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"The Rattlesnake
Who Enjoyed Elvis"
Chapter 23 of a novel
by Claude Hall
What do you say to a very
beautiful blonde who is
actually a brunette but looks precisely like her
mother Marilyn Monroe because she also bleaches her
hair:
"Hi. Who's doing your hair these days?"
Not me.
While it absolutely true that Zanzibar Alvarez is so
beautiful you automatically start breathing hard when
you first see her, it is also true that she has lived
on a ranch in Arizona most of her life. Tossing hay
to Arabian stallions and riding Arabian stallions has
given her a physique of a real goddess, not just your
ordinary average run-of-the-mill sex symbol.
Some men would have fallen at her feet and worshipped
her as the love goddess she resembled-her mother.
Others would have stammered and bashfully
retreated-because the raw sex that she projected was
virtually overwhelming-to admire her in awe from a
distance.
I tried to run for cover. But she jerked the cover
off my head and threw it on the floor of the camper.
"Shit. Pajamas," she said.
She jerked those off, too, and also threw them on the
floor.
I was then raped.
I've heard stories about men being raped. I've always
snickered and done the old "yeah, yeah" and sly-smile
tango. You and I both know that unless a man gets up
for the occasion, there's not going to be sexual
intercourse.
And I've always assumed that if a man didn't want to
screw around, certain parts of his anatomy would help
him out, so to speak.
I never took into account human nature.
First, she blew in my ear.
I've read about that doing fantastic things to your
libido. Unfortunately-or otherwise-it does nothing
for me.
Then, she put my nipples in her mouth, first one and
then the other, and blew on them.
Ho hum.
Meanwhile, I'd like you to believe that I was
attempting to push her away so I could get up and make
some coffee and try to wake up.
But the last thing she blew on woke me up quite well
and it was quite a while before I got around to making
coffee.
Finally, I escaped long enough to scrounge up my red
robe from the night before, slip on my Reeboks and
make coffee.
As soon as I poured hot water over the instant coffee
spooned into my cup, I went outside and sat in one of
the canvas chairs.
The sun had been up for maybe an hour. Yellow beams
slashed across the hilltop and zithered the trunks of
the oaks. The grass was damp with dew and the
sunlight sparkled on the grass. I sat there trying to
sip at my coffee. It didn't taste very good for some
reason.
So this was how it felt to be raped.
Under the circumstances, some might have labeled it a
date rape. But rape is really rape. Now I could
relate to how Cindy felt.
There had been no sharing, only a taking.
Zanzibar expressed no remorse when she came out of the
camper and took the other chair.
She'd dressed again in the light gray business suit in
which she'd arrived.
Her hair, which had been fastened in a pile on her
head, was a bit frowzy at the edges.
A strand hung loose about her right ear, but she did
not seem to mind.
Nepi, who sometimes slept under the camper out of the
night's dew, came out and placed his paws on her knee.
They'd been friends for a long time. He was glad to
see her. That made one of us.
Zanzibar glanced at my camper.
"This is a cruddy way to live," she said.
"I like it."
"I've installed a gazebo with a Jacuzzi at the ranch."
"Good," I said.
"And I've just named a new colt after you. Smitty the
second, out of Skyfoot."
"Thank you."
"He's going to be a champion. He has all of the
lines."
I finished my coffee and started down the trail toward
the pool.
"Where are you going?"
"To take a bath," I said.
The best times of the day to swim are in the hard,
sharp early part of the morning or in the evening just
after the sun has fallen below the rim of the earth.
I climbed up on a high rock and dived off. The impact
of the water almost knocked the breath from my lungs.
After a few more dives, I felt relatively good again.
But I stood under the waterfall for a while because
the thunder of the water on my head and shoulders was
soothing.
Cactus found me there a while later.
"She's here," he said.
"I already found that out," I said.
He tossed me my robe as I crawled out of the water
onto the rock ledge. The odor of the stale barbeque
sauce on the robe caused him to turn his head away.
"You ought to do your laundry one of these days."
"Too busy not catching bad guys to get to the
laundry."
"With all of the money you've got, you could buy
twenty robes and twenty maids to wash them."
"But that isn't the way I am," I said.
"No. I guess not."
"Anyway, I gave away a lot of the money. College
scholarships. I named one of them for the late Bill
Stewart, a radio guy I used to know, and the other for
you. I've still got plenty left, but not enough for
twenty maids."
"You want more?"
"No. Money is funny. There is never enough anyway."
I put the robe on. We walked single file through the
rocks and up the trail toward the camper.
"Why did you name a scholarship after me?"
"I don't know," I said. "A weak moment."
Cactus was silent for a whole three or four seconds,
then: "Another guy showed up a few minutes ago, too.
A funny little guy."
"I don't know any funny little guys."
"Looks like a monkey almost," Cactus said.
"I hope that's not Raul."
"That's him. Raul Corral."
I groaned. "I must have crawled out of the wrong side
of the bed this morning."
"You've only got one side in that camper."
"That's what I mean."
I had hoped that Raul Corral would be good-looking. A
Julio Iglasias type. Or, at the very least a young
Cuco Sanchez. While Zanzibar might not be too
demanding, good-looking would be good. From my phone
conversations and our computer dialogue back and forth
over the last several months, I'd formed an image of
him in my mind. He was good-looking.
But computers can lie. Raul, I found out very
quickly, did not look almost like a monkey.
"Bat," I told Cactus as we came up the hill into the
clearing. "Definitely, bat."
Raul's ears were the largest I've seen on a human
being. And he was small. The top of his head barely
came to her shoulders.
As we walked up, he was trying to talk to her.
Zanzibar, tired of looking down at him, was staring at
a nearby tree. Obviously, she was bored by the
conversation, Raul Corral, and everything else in
general.
Obviously, however, she was not yet bored with me.
She came over and placed her arms around me and kissed
me lightly on the cheek.
Raul, obviously, was not going to save me from
anything.
He came over. I don't know if he actually intended to
shake hands with me or not. Maybe he came over to
take back "his" Bld.Bbe.
Then everything suddenly went from medium miserable to
absolutely horrible.
Cindy Thompson strolled into the clearing.
I pried myself loose from Zanzibar and grabbed Raul's
hand.
"Raul. Just the man I wanted to see!"
Since I sounded excited, Nepi also got excited and
began dancing around our legs and barking at us.
Zanzibar did not get excited at all. She reached for
my arm. I somehow dodged.
Cindy, too, was not excited.
She stood, the toe of one boot slightly forward and
more or less pointed at me.
One was definitely a Bld.Bbe. The other was
definitely a Bld.Bomb. It was obviously ticking.
"My aunt," I said to Cindy and shrugged.
Meanwhile, Raul collapsed into one of the canvas
chairs, quickly followed by Cactus in the other.
Cactus watched Nepi. Nepi trotted around, barking
first at me, then Raul, then Cindy.
Zanzibar, who wasn't quite fast enough to grab me,
finally leaned against the trunk of the nearest oak
tree.
She stared at Cindy. Then she glared at me.
"This is detective Cindy Thompson with the Austin
police. She's investigating all of the murders that
have been occurring here."
"There should be another one for you shortly,"
Zanzibar said.
"Are you really his aunt?" Cindy asked Zanzibar.
"No," Zanzibar said.
"Actually, everything is relative," I said, and
immediately wished I hadn't.
That, too, was a mistake.
Raul stood up.
"Don't leave yet," said Cactus. "There's bound to be
some fireworks.''
"I can wait until July 4," said Raul.
Before Raul could burst from the clearing and escape,
I dashed into the camper and dug up a copy of the
Alexandria stuff.
Raul was reluctant to take the computer printout.
"I need help on this, Raul. That information you
bounced into my computer the other day. I can't read
it. I guess you fouled up."
Regarding computers, Raul Corral never made a mistake.
My accusation, in effect, hit below the belt. And
that was probably the last place to hit him, under the
circumstances. But I was desperate.
With a wistful glance at Zanzibar, who'd knelt to pet
Nepi, he took the computer hard copy and began to
examine it.
Immediately, most of his thoughts about Zanzibar were
replaced by the squiggles on the computer readout.
"I'll be damned," he said. "Figured it could be done.
But this is the first I've seen."
"What could be done?"
"Create a condensed computer language."
"We thought it was perhaps a foreign language."
"Or garbage," said Cactus.
"Some is. A foreign language. I don't know what
kind. Some is maybe garbage, too. But this stuff
here is some kind of computer language using
phraseograms. One of these symbols may mean a whole
lot of things. Like the hieroglyphics on the Egyptian
pyramids."
"But how would you translate the symbols?"
"I wouldn't. A computer can be programmed to do that
a lot better than me or you. Was this the stuff I
modem'd out of Austin to you?"
"It came from a computer that I think was stolen from
me. Some data I had about Camp San Saba was also on
the hard disc drive. It's there at the top of the
hard copy."
"And you had a Mac, right?"
"Right."
"Whew! If they can handle this with just an Apple
Macintosh, watch out."
"Watchout what?"
"The major drawback with computers, although the guys
who build them won't admit it, is not the speed with
which bits of information can be processed, it's the
number. If there was some way you could reduce the
amount of bytes, the pieces that make up the
information to be handled, speed wouldn't be so
critical...nor the number of bits of information that
can be processed simultaneously. What we're talking
about is a revolution in computer programming. Less
disc space needed, less work needed to write the
programming...heck, computers could be programmed for
everything imaginable at the factory. And computers
straight from the factory would know everything."
"Everything?"
"Just about. Your mother's name, the birthday of her
third aunt, the name of Lex Luther's nephew in
Superman comics. Everything."
"Alexandria," I said. "The storehouse of all of the
information known by humankind."
"And then some."
"Would this sort of thing be worth killing for?"
"Some guys I know might. I might. On a bad day. But
it's not the sort of thing you keep secret. You'd give
it to the world."
"Maybe."
"Any hacker in the world would," insisted Raul.
"Can you read those chicken tracks?" asked Cactus.
"No," Raul told him. "Jean Paul Champollion was able
to translate the Rosetta Stone-which helped everyone
to decipher the hieroglyphics on the pyramids in
Egypt-because he figured out that the same message was
there three times. In three different languages. This
programming is different. There is no Rosetta Stone.
I wouldn't even be able to tell you how it works
without a lot of research, a lot of help, and a lot of
luck."
Raul continued to look at the Alexandria copy.
Cindy continued to look first at Zanzibar and then at
me, then at Zanzibar.
Zanzibar continued to look at me.
Cindy's eyes reminded me of an approaching storm. If
a storm developed, it would be witchcraft against
utter physical violence. What a pun...utter physical
violence.
Zanzibar had muscles. Horses do that sort of thing to
you.
Witches, I suppose, throw lightning bolts and dead
cats around. I did not want to get hit by either a
flying fist or a flying dead cat. That sort of thing
can spoil your whole day.
On the other hand, I didn't want to flee like a
coward.
But I decided I was. And I'd better.
After all, if they wanted to fight, why should I
interfere?
"Research," I said as I tried to leave.
"Screw it," said Zanzibar. She blocked my path.
"A matter of life and death," I explained.
"Without question," she said.
Cactus went and got his leather case from the camper.
He handed me my case of knives.
"Research, shit!" said Zanzibar.
"I do not need knives for research," I told Cactus.
"Yes, you do. A Howitzer 105 might also come in
handy."
"I'm definitely not taking the knives," I explained to
Zanzibar. "That should be positive proof that I
really am going to do research."
I did not, of course, bring up the three knives in my
pocket. Why complicate a conversation that, already,
was too complex?
"I know about the killings," Zanzibar said.
"All six were mere traffic fatalities," I said.
"I've put up a stop sign," she said.
"What six fatalities?" asked Cindy.
"I forgot to tell you about the next one," I said.
Cactus and I left the three of them at the camper.
"Is it going to be safe here?" asked Raul as we left.
"Nepi's a great watch dog," I said.
Cactus drove. This time, he'd rented a Chevy van. It
took a minute or two to cool the inside down once he
turned on the air conditioner. After that, it was a
pleasant ride into Austin. Cactus headed immediately
for the apartment building along the Colorado River
where Hamish lived.
"Are you going to kill him?"
"The question is not if, it's why," I said.
"Why are you going to kill him?"
"I'm not going to kill him," I said. "And there are
several reasons."
"Good reasons or bad reasons?"
"First, he is a nice guy. Everyone tells me that.
Cindy says so. I do not go around killing nice guys."
"Something tells me you do not necessarily believe
he's a nice guy."
"Nice guys do not go around stealing computers. Nice
guys do not go around blowing up research centers and
apartment buildings and killing people by bashing in
their faces. Furthermore, he killed my pet
rattlesnake."
"If he killed my rattlesnake, I'd certainly be hissed
off," said Cactus.
"That is not funny," I said. "That is definitely not
even slightly humorous. Anyway, I said it first. And
I didn't get any laugh then, either."
"Old joke, that's why."
"Anyway, I'm not going to kill Hamish. I'm just going
to cut off his cans of turtle soup and make him eat
them. Cold."
"Now that really is funny," said Cactus. "You don't
even have the heart to skin a rabbit."
"You and Josef Mengele. Same type of humor."
"Perhaps we were brothers under the skin," said
Cactus. "But I've never threatened to cut off
anyone's turtle soup."
"Funny. Very fun-nee."
We found Mo-Pac Boulevard in Austin and went south.
Then headed toward the river.
"I wish I didn't have to do this," I said.
"You could turn everything over to Garcia. He's a
good man."
"That's the problem with Garcia," I said. "It would
be just a good man against a nice guy. Absolutely
nothing would happen."
"And you intend to make something happen."
"My gorilla trap worked, didn't it?"
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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July 23, 2007
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
IV still dripping.
Antibiotics. Twice a day. But I
can now walk from the bedroom to the living room and
drop not so ceremoniously into a chair with extra
padding from a lounge chair on the patio. Lots of
things to do if and when I feel capable or inclined
enough. My son John brought over the first season of
"Boston Legal." Damned good show! Barbara and I are
watching it a segment at a time. And tomorrow I will
probably watch an old Gary Grant movie older than me.
Some of it. Still hurts to sit before a laptop,
though. But I'm trying.
The "visiting nurse" program seems to be working
pretty good. At least, in my case. One of the nurses
is a guy named Jack. Sharp wit! Reminds me of a guy
I used to know in science fiction. Buck Coulson.
Buck's long gone now. Buck and I had a lot of things
in common and I miss the occasionally letters we used
to exchange. Well, I also appear to have a great deal
in common with Jack. My son John has more in common
with him than I do. However, it's nice to be able to
joke about an illness than cry. A couple of times
during the past couple of weeks, I felt like crying.
Poor me. Pity poor me. But I didn't cry. Texican,
you know! And, hey, I appear to be getting better. I
sure hope so. I was planning to go visiting my
brother Buddy in Houston. Don't know when - or even
if - that's going to happen. But I am getting a
little better day by day. Not much. Not enough. But
some.
Haven't been this sick in a long, long time. If ever.
It's a hell of a note when you realize you're sick
and there's not an awful lot you can do about it.
Antibiotics via IV. Left foot hurts. I mean really
hurts! And it feels hot. Thus, a certain lack of
focus when it comes to writing. Pity. My writing is
a great part of me. Without writing, there's not much
of the real Claude Hall left anymore. I am left to
merely keeping on keeping on.
RADIO'S HELL
Great! Absolutely phenomenal and fantastic! The Big
W has given you a job. Well, not a real job. Just
fetching coffee, sorting the mail, running errands.
No pay. Just a few 45s now and then. And a Big W
teeshirt that told the entire world you were a member
of the radio station's staff now. Just great! The
best deal, mostly, was that he'd be able to maybe see,
maybe even talk to all of the super acts always
dropping by the radio station. Buddy Holly came by
once years ago. He'd been told that. Hey, there was
an autographed picture of Buddy Holly on the wall in
the deejay lounge!
And you, of course, had mentioned the real reason you
wanted the job with the Big W: Since you were a kid,
you'd wanted to be a disc jockey. Dreamed of segueing
records, pounding on the intro. Just like Dan
Clayton. Now there was a real disc jockey! Even
though he personally like Long John Silver best.
No, maybe George Burns. Well, Rick Shaw perhaps. He
knew without question that he would soon be sitting
with those cans on his head, a finger on the cough
button just in case, another finger on the record on
the turntable, record cued, hundreds, maybe more, just
waiting for him to intro the tune and bring up the
music. He'd already given some thought to dropping
out of school. You didn't get a chance like this with
a station such as a Big W just every day. This was
his big break!
What a day! He sat there just a big stunned. The
Hooper was out. His ratings had dropped just a tad.
No rhyme or reason. Nothing about which to really be
concerned. Nor fixed. But the program director in
the disc jockey meeting that had just faded into
history talked of "changes." That, of course, would
send him to the phone in a few minutes. Just as soon
as he recovered his wind. See what was out there.
And this job, just a few weeks ago, had appeared to be
extremely promising. A good station with a decent
signal in a medium market. A man might move up from
here to Seattle or Boston. Never could tell. He'd
been given a tradeout on gasoline and a café down the
street now and then. And the hops were bringing in
about $75 a week. Hey, he even had a bank account!
Of course, his old Chevy needed a bit of work. If he
got lucky, maybe the next station would have a
tradeout with some kind of car repair shop. Some
life, though. True, disc jockey work didn't pay that
well. Never had. But that had never really mattered.
It was a career! You felt like somebody! People
knew you on the street. And the people you met! He'd
even met Kent Burkhart and Bill Stewart once. A high
point in his life. The two men had radiated
knowledge, confidence. Filled up a room! Compared to
his own program director, gods! This guy who'd just
mentioned "changes", he seemed more concerned with
oozing through life. Changes meant a different disc
jockey, not better programming, better music, better
promotions. Had the creativity of a broom stick.
Mostly, he wanted to be left alone with his Patti Page
records. Forget "I Want to Hold Your Hand" by that
new British group that was making so much noise. You
got absolutely no guidance from the guy! Hey, Patti
Page was great. And belonged. But not on the same
page. Well, big deal. He supposed that he'd never
really been comfortable here. The guy on the air
before him never emptied the ashtray. Took a few
minutes every afternoon to get the place clean enough
for work. While the single did it's magic, he did his
own magic with a damp rag. He'd heard once about the
legendary Cousin Brucie in New York City reading the
newspaper while the record spun. Evidently, Bruce
Morrow didn't have to clean up the place from the guy
before him. Probably even a cart operation. Maybe
even with an "engineer" across from him to actually
"play" the music. Bruce, now there was a name people
would remember! His own air name? Johnny Rabbitt
here. What was the name of the guy on the air before
him? Well, guess it didn't matter.
A Hooper can be a dangerous thing for a program
director. He stared at the numbers. What did these
figures really mean? The wrong tune here? A burnout
there? Maybe the old "House Call" promotion was going
out of style. Fat chance, though, of doing a treasure
hunt like KOWH in Omaha. And he was absolutely sick
of doing remotes! The remotes brought in a few extra
bucks for the radio station, but fouled up everything
he was trying to accomplish with the radio station!
And now the general manager wanted to do a remote from
a casket firm. For god's sake! Bit sick, that
general manager. He stared at the Hooper some more.
Always tell that bastard to take his casket and cram
it. But, of course, you didn't do that sort of thing.
The GM was the GM. Like the captain of a ship. And
the word would spread. Be hell getting another
programming job. You could wipe out an entire career
with just a few wrong words. Like Ken Draper in Los
Angeles. He stared at the Hooper some more. Had to
be an answer there somewhere!
As for the general manager, he looked at the books.
Revenues were down this past month. And the owner of
the station had already been on the phone twice this
morning with possible suggestions about remotes.
About making a deal with the local supermarket chain.
Later today, he wanted to have lunch to talk about the
problems with the radio station. What problems?
Quietly, the general manager closed the door to his
office and slugged down a drink from the bottle of
Jack Daniels in his lower desk drawer.
Johnny Douglas was there! Rusty Rhoad. Tommy Carl.
Rick Sklar. Don McKinnon. Hey, everyone was there,
including Dwight Saunders with whom he'd worked on
that radio station in Kansas City. And Bill Smithhunt
was telling about the live concert sponsored by the
radio station, when the drummer, drunk or drugged out,
fell off the stage and no one noticed until packing up
after the show. Lord, but it was great to meet some
of these guys again! People he'd known. Loved.
Great times. It was good to be among friends! From a
go-fer at the Big W to this! A man couldn't ask for
more!
OTHER MATTERS
Stephen Greenberg,
SGreenberg@ci.stamford.ct.us: "I
did promotion for RCA, Arista and Polygram between
1971-1983 (except 1972/3 when I was in Vietnam).
Anyway, I occasionally get nostalgic and Google some
names from that time to see what people are up to, but
usually unsuccessfully. So I google Neil McIntyre and
get your book review of Johnny Holliday. It was funny
to see you mention a ride on the ABC boat with Rick
Sklar, David Cassidy and Barry Fidel! I was there and
still have the photo to prove it! In fact I was close
with Rick (for a local promotion man) and I was the
one who set the whole thing up. If you recall,
Cassidy was trying to make a comeback and Rick was
doing me a favor. I think I was a good promotion man
but I was pretty low key, the opposite of Barry who
was more into promoting himself than the artist. But
I digress, the real reason for writing is that I have
been out of touch for so long and I was wondering if
you know of any sources or directories of Record
Company Executives from the '70s/80s that would help
satisfy my curiosity for 'Whatever Happened to...?'
By the way, I enjoyed your article, and what is Neil
McIntyre doing these days?"
Lord! Great to hear from you, Steve! Your name,
from the long ago, is engrained in my soul. The big
music contact was Tom Noonan. I'm sure you knew him..
Unfortunately, Tom died of cancer just a few months
ago. Tom knew everyone and printed a sporadic
newsletter that I hoped someone would continue, but..
And thanks for the input on the boat tango. We had
some wonderful times in those days. (Just FYI, I'm
sending Steve a few emails.
Andy Hall: "Been listening to the Bobby Vee disks you
sent me of 'Nothing Like a Sunny Day', and 'Gates,
Grills and Railings'. Excellent. Bobby should have
been even bigger in the 70s than he was in the
60s...the record execs goofed in not pushing him. I
guess they were worried about Cat Stevens and Harry
Chapin and thought that Bobby would saturate the
market. Who knows. But both of those albums are a
joy to listen to along side the earlier 60s material.
Makes me wonder if Bobby couldn't have joined the
Travelling Wilbury's, but then again...that may not
have been the best thing for his health as half of the
Wilbury's met premature deaths. Speaking of which, I
will let you borrow my Wilbury CDs when I visit in 2
weeks."
Just FYI, my wife Barbara and Karen Velline are good
friends and Karen reports that the Branson version of
the Bobby Vee show is going great. Mentioned that the
Crickets are also on the show.
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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