement. Someone had invited an
American girl and everyone was pleased that she spoke
excellent Portuguese. I was the only one who couldn't
speak Portuguese at that party. What a shame! I
should have learned the language, though I'm bad at
languages and, in fact, do not even speak English
properly. Texan, I handle okay, I guess. But Luis
Brunini set about learning English and the next time I
met him in Los Angeles when Barbara and I took him to
dinner, he was able to communicate fairly well. I'd
heard from Guilherme that he learned English just
because of me, although I find this difficult, even
now, to believe.
You can believe this though: I hated to leave Rio and
just wish I could have taken Barbara back there even
though I know that the yesterday that existed is never
the today that exists now. You can never go recapture
something like that.
So, I left with great regret. And I regretted Buenos
Aires even more en route back. First, I had to sleep
on a cot in the crummy hotel at the airport. And the
next day, eager to continue my trip home, I was told
at the airport counter that my name was not "on the
list." The fact that I had a first class ticket in my
hand meant nothing. I asked to see the manager.
"Sorry, but your name is not on the list." I
raised
hell. "But your name is not on the list."
I tried to
get them to phone Rio. "Sorry, but your
name...." I
resorted to pleading. "Sorry."
The other airline to the states doesn't leave for two
days. I don't know what to do because I cannot speak
the language. However, five minutes before the plane
is to leave, they let me board a bus out to the plane.
Once I'm on board, viola! Everything is splendid!
First class. I'm sitting by the German opera singer
Karl Kling. He is wearing a custom-tailored red
leather suit that he had made for $125 while in the
city. He, too, however, is glad to leave Buenos
Aires. "The shootings!" His earnings were
deposited
in Chase Manhattan in New York City; "I wouldn't have
gone to Buenos Aires otherwise. And I was provided a
bulletproof car with a bonded driver." He said the
audience loved his performances, but once you left the
opera hall, you were in danger. It was not safe on
the streets in those 1970s.
Just FYI, when Barbara and I had dinner with Luis
Brunini in his hotel near the Los Angeles airport
maybe three years or more after the trip to Rio de
Janeiro I knew by then that my attempt to bring
computerized data to radio via the International Radio
Report was failing and I was going to have to close
the magazine and sell my home in Bel Air, Los Angeles,
to pay off the debts. Brunini offered to give me
$25,000 to keep the magazine alive a while longer. I
thanked him kindly, but said no. You don't take
friends down with you on a sinking ship if you can
avoid it.
So, while showbiz is replete with promises and the
vast majority aren't kept and dreams seldom come true,
I really treasure those that have come true for me. I
don't think I deserved Brazil. Probably didn't
deserve a great deal of the good things that have
happened for me along the way. In discussion with my
wife Barbara about why radio overall was so good to
me, she said that perhaps it was because I cared.
Claude Hall
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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