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"Howard
Hughes Is Alive
and Well and Living in the San Fernando Valley"
Chapter 6 of a mystery
by Claude Hall
Slow. I've become slow. I
should have realized that
the Jeep parked beside the truck was for me. Perhaps
my thoughts were tangled up in Herman and Maudell
Wexler. Or maybe I was thinking about that
rattlesnake killing spree tomorrow; I'd never been on
a rattlesnake "rodeo" -- actually a slaughter of
rattlesnakes, I don't care what they called it -- and
I'm not sure that I wanted to go on one now.
When Cactus held out the keys to the Jeep, I was not
only surprised, but a little pissed off.
"I would prefer another pickup with a camper," I said.
"I've always had trouble sleeping in a Jeep."
"When did you ever sleep in a Jeep?" Cactus demanded.
I tried to think of a response that wasn't a lie
because Cactus can tell pretty good when you're lying.
"In the army, of course," I said.
"I happen to know that you never even saw a Jeep up
close when you were in the army. Privates do not get
to ride in Jeeps unless they're driving one for some
fancy second louie. You hated second louies even
though that guy you studied with at the University of
Texas, Dr. Lou Dorren, had been a first lieutenant.
Anyway, you were in some kind of special forces unit."
"That's not true. I saw several Jeeps. Now and then.
From a distance, more than likely. And how did you
find out about the special forces stuff? That was
supposed to be ultra secret and hush hush. It was so
secret that not even I knew what I was doing most of
the time."
"Well, anyway hold your horses about the Jeep. We'll
get you another pickup in a few days when this is all
over. This is not your run-of-the-mill Model T Jeep
and I bought the Jeep for me, not for you. I'm just
loaning it to you. It will get you down to a motel
and back in the morning and maybe, I believe, a few
feet beyond that."
He dropped the keys of the Jeep in the palm of my
hand.
"When what's all over?"
"Whatever it is," he said.
"Is there something I should know that I don't know
already know? I sense a very evasive tone here and
I'm quite sensitive to such things."
"There are a lot of things, in all probability, that
you should know, Smitty. And I will tell you what
they are just as soon as I find out what they are
myself. To tell the truth, I was hoping you'd find
them out and then tell me."
"Well, I'm a little bit pissed about being forced to
come to Carlsbad. Thomas Wolfe said you can't go home
again. He was wrong. Anyone can go home. What he
forgot to say is that nobody in their right mind wants
to do it. Especially if they were raised in a town
like this. All of these small towns from here to
Dallas are just synonyms for the world hell."
"But there are some rather interesting things
happening in this particular hell here. As soon as we
find out what they are, you can leave."
"Then I'll leave now," I said. "It doesn't take a
genius to figure out why gasoline sales in a city like
this have fallen off. The economy rises and falls on
two factors - the tourists who come to see the cave
and the potash miles. The number of people visiting
the cave has been declining for some years. People
have found other things to see and do, that's all.
And as for the potash, several of the mines have
closed down recently. People have been laid off work.
Ergo, they don't buy as much gasoline. They walk."
"That's not the answer," he said, "and you know it.
Otherwise, you and that tick-tock mind of yours
wouldn't have even come back to Carlsbad."
"It's not? How can you say that when you don't even
know what the real question is?"
"You're not even close," he said patiently. "But
we'll work on that problem tomorrow. Meanwhile, this
Jeep will take you where you want to go tonight. And
maybe...just maybe...a hell of a lot further than
that."
"You've already said that," I pointed out.
"But you be careful with it," he said. "It's the
second Jeep I've bought. The first one caught fire on
me."
"And you want me to drive a Jeep that might catch
fire?"
"I looked under the hood of the other Jeep and it
caught fire. Don't look under the hood of this one.
And it also drives a little funny."
"How funny?"
"You ever driven a car with an electric motor?"
"No," I said.
"A golf cart?"
"Never touch the stuff."
"Mayors of towns in Arizona have to play golf. It's a
law or something," Cactus said. "Anyway, this Jeep
drives something like a golf cart."
"Great," I said. "Just great. I have great
admiration and appreciation for going slow. And, just
for the record, Dr. Dorren was never a lieutenant. He
started out as a captain."
"He did? How do you know something like that?"
"Because he denied it once or twice," I said. "He was
a special something or other in something that wasn't
called intelligence...wasn't called anything, in fact,
because no one really knew what to call it. I
checked."
Cactus also handed me a new wallet. It was full of
money. I didn't bother to look to see how much. He
said there were also some new credit cards, including
a Starbuck gasoline credit card "which you won't need"
and a copy of a fax that said I was street legal
"which might be okay...or maybe not, depending on the
cop that stops you."
"Why should a cop stop me?" I wanted to know.
He shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know? Maybe
you'll get lucky this time."
"Cops are not always stopping me," I insisted.
"Sure," he said.
He'd reserved a room for me and Nepi at a motel on
main street out at the south end of town. Told me
that it was rented for a week, but that we might not
be in town tomorrow night.
"Great. Just great," I said.
But first I would need to stop at an army and navy
store and get some clothes more appropriate for the
Carlsbad rodeo. He recommended a pair of high-top
combat-style boots, a shirt with long sleeves, and a
wide-brimmed hat. And a canteen and belt. They were
at the top of the list that he handed to me. I
noticed a first aid kit on the list, along with a
sleeping bag and a small tent.
"You expect me to get bit by a rattlesnake?"
"Of course not," insisted Cactus, shaking his head
back and forth. "You? Never happen."
"Where are you staying?" I asked.
"I prefer to sleep under the stars," he said.
His last order was for me and Nepi to pick him up at
this very spot tomorrow morning just about dawn. And
this we did. Only I almost didn't recognize the
Indian who stepped down out of the cab of the truck.
He was wearing faded blue jeans and mocassins, a plaid
shirt that bordered on the edge of being a rag with a
bandana around his neck, and a wide-brimmed straw hat
that had seen better days.
Me? I was dressed like some soldier of fortune just
about to walk onto a movie set, maybe one of those
constant remakes of "King Solomon's Mines" under a
different title. Pistol belt with canteen and first
aid kit and a rather wicked knife attached, military
combat fatigues camouflaged to blend into almost any
terrain, and combat boots. The store didn't have
everything, but I was able to order a couple of things
and the owner assured me that if I got lucky they'd be
in stock in a day or two. Now, just looking at
Cactus, I felt silly. I started to ask him why I had
to dress like this, but then I figured that I didn't
really want to know. All of my personal belongings
were in a small backpack in the back of the Jeep.
This included my other pair of pants, a teeshirt, and
a pair of Turntec sneakers as well as a San Diego
Chargers baseball cap. And I'd bought along an extra
canvas bag I could sling over my shoulder by a strap.
Dressed like GI Joe and some farmer from Missouri, we
went to breakfast.
Cactus Solkowski was a perfect gentleman during
breakfast with Herman and Maudell Wexler. He didn't
accuse them of anything nor ask any embarrassing
questions. And Maudell did, indeed, serve lox and
bagels in addition to some scrambled eggs. Where
she'd bought the lox and bagels, I hadn't the faintest
idea unless, of course, Carlsbad had changed over the
years since the days when I used to visit my parents.
In those days, and I suspect still, you wouldn't have
had much trouble finding barbecued sausage or
enchiladas. Or a decent steak. But a bagel would
have been a rare mystery.
We had our breakfast outdoors at a concrete table with
a magnificent view of the water beyond a few trees
that knocked off most of the morning sun. I helped
Maudell carry out plates of goodies and the coffee
pot. Nepi roamed around. For a while he sat and
watched a squirrel. I don't think he'd seen a
squirrel before and probably was trying to figure out
what it was.
I found myself studying Herman and trying not to make
it so obvious that he would become embarrassed or,
worse, would embarrass me. Then, suddenly, I ducked
my head into a bagel with cream cheese and tried not
to think about Herman and Maudell at all. Such a
pleasant couple. Why had Cactus done this to me? You
can't just go around distrusting everyone.
"How was the cave?" Cactus asked.
"Fine," said Maudell. "Just fine."
"You seen the cave?" Herman asked me.
"Many times," I said. "Everytime some relative came
to town or a family friend came to visit, I was
generally the one elected to go through the cave with
them. Of course, a cave like the Carlsbad Caverns
never gets boring. Good exercise."
"Nothing but a big hole in the ground," said Herman.
"But I wasn't aware that you once lived here, Smitty?"
"Not me. I came to visit my parents now and then on
furlough when I was in the army and later between
semesters while going to college."
"Strange town," said Herman. "Big hole in the ground
surrounded by a lot of little holes. I'm talking, of
course, about all of the potash mines around here."
"Well, I like Carlsbad just fine," said Maudell as she
passed the cream cheese over to Cactus. Cactus, who
didn't have any great affinity for bagels, was feeding
pieces under the table to Nepi. Trying not to display
his reluctance, Cactus accepted some of the cream
cheese and spread it on his bagel.
"You've obvious never eaten many bagels," observed
Herman.
"Guess not," admitted Cactus.
Herman sliced one, spread some cream cheese on the
inside, and handed it to Cactus.
"Frankly, doesn't matter how you cut them," said
Herman, "they still taste dull. Most Jews in America
have a persecution complex. Eating bagels makes them
feel good because bagels aren't really worth eating."
"Jews do not have a persecution complex," insisted
Maudell.
"And lox doesn't help bagels all that much either,"
continued Herman, forking out a piece of fish and
dropping it onto the paper plate in front of Cactus.
He added a slice of red onion. "Try all of that
together like an open-faced sandwich."
Cactus took a bite.
"Not bad," he said.
"You're lying," Herman said, "but that's okay. Takes
years to become a really good Jew. That's when you
develop a taste for gefilte fish. With lots of
horseradish, of course. From that day forward, you
can never look at a Baptist Church; it's against the
Jewish religion."
"Well, I never!" said Maudell with her hands on her
hips and a smile almost ready to burst into laughter.
Herman paid her no attention.
"You men are dressed a little weird today," Herman
observed. "Must be a reason. Going fishing or is the
Rocky Horror Picture Show in town?"
"I am not dressed weird," I said. "Yesterday, I was
dressed weird, which was normal. Today, I'm dressed
normal and you think it's weird because I look
different."
"You sure do!" said Herman.
"We thought we'd participate in the rodeo," said
Cactus. "Would you folks like to join us?"
"Land sakes, no!" said Maudell.
"You heard the lady," Herman said. "No rattlesnakes
for us, I'm afraid. And I'd be grateful if you men
wouldn't kill anything and expect us to eat it for
dinner. I tried some turtle meat once many years ago
and that's about as adventuresome as I wish to get.
And octopus. I forgot about that Greek restaurant in
New York City."
"Deal," said Cactus.
"You ever ate rattlesnake, Mr. Solkowski?"
"Yes. Yes, I have. Once when I was very hungry a
long time ago. But, quite frankly, I much prefer
vension."
"Deer, I can handle," Herman said.
"We will never eat Bambi in my house," said Maudell
with firmness.
Herman was still chuckling broadly as he followed us
over to the Jeep. I saw him glance quickly at the
Jeep, but just as quickly glance away as if he didn't
really want to know about it.
"Just what kind of Indian are you, if you don't mind
my asking, Mr. Solkowski?
"A distant branch of the Apaches, we think," said
Cactus in an ordinary tone of voice. "We don't really
know as much about the tribe as we'd like. The
history's all gone. Got lost somewhere along the
way."
That statement, of course, was not exactly a lie.
He'd told me a few months ago that a couple of the
members of the Wupatki tribe-now studying archeology
at the University of Arizona-were beginning to
discover some interesting facts about their ancesters
and the enormous Arizona cave cities where they had
lived.
"Yesterday," said Herman, "from the way you were
dressed, I would have said you'd moved off the
reservation...unless, of course, you're some kind of
big boss at a reservation casino."
"Never been much of a gambler," Cactus replied. And
he was looking Herman right in the eyes when he said.
"Me neither," Herman said without blinking or lowering
his gaze, "unless, of course, it was on myself." He
seemed to be studying Cactus as one might study a
slide under a microscope.
"And I don't think I could ever leave the reservation.
Not for long," said Cactus, giving each word, it
seemed to me, an especial meaning. "I'm usually out
there two or three days a week when I'm in town."
It was like a small non-emotional war between them,
although both men were, preversely, fighting to keep
the battle on a higher level. There was even the hint
of a smile on Cactus, although he tried to hide that,
too.
I picked up Nepi and dumped him unceremoniously on the
back seat of the Jeep. He thought it was fine because
he had a great view of either side of the road. He
sat there like a king on a throne, surveying his
domain. I wondered if lox and bagels did that sort of
thing to you.
"You men be careful out there," Maudell said as she
carried a jar of lox and a plastic container of bagels
to her motorhome parked just by the trees.
I backed the Jeep out and we pulled out of the parking
lot and drove over to the main street.
"I started to tell him you were a mayor."
"Don't spoil the man's fun," Cactus said. "Let him
continue to fish around for information. He'll
probably find out everything he wants to know, if he's
the type of man I suspect he is."
"What type's that?" I asked.
"Like me in many ways. Used to being boss, but
doesn't want anyone much to know it. When people know
you're boss, they can rebel. If they don't know
you're manipulating them, you've got a better chance
at getting them to do what you want them to do."
"Just what I suspected," I said. "I've realized for
somewhile now that you've been manipulating me."
"Nope. With me and you, it's a direct order," he
said. "Saves time. With other people, I generally
make a suggestion or two and, if I get lucky, they end
up doing one of them or both."
"Don't you find it somewhat embarrassing, telling me
this? What makes you think I'll follow orders from
now on since I know they're orders and not mere
suggestions."
"Very simple," said Cactus. "I know a blonde who
would dearly love to find out precisely where you're
hiding."
"That is a very treacherous, very foul and highly
despicable modus operandi and quite unbecoming for the
wiseman of one of America's oldest and proudest Indian
tribes."
"And quite effective, too," said Cactus. "Turn left
at the next corner. Someone's following us."
I glanced in the rearview mirror and spotted a rather
familiar motorhome slowly turning a corner is the
distance.
"That's interesting," I said.
"Not really," said Cactus. "I don't think your friend
Herman appreciates rattlesnakes. Maudell maybe. Hard
to say."
He had me slowly circle the block and by the time we
were headed leisurely out main street again the
motorhome was ahead of us and leaving town.
"Now that's really interesting," I said.
"This time," Cactus said, "you're right."
But a short time later when we turned off onto a road
leading vaguely west, the motorhome with Herman and
Maudell was still moving down the highway with
considerable gusto and almost out of sight in the
distance ahead.
The road wasn't really a road. Even for a Jeep. It
was actually a trail that twisted around rocks most of
the time and over the rocks the rest of the time. The
trail made even the potholes on Interstate 40 seem
pretty good. My back soon began to feel like I'd been
tossed by a bronco that had just dined on loco weed.
I don't know what had been done to the Jeep-its motor
was a soft whine like the purr of a cat that has just
been fed-but it didn't seem to have a whole lot of
power. We eased over bumps rather than attacked them.
Didn't matter. Everything and every part of me began
to hurt.
When I mentioned my back pains to Cactus, he accused
me of going too slow, being too soft, and a few other
things one doesn't mention in public.
"Not only manipulated, but insulted," I said. "One
more insult and I'm going to sic Nepi on you."
After he stopped laughing, Cactus pointed out that we
were almost at the parking area. And, ahead of us, I
could see maybe two or three hundred cars scattered
over an area that had been graded off to vaguely
resemble a parking lot without killing off all of the
catclaw and cactus. Beyond the parking lot was a low
hill and beyond the low hill were other hills
separated almost as if on purpose by an arroyo which
twisted off to the left and disappeared from view.
The waist-high catclaw brushes that struggled across
the low hills appeared to be fighting for life, but
they had fought so for a thousand years and more since
the days when this whole region of the world was the
bottom of a sea. Out there in the rocks scattered
among the Spanish bayonet brushes that could stab a
careless man and the prickly pear cactuses that could
jab you with needles that caused festers were
rattlesnakes that packed an even more lethal poison in
needle-sharp fangs. Rattlesnakes come in all sizes
and more than a handful of species. The most fearsome
are the diamondbacks with their curious markings on
faded-green skins which are highly prized for belts
and boots, wallets and hatbands. These rattlesnakes
sometimes grow as long as a tall man and are generally
sporting enough to warn you with the most-chilling
rattle you've ever heard. I've heard stories around
campfires of rattlesnakes growing up to eight feet
long and the shrill sound a bit too near of one of
them rattling causing a man's hair to grow immediately
white as snow. But as a rule these rattlesnakes would
rather hiss than bite.
I've heard it said that even a baby rattlesnake packs
enough venom to kill a man. I don't know. And,
personally, I don't care to find out.
And then there are the sidewinders. These
rattlesnakes usually grow only two or three feet long
and they're so mean and vicious that they strike
without rattling.
I placed the Jeep a few feet from the other cars, most
of which were sports vehicles of one kind and another
or pickups. There was a Mercedes-Benz convertible
parked near a Ford pickup, but it looked out of place.
And was. Not many people would have driven an
expensive car like that up the road we'd just taken.
Not unless they had several similar cars in the garage
and could spare one. Supposedly, Diana Ross, a former
Supreme, had a garage at her home in the Del Mar area
of California that would hold 12 cars, but I don't
think she was willing to spare any of them. Anyway,
I'd heard that most of her cars would cost about the
same as a house. Not a house in California, of
course, but perhaps a fairly nice house in Dallas or
Austin. Well, maybe not in Dallas. Austin, Texas,
and a really good house with some acreage in Brady,
Texas, though. Of course, no one would want to live
in Brady, Texas. That's for cottonpicking sure!
"You say something?"
"No," I said. "Nothing."
Cactus said: "I heard you say, 'That's for
cottonpicking sure'."
"Wasn't me. I'd never say something like that.
That's a colloquialism. If I were to say something
under my breath - and I refute the possibility as
being highly implausible - I would be more erudite."
"College stuff?"
"You say something like 'college stuff' at The
University of Texas and they make you play on the
football team."
"And what's this about Diana Ross and her garage?"
"Have you been reading my mind?"
"Nope," said Cactus. "You were talking to yourself
aloud."
"I never talk to myself. While it's true that I'm
absolutely fascinating most of the time, most of the
time I keep my mouth shut."
"Well, you sure weren't talking to me. I don't care
how many cars Diana Ross owns. But how many does she
really own?"
"Ten or twelve maybe," I said. "Depends on what day
of the week this is."
"How come you know all that?"
"It's just one of the things that I know. I don't
know why I know it. I'm a pop guru, that's all. Do
you want to hear about the Crotalus cerastus? I know
a lot about the Crotalus cerastus."
"I'm afraid not, but what about it?"
"That's the real name of the sidewinder."
"The name sidewinder is good enough for me," said
Cactus. "I've seen more than enough of those rascals
in my day."
"Is that what we're going to catch today?"
"No. And don't bother chasing after any diamondbacks
either."
"One, maybe," I said. "I need a new conversation
piece. Rattlesnakes make great topics for talk-talk."
"No," insisted Cactus.
I reached to help Nepi down from his throne in the
Jeep, but he'd already leaped out and darted off
somewhere.
After taking a moment to stretch and try to persuade
some of my muscles that the world was okay after all,
I checked my shoulder bag before slinging it over my
shoulder.
The air was good and clean this morning, but it was
always good and clean out here in this part of the
world. Sometimes the wind blew and you might not like
the way it cut at your hands and face, but it was
always clean. Even when it picked up small pebbles
and began to throw them at you waist high.
"Good day for hunting rattlesnakes," I said.
"It's never a good day for hunting rattlesnakes," said
Cactus. He took a leather tube from behind his seat
and slung the strap over his shoulder.
We strolled over to a table where two women were
sitting on folding chairs. They were both about 50
years old with white hair and were more interested in
talking about their grandchildren than talking to us.
"You're a bit late," one of the women finally said.
"Everyone else has already left."
I glanced at my wristwatch. It was almost eight
o'clock.
"Sorry," I said. "I was slowed down by a bagel."
"A what?"
"Never mind," Cactus said quickly.
"No guns," said the other woman, who had a small
flower pinned to the right shoulder of her blouse.
She stared at my shoulder bag as if I might have an
Uzi hidden away. To tell the truth, the bag was empty
except for the newspapers I'd wadded up and stuffed
inside.
"Never touch the stuff," I said. "I don't plan to
kill any rattlesnakes today."
"Killing them's fine. As long as you do it with a
bow. Of course, we much prefer that you capture them
live and put them in the pen over there. There's a
thousand dollar prize for the biggest rattlesnake.
Live, of course. Over there."
She pointed to a cage off to the left.
"How about a throwing knife?"
The woman glanced at her friend. There was a long
pause and then a whispered discussion between the two
women.
"I don't know," one of them said. "We've never had
this come up before."
"Well, I don't think I'll kill any snakes today, if
you don't mind."
"I'll sure I don't care one way or the other," said
the woman. "As I told you, we want live snakes as
much as possible. First they milk them for venom and
then skin them and sell the skins and the rattlesnake
meat. Lots of people like rattlesnake meat. Fried."
"Fine," I said. I whistled and Nepi came from behind
some cactus and trotted up to us.
Cactus held up his leather tube. "A bow," he said.
"That will be fine," said the woman. She thumbed over
sheets of paper on a clipboard on the table. "Are you
men registered for the rodeo?"
Cactus showed her some identification. She checked
her papers and nodded.
Then she looked at Nepi. "I don't think I'd take that
dog with me," she said.
"It's okay," I assured her. "He won't hurt any of the
rattlesnakes."
"Is that right?" said the woman and it wasn't really a
question. I could tell that by her tone.
"I guarantee it," I said.
"Well, I guess that's just fine then," she said.
"Fine," I said.
She stared at me for a moment, but finally pointed at
the arroyo. "Everyone else went that way," she said.
I walked over and looked. There were no rattlesnakes
in the cage yet.
"Are the rattlesnakes that direction?"
"I'm sure I don't know. When you catch up with the
others, they will tell you where the best places to
find rattlesnakes are."
I started to say fine, but decided nothing was really
fine and so just walked off in the direction of the
arroyo followed by Nepi and Cactus. Actually, Nepi
doesn't follow anyone. He prefers to lead the way.
He bounded ahead, but then discovered that sand
doesn't bound very well and soon had to satisfy
himself with just walking. Now and then, he would
pause and check to make sure we were actually
following. And when I glanced back, I noticed that
the two women were watching us to make sure we were
going.
The sun, so bright that you dared not look at it, was
now fairly high in an absolutely cloudless sky. Even
the sky was scorched white by the sun and the sun
crashed into the sand and the rocks alongside the
arroyo and created heat more savage than any oven. I
started sweating almost immediately and noticed after
a few minutes that Cactus, too, had begun to sweat.
It was difficult to walk in the sand; it shifted under
your feet.
"We need to get out of this wash," I said. But, of
course, that was an obvious statement.
"Just as soon as we're around that bend up there and
out of sight," said Cactus.
He led the way around the bend and immediately began
climbing over boulders and making his way to the top
of the ridge. Nepi quickly stole the idea and darted
into a cleft in the rocks. He soon appeared about 20
feet above me. I decided that the dog might know
something and so I looked into the cleft and found
that wind and the water over the countless years had
carved almost a staircase. In a few minutes, I was
standing alongside of Nepi waiting for Cactus to
appear. For a moment, I thought about telling him
about the stairs, but then decided I'd better not
spoil his fun. Older people like to do things the
hard way sometimes. Keeps them in condition to do a
lot more things the easy way.
When his head came into view, followed soon by a face
sweating profused from the exertion of the climb, Nepi
barked a greeting.
Cactus shook his head as he struggled to his feet.
"Smartassed college dog," he said to Nepi.
I had a hunch that he was also referring to me, but I
decided not to humor him.
The arroyo below us twisted more or less west. Cactus
paid no attention to it. He pulled a baseball cap out
of his hip pocket and put it on. Then searched the
horizon to the south of us. That didn't hold his
attention for long. He began to scan the distance to
the north.
North, low hills rubbed against the sky and beyond
them higher hills hugged the edge of the world. I
thought I saw someone move swiftly over one of the
ridges out there, but I wasn't sure. The intense heat
created ripples of heat and vision was obscured. The
optical illusion made you feel that the rocks and the
hills were also moving.
"Could you really hit a snake with that bow?"
"No. I forgot the arrows," Cactus said.
"Well, whither the snakes?" I asked.
"I'm not really sure yet that we're hunting a snake,"
said Cactus.
I quickly caught his emphasis on the singular rather
than the plural. Ah, yes, a college degree can come
in handy at times.
"Do you have any idea of what we're really hunting?" I
asked.
"Maybe an entrance to a cave. Maybe a low building
out here. Something built of rocks in the rocks. I
had one of Joe's Bandits fly over, but he saw nothing.
I thought we'd take a closer look from ground level."
"They're still around? Joe's Bandits."
"More of a social group these days. They haven't gone
on a combat mission in quite a while. But it's nice
to have them around when you need them."
Joe's Bandit's were a quasi-military group that once
operated as soldiers of fortune. For money. Their
leader had been Joe "Walking Wind" Cardenas, an Apache
who'd gone "tripwire" after Vietnam and whose body was
now entombed in a secret cave in Arizona. The fact
that the cave was full of gold ingots and emeralds and
a few other things like that was the foundation of the
business empire of Apache Power.
"Nepi," I said. "Cave."
"That dog know what a cave is?" asked Cactus.
"Sure."
He may have known, but Nepi certainly didn't find one
that day. Nor did we discover anything of interest.
We searched for a few hours and all we found was an
aching neck and a slight sunburn. Never even saw a
rattlesnake, believe it or not. A few orange thousand
legs, which are also poisonous, but nothing else of
interest.
However, there was now a cage full of rattlers back at
the parking lot. The ladies had folded up their table
and chairs and departed. There was no one around.
"That one there is worth a thousand dollars," I told
Cactus.
"I don't need a thousand dollars," Cactus said.
"Then they're going to milk that fellar and skin him
and eat him."
"I hope you're not thinking what I think you're
thinking," said Cactus.
"Naw. Not me," I said.
I zipped open the canvas bag I'd slung over my
shoulder just in case I saw a rattlesnake and reached
down and grabbed the big one by the neck.
He squirmed and twisted, but seemed to realize, I
think, that I was rescuing him. I placed him gently
in my bag. That sucker had to be at least six-foot
long. Big!
"Tarzan," I said. "That's a good name for a
rattlesnake, don't you think?"
"What are you going to do with him?" Cactus demanded.
"Should I point out that we've got work to do and no
time to fiddle around with a rattlesnake?"
"I'll let him loose in a safe place," I said. "As
soon as I can."
"Good," said Cactus.
"As for these guys," I said. "No sense them hanging
around."
"Good lord!" said Cactus as he ran for the Jeep. He
was followed real close by Nepi. Smart dog.
I turned over the cage of rattlesnakes. Must have
been two or three hundred live rattlesnakes in the
cage.
They immediately headed for the rocks and the brush.
I walked over to the Jeep, placed my canvas bag behind
the seat, and got in.
"I suggest we hurry," said Cactus. "One bow is not
enough to defend you against all of those rattlesnake
hunters."
"They bother me and I'll sic Tarzan on them," I said.
Cactus just sighed.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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October 1, 2007
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
I'm in Houston as I write start
this week's
Commentary. Just a few hours before Barbara and I
pulled a Hank Snow out of Las Vegas, I put some tunes
by Tom Russell onto my laptop so that I could take
them with me and critique them, courtesy of Ernie
Hopseker. Ernie: "I guess I always equated radio with
music and vice versa. I have a tome on that, which I
wrote a year or so ago. I will send it along one of
these days. That's why I loved radio so much. I
recently was visited by the guy who got me into radio,
and he said he didn't really get into the music.
Maybe that's why he retired from the Post Office. As
I mentioned before, Russell has 23 albums, and the
last one were covers by people like Johnny Cash, Doug
Sahm, Ian Tyson and Joe Ely. There are others, but
the covers don't really do the song justice the way
the guy who wrote it does. I hope you enjoy them as
much as I have. My wife says Russell should be paying
me for promoting him. But he is entirely word of
mouth, so I guess my two cents is pretty small in the
scheme of things."
I only had a few minutes in which to drop Ernie a note
before I left. Basically, just to tell him that I
fell in love with the music of Tom Russell.
Immediately! Just like with Harry Chapin and I swear
to you that I haven't found a new (to me!) artist who
appeals to be so much since that day when Jac Holzman
invited me over to Elektra Records to introduce me
personal to Chapin and play me his soon-to-be-released
album.
I'm sitting here crying and finding it difficult to
stop as I listen to "What Work Is" and this is not the
best song that Ernie sent me. I think I prefer "Touch
of Evil," which "lifts" and extrapolates from a movie
set in El Paso featuring Orson Welles and Charlton
Heston.
Ah, "When Sinatra Played Juarez." I think me and
Bruce Miller Earle were there that night!
Tom Russell is political at times, he is heart at
times. There's a song here about Mickey Mantle. Ken
Levine would love this song. I've half a mind to send
it to him. I find nothing wrong with being a
"rum-runner" of songs and especially when it's in the
business so-to-speak.
Ernie tells that Tom Russell lives in El Paso. But he
writes and sings of elsewhere as well, such as
Englewood and El Cajon, CA. I tell you, it just
occurred to me that Jimmy Rabbitt would love these
songs. So would Bobby Vee. Tom has a voice that gets
to you, his songs get to you, and the music production
whops up and hits you with a powerful emotion! Chapin
was like that; he never overproduced. His music just
fit. Same with Tom Russell. I understand that some
of these tunes are from an LP called "Borderland."
The rest?
How is it that I didn't know about Tom Russell?
Twenty-three albums and I'm just finding him! What a
pity! But I'm now a big fan. Huge!
HOUSTON RADIO
Occasionally, in the old days on Billboard magazine,
I'd be somewhere and I'd critique some of the radio
stations. Had to be careful, I soon discovered. Once
panned a Top 40 station in Miami in the 60s and two of
the disc jockeys phoned me to say I was right and
they'd just quit! That kind of critique power has to
be handled with humble mercy, in my opinion.
Radio is different now, I discovered in Houston. I'm
different, too. Back then, critiquing was part of my
work. Now, hey, I haven't done this sort of thing in
more than two dozen years! What do I know? Yet..
It's Wednesday, Sept. 26, 2007. I prowl about my
brother's house. Buddy has television sets
everywhere! A 72-inch Toshiba in the living room
(don't get one problem with the light) and it's hooked
up to Time-Warner Cable with everything you can get.
There are TV sets in the bedrooms, in the kid's rooms
where his grandchildren play, even a TV in the
so-called breakfast nook. No radio. I searched
everywhere! In all of the rooms. Including the
kitchen. No radio.
Then Barbara asked if "that isn't" a radio? It was.
Bose. I found the cute little playing card-size
switcher and learned how to turn it on. The Bose was
set to 97.1 "Country Legends." This did not surprise
me. Buddy and I were raised in Central Texas. We
grew up knowing there was music and there was
something weird called opera which was far, far away.
Ernest Tubb with "Walking the Floor Over You" was
music. So was "I'm Movin' On" by Hank Snow. And
"Wreck on the Highway" by Roy Acuff. I wondered if
the great grand children listened mostly to the radio.
No, Buddy says he listens now and then. Likes
country music. Especially Willie Nelson and Johnny
Cash and Elvis. Country. Just FYI, in about 15
minutes, "Country Legends" only mentioned their calls
once. KCHD? Slap on the wrist, "Country Legends."
Big slap. At 2:07 p.m., I heard "Big John," but it
wasn't by Jimmy Dean. Another slap-slap, "Country
Legends." You're a fake! Jack Gale will get you!
Sic'em, Jack!
I switched over to AM and stumbled around amidst a gob
of Mexican radio stations and a few sports/talk
things. On one station a guy named Baker with a girl
named Cindy Hunt were talking about chick flicks.950
on the dial. Played a bit of a record by the Donners
so they could talk over it and about it. The chatter
was nonsense. A waste of ears. Man v. woman thing.
However, Barbara, knitting on the couch, chimed in:
"They're doing a great job. We have a Melody and
somebody in Las Vegas like that." I swear she wasn't
listening!
There's an oriental station at 1100 on the dial.
Probably Vietnamese, but I could not tell.
I switched back to FM and passed by ESPN "The Ticket"
at 2:45 p.m. because the "hosts" were doing too much
laughing. You really couldn't tell about what.
Rap music at 97.9. Doesn't anyone give calls anymore?
Mexican music at 84.5. Talk. Fast. Good. Big band
sound. Rock at 99.1.
Then Candy came in, barefooted, to clean the house.
Buddy's maid. I had to lift my feet once so she could
dust. Yeah, I'm at that stage in life. In the old
days, I got up and moved to another chair, these days,
I lift my feet. Gave me a moment to reflect, though.
The mistake with much of radio today is that someone
appears to think radio doesn't need personalities
anymore to "sell" the music. It's extremely
difficult, in my opinion, to create a radio station
that has personality unto itself. The disc jockeys,
not the music, were actually the station. True, you
had to play the music that listeners wanted most to
hear. But disc jockeys "sold" the station and the
calls told listeners what station they were listening
to. I did not come up with this theory. First time I
heard it was from Harvey Glascock, then general
manager of WNEW-AM in New York City. He considered
William B. Williams and the others as great assets.
Without personalities, radio has lost it's asset. And
you know the real play here upon words that I intend.
Found KILT-FM at 100.3 at 2:35 p.m. The personality
was something Bryan. He was good, whoever he was.
"Remember When," a pretty good record. No ID that I
could hear. Rascal Flatts and "Bob That Head" wasn't
worth playing. Buzz Bennett and Jack McCoy and Jay
Blackburn would have considered this a "tuneout"
record. But they probably wouldn't have played it.
There's such a thing as wanting to chase your
listeners away just for a moment or two and there's
such a thing as chasing your listeners into the next
county!
DJ had a good voice. Did his job well. But what in
heck was his name?
At 2:45 p.m., lots of spots. Production good on the
Humana spot. A tire commercial was another Head-on
thing. Home Depot okay. Krogers. Astros. Dish TV.
Too many in this cluster! Then a long promo that
wasn't very good and a segue into a record. Very poor
programming, 100.3.
I decided, just for the heck of it, to see what was on
Buddy's car radio. This is not easy. Buddy has too
damned many cars. But he picked us up at the airport
in a Buick and that's the car he's letting me and
Barbara use while we're here. At 2:56 p.m., 740 KTRH
AM, a news-talk station. On FM, 92.9 The station's
calls could have been KBBQ. The station billed itself
as "93Q" and "the new 93Q." Country music, of course.
Enough of that! I go back to the Bose. By the way,
the sound of a Bose is good, but nothing like they
talk about in the commercials. Give me a decent
stereo boombox any day.
KILT-FM was talking with Clint Black, who has his own
record label these days, evidently. Equity Records.
His new tune was "The Strong One." Clint, in essence,
was "tossing bread on the waters." To see if they
have listener appeal. He could have asked George
Wilson or maybe Dave Sholin. KILT also played
"Beautiful Day." First time ever on the air or on
anywhere, I understand. Nothing wrong with these
songs, but where are the hits of yesteryear. Well, of
course, I know. Or think I know. In those long-gone
days of Slim Willet and Ernest Tubb and etc., they
would "try songs out" in the bars and honky tonks
where they performed. By the time a song got on
record, it was proven. Are songs "proven" today?
Sure, a Clint Black would know a good song. But
knowing a hit song is a different thing. I was
watching "Green Beret" with John Wayne on TV a couple
of days ago. Just a bit. I can't stand the whole
movie. But I heard the song "Green Beret" and
remembered the day we reviewed it at Billboard
magazine and I didn't think it would be a hit. Others
on the review panel did. I was out-voted. And I'm
glad about that. On the other hand, I never pull out
a copy of "Green Beret" these days to listen to it.
Music is, indeed, a funny animal. How many times have
I listened to "Folsom Prison Blues" by Johnny Cash?
Probably three or four thousand times. Maybe more.
BRENHAM MATTERS
On Thursday, Sept. 27, Barbara and I borrowed Buddy's
Buick and drove out 290.an experiment to see how much
I could do. Left leg and foot swelled up, but I
seemed to have more trouble with my back aching.
We drove through Brenham, seeking a salad for Barbara.
And in the downtown area, Barbara spotted a small
corner building with the sign painted on the window:
KTEX, 106.1, "12 in a row country" and KWHI 1280
"Friendly Country." I had to get my notebook out of
the car's trunk to make notes. If I don't write
things down these days, I'm likely not to remember.
Just wish I'd brought a camera along so I could have
taken a picture of me standing out front of that radio
station in Brenham. Guess I should have also listened
to the AM side, but you cannot deny Barbara her salad
for very long.
BUDDY MATTERS
Very comfortable here in Houston. Dream place. I
went out and set for a few moments in Buddy's Cadillac
Escalade because, as I mentioned to Barbara, "This is
probably my only chance to sit in one of those
things." Barbara said, "If this place had a view,
we'd just stay." Both of us love mountains and we
love oceans (this is why we love cruises). Sunday,
we're going down to Galveston to wade in the ocean and
eat some lobster.
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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