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"Snake and the Spider Lady"
Chapter One of a novel
by Claude Hall
In memory of Bill Randle who once mentioned
to me that his ambition was to become
the world's most deadly weapon.
Snake & the Spider Lady
A novel by Claude Hall
You couldn't tell by looking that he was the world's
most deadly weapon. His eyes, hidden behind thin
gold-frame glasses, showed very little. Didn't, in
fact, give anyone the impression that the world's most
deadly weapon was scared. Which he was. But not very
much. In fact, he had trouble keeping his hands
still. They had not spotted him yet. They would,
eventually. But Snake Williams was in no hurry for
that. And so he fought his hands and stayed
motionless and virtually invisible.
He stood in the shadows of a doorway on 103rd Street
and waited and watched dim figures move slowly, almost
casually toward him up the darkened street from the
river. A bitter wind prowled down there along the
Hudson and gusts came up the sidewalk and tugged at
his denim jacket.
Caraboo Edwards was late for the meeting. But his
entourage was already here, evidently. Some of them,
he had heard, were almost as vicious as Caraboo.
Those that weren't as vicious were still twice as mean
as a rattlesnake. Except that a rattlesnake never
carried an AK47. And most of these guys probably had
one that never left their side, not even when they
went to bed.
The figures stopped. One leaned against a railing on
the steps to a crumbling brownstone. Another was
across the street near an abandoned Ford whose tires
and wheels were missing. There were at least three
others out there somewhere. They had formed a
perimeter around the meeting place.
Someone whistled low.
At the signal, a dark limousine cruised around the
comer from Riverside Drive and came up the street.
It stopped by the wrecked Ford.
A rear window came down. From the depths of the
limousine, a suave, cultured tone mentioned one word.
"Snake?"
Without hesitation, Snake Williams walked slowly from
the shadows of the doorway and across the street and
climbed inside the car door that opened for him.
"Hello, Snake," said Caraboo Edwards.
"It's been a while," said Snake.
"Work," said Caraboo.
"So I hear."
"I would doubt that. I don't think you've really
heard much about me, Snake. I don't think you would
even care about any of us from the old school."
The limousine was extremely pleasant. In reality, it
was a spacious office. There was a phone, a computer,
a television set, a refrigerator, and several other
amenities that gave its owner all of the comforts of
home. If one was very rich and lived in an
ultra-expensive condo at across from the United
Nations.
"I care," said Snake after a moment's thought. "I
care. But I've been busy, too."
"Your work's different, though."
"Yes. No bodyguards. No limousine."
Caraboo grunted. "You would never need bodyguards.
And you used to sneer at those who drove fancy cars."
"Still do," said Snake. "Sometimes. Not tonight,
though."
There was very little light in the car. Only a weak
glow from a distant street light reflected on
Caraboo's face, but Snake could still recognize a
white scar along a cheek bone. That scar had been
there a long, long time. He supposed that Caraboo
could have had it removed, but probably kept it out of
a weird sense of humor or as a badge of courage.
"Yes, Snake, you wouldn't know much about me these
days. Not because you couldn't find out, you and your
contacts, but because it wouldn't interest you much.
On the other hand, I have kept fairly good watch on
you."
"I find that difficult to believe," said Snake.
"You're right, of course. No one could really keep up
with you. But I heard things now and then. That
incident in Serbia. That time in Tehran."
"Fictitious babble."
"I hope a little of it was. I find it difficult to
believe that anyone could fight through 16 men just to
capture a general. Then bring him back to a
negotiating table in Brussels past a whole army."
"Must have been someone else," Snake said. "I've
never been in Serbia. Or Tehran."
"Or Iraq either, I presume."
"Of course not."
"Glad to hear that, Snake. A man of your caliber
should never wander into those kinds of situations. A
man could get hurt like that."
"I've always thought so myself," said Snake.
A car moved down the street. The dim figure beside
the wrecked Ford came to the ready, AK47 pointed over
the hood. But the car moved on.
"What do you do these days, Caraboo?"
"Caraboo! God, but no one has called me that in
years, Snake. Oh, I'm into a little of that and a
little of that."
"And so, we meet in the dark of night."
"I heard you weren't available in the day time."
"I guess the night is as good a time as any," said
Snake.
Caribou paused. "Funny, but I lost my nickname from
the old days. You didn't. With the general public, I
mean."
"I've thought a lot about you, Caraboo. And, oddly
enough, I've always thought a lot of you, in spite of
the rumors."
"Same here," said Caraboo and he laughed softly and
only just enough to show that it was all very
humorous, the rumors. "And that's why I wanted to
talk with you, Snake. I need a favor."
"You? A favor from me? You have a whole army that
can take care of the kind of favors I do."
"That's the problem: They can't. They can't go where
you can go. They can't do the things you can do. And
they don't have the stuff upstairs that this favor
requires."
"I see."
"Too, and I've never mentioned this to you, Snake, and
I'm even a little nervous...no, scared...about doing
so now. But I've always sensed a dark side about
you."
"I have no dark side," Snake said.
"There are some really serious shadows in you, Snake,
even though you may deny it. I won't say any more
about it. But I will pay you very well for this
particular job."
"No pay, Caraboo. I owe you one."
"For that block in the game against Texas A&M?"
Snake laughed. It was the first time in weeks that
he'd laughed. It surprised him. He enjoyed laughing,
but he had not had much to laugh about in a long, long
time.
"Not for that," he said. "That was a lousy block. I
almost got tackled."
"You ran 76 yards for a touchdown. I remember it like
it was yesterday."
"It was yesterday. Yesterday for us both, Caraboo."
"Yeah, I guess so."
"The job?"
"They have taken Susman."
"Who would kidnap Susman?"
"I don't know who. I don't even know why. When you do
a little of this and a little of that, you have a
tendency to accumulate enemies. I don't mind
enemies. Some of them, in fact, I appreciate and
treasure. They are fond enemies who keep me on my
toes. But my favorites enemies didn't take Susman."
"You're sure?"
"I have ways of learning things like that," Caraboo
said. "This was different."
"Susman still limp?"
"Yes."
"I guess I owe Susman, too."
"Not for the limp. He never blamed you for that."
"I blamed myself. A little. I was in charge of the
patrol when we walked into that ambush. Seems as if
people around me, especially friends, get hurt a lot."
"Hell, that was war," Caraboo said.
"Susman and I...we took the war too seriously."
"We all took everything too seriously. Football,
too."
"That's because we're the kind of people we are."
"I guess," said Caraboo and, as if he didn't entirely
appreciate all of his own flaws of character, added:
"Dammit."
"Where do I start looking for Susman?"
"Call this number in the morning. My secretary will
give you a file on him."
He handed Snake a business card.
"I prefer to start now. Where did he live?" Snake
glanced at the business card in the faint light
available, memorized the name, address, phone number,
then handed the card back. He had a strong aversion
about having anything on him that would identify him
in any way; he'd even removed the labels from the
clothes that he wore.
Caraboo, if surprised at getting the business card
returned, didn't show it. He tucked it carefully away
in a leather vest pocket holder.
"An apartment on 47th Street near the UN," Caraboo
answered. "I don't know the address, but it's the
cheapest apartment building on the block. You'll know
it."
"Susman work for you?"
"Not really. He wasn't even on the payroll. He did
things for me when I needed someone who could operate
in the open."
"What makes you think they took him because of you?"
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it."
"I have ways of finding that out, too. But I can't,
for the life of me, figure out why. What do they hope
to achieve?"
"Did he know something he shouldn't have?"
"Believe me, Susman was never a part of my business."
"Good. I'm glad to hear that."
"Yeah. Me, too, but probably not for the same
reason."
Snake opened the door. He hated to leave the solid
warmth of the car. His jacket was fleece-lined, but
not very good protection against the kind of night
that had fallen on New York City.
"I'll call your secretary tomorrow. Then you'll hear
from me when I have something."
"If you need help...."
"I'll call then, too."
"Good to see you again, Snake."
"Yeah."
The barrel of the AK47 behind the Ford tilted in
another direction as Snake moved past and along the
sidewalk.
The limousine sped away.
On a summer night, the street would have been crowded.
Tonight, because it was almost 3 a.m. and because of
the bone-eating cold, there was no one in sight except
several dim figures as they retreated, one by one,
down toward Riverside Drive.
And, quite quickly, Snake was alone in a city of
several million people.
There were no cabs. This area of the city was a
no-man's land, good weather and bad.
Snake walked over to Central Park West and south until
a passing taxi finally took a chance on him and
stopped. The taxi, a bootleg cab with far too many
miles on it, wasn't exactly warm, but its worn heater
fought off most of the horrible chill of the night.
New York City never really closes. Somewhere, there's
a deli open waiting for the denizens of New York City
who seemingly never sleep, somewhere a watering hole
with a few stragglers who drink because they have to,
somewhere in a lonely office someone is working most
of the night in order to meet a real or fancied
deadline. Some of the office lights that formed a
mystic pattern along the higher floors of the building
that turned this part of Manhattan into a concrete
canyon were merely cleaning ladies. Now and then an
office light winked out, another winked on.
The taxi let him out not too far from Times Square.
"I was on my way home," the driver said.
Without responding, Snake handed him a bill and
quickly stepped out of the taxi and shut the door so
the driver would know he didn't expect any change.
The driver rolled down his window, yelled, "Thanks,"
and quickly sped on down Broadway.
And Snake was alone again, except for a few hundred
milling people that always thronged this part of the
city. Maybe it was the neon lights that drew them
here. Maybe they had no other place to go. Maybe
they were lost souls and this was the only place in
the city were you could be with those other lost souls
that inhabited the dismal aspects of any inner city.
He shouldered past a couple of punks desperately
hunting a pocket to pick, a drunk to roll, anyway
whatever to get some money to continue their high.
Snake felt a hand softly seeking a wallet. He
squeezed his thumb into the muscles along the punk's
elbow and the hand just as quickly went away. The
punk stood there with arm hanging loosely. It would
be useless for a few minutes.
"Creep!"
"Thanks for the compliment," Snake said and quickly
walked east on 44th Street. But he felt no joy, no
sense of victory, regardless of how trivial.
Billy Susman had been-was-a nice guy. He'd been
always just a little too small for the large things he
tried to accomplish, always just short of being bright
enough, quick enough, tough enough. But he'd never
stopped trying.
And he always smiled. Even when he got knocked down,
he got up smiling.
In those days when the army drafted just about
everyone and anyone, Snake had found himself standing
in line one morning before dawn at Fort Briggs in a
group of other new GIs just about to enter a
terrifying period of their life that would be known
until they died as basic training. It was, indeed, a
very basic period and there was even a slight bit of
training that went along with KP and shining shoes and
mopping floor and more KP.
One day, a lieutenant had said something about rocket
school while everyone was standing at attention and
Snake, who'd read science fiction magazines since his
early days in high school, raised his hand.
It turned out that some company needed a typist.
Instead of lying, the intelligent duty of any real
soldier, Snake had confessed that he knew how to type,
but not very fast.
Speed didn't matter. A sergeant of the "old school"
needed a slave and typing the morning report was part
of the slavery.
It didn't take Snake long before he wised up, cussed
the sergeant out, and got immediately pipelined to
combat.
Strangely, he loved combat. It was as if he'd been
waiting all of his life for just this opportunity to
become himself.
In Winters, Texas, he'd been the one the others didn't
invite to parties, the boy that girls seldom talked
to, the one who sat in the corner of the library
reading books-then and now his great escape
mechanism-while everyone else gossiped in the hallway,
planned weekend parties, played football, basketball,
ran track.
After graduating from high school, other students went
on to college or to high-paying jobs in the oil fields
of Texas or jobs in firms operated by parents. He'd
ended up tossing sacks of feed for minimum wages in a
grain elevator in town, working 60 hours a week with
men who barely knew how to read or write and were
called BJ instead of a name because that was really
their first name or "old man Allbright" or "old man
Smith" because no one remembered their first names at
all. They had bet against his survival at the
back-breaking work. But, like any chore all of his
life, he'd set out to survive and he had made it.
It was with great relief, however, that he'd been
drafted into the army. It was like, suddenly, being a
part of the real world again.
He'd met Susman after being shipped overseas into
combat.
Two fatigues had shoved Susman aside. It had not been
a mistake. "Watch it next time," one of the fatigues
said.
"Pardon me," said Susman from the ground. It later
turned out that he was always apologizing for
everything, whether it was his fault or not.
Snake helped the slight youth to his feet and helped
him retrieve his duffel bag from a few feet away.
"Just a minute," Snake said to one of the fatigues.
He surprised himself. He'd never had a fight in his
life. Although he'd never been picked upon during
much of his life, it was mostly because he'd
deliberately gone out of his way to avoid trouble.
Ordinarily, he would have avoided trouble now.
Instead, he stepped slightly to the side and swung his
duffel bag. Both men, one colliding with the other,
went sprawling into the dust several feet away.
The most surprised of the four was Snake himself,
though he hadn't been called Snake in those days. He
had not realized it, but almost a year of work in a
grain elevator and weeks of military basic training
had helped him develop some rather enormous muscles.
They were phenomenal. He didn't look strong. But his
muscles were like steel. Stainless steel. It would
never have occurred to him that most soldiers found
their duffels bags heavy and difficult to carry; his
had been light. It made a rather effective weapon.
One of the fatigues bounced to his feet and came
flying at Snake.
With impressive ease, Snake moved out of the path of
the fatigue and then dropped an edged palm against the
shoulder tendons as the man went past. He'd read
about it in some book years ago; the action had been
totally instinctive.
The fatigue wasn't really hurt, but he suddenly found
it difficult to rise using only one arm and he merely
rolled on his side and stared at them.
"Wow," said the youth that Snake, inadvertently, had
defended. He stood looking down at the two fatigues.
"Where did you learn to do that?"
"I don't know," said Snake. "Guess it was just an
accident."
"Some accident!" said the youth. And that's when
Susman had tagged him, as a gag, as the world's most
deadly weapon.
Later, the youth ended up in the same special forces
company as demolition expert and, without either of
them consciously realizing it for a long time, became
friends. That was William Randolph Susman. Billy.
More than just finding a friend that day, Snake
Williams found himself. He discovered quite suddenly
and quite effectively that he was just a little
stronger and just a little faster and just a little
smarter than everyone around him. He took a certain
secret pride in his extraordinary strength and sought
to foster it, develop it, hone it. And he found that
he loved competition. Thus, combat suited him because
it was the most ferocious kind of competition with
death the ultimate loss and only survival the ultimate
prize.
But after all these years since, he also realized that
he did, indeed, have a dark side, even though he
denied it to someone as alert and mentally penetrating
as the almost mythical Caraboo Edwards. He was
embarrassed about it and embarrassed, too, that
Caraboo had seen through him so easily. Snake
preferred, more and more these days, to remain
anonymous and secret.
Caraboo had been right; it was easy to find the
apartment building. It was old an aging street that
with a few brown stones still left amidst towering
glass edifices constructed by lots of money for those
with lots of money. But tucked between two of the
glass monsters was a very pleasant old-fashioned
building only a dozen stories tall. There was no
doorman and a random button failed to open the door.
But Snake had been trained on doors. The security
device required a magnetic card. Like many hotels
used today.
He thumbed through a small leather folder taken from
his inside jacket pocket. In two tries, he found a
card that worked.
And on the mailbox, he found the apartment number.
A few minutes later, he was inside of Susman's
apartment. The door to the apartment required a key,
but locks were child's play to Snake.
The lights were off. He turned them on.
Susman had not put up much of a fight, if he had
protested at all. He might not have gone willingly,
but he would have gone. The kind of people who kidnap
other people seldom take no for an answer. Of course,
he may have disappeared from the random world as he
stepped into a taxi or as he was leaving a cafe in the
area. Caraboo would have told him if he'd known more.
Snake had not expected to find out much about
Susman's abductors here; he was really there to find
out about the Susman of today. The Susman he'd known
in the army was ancient history. A man could change
over the years.
If Susman had changed, he hadn't changed much. There
was a pipe laying in a tray on the stand by a huge
easy chair. The TV set was on.
But the pipe was cold.
With methodical precision, Snake searched the
refrigerator, the shelves in the kitchen, the shelves
in the bathroom, all of the drawers in the bedroom,
the closet. He even looked under the bed and noticed
the worn cloth slippers. He was careful to leave no
fingerprints.
There was a desk in a corner of the bedroom. Susman
had at least a couple of thousand in a checking
account, according to a recent deposit slip tucked
into a checkbook. He was doing bookkeeping for a
couple of small firms. Part time, evidently. At the
end of the checkbook, Snake found a regular record of
deposits of sums like a couple of hundred a week from
each of the firms.
Now and then, there was a large deposit from Allied
Global Destination Ltd. Caraboo's front. The last
deposit had been $17,986 just four days ago.
This was not an apartment building, Snake soon
discovered; it was a condo and Susman had paid his
mortgage payments almost regularly. Regularly enough.
After half an hour, Snake realized that Susman hadn't
changed all that much. And there was no evidence in
the apartment that he'd been kidnapped.
Susman's apartment consisted of a small living room,
an even smaller bedroom, a tiny kitchen alcove off the
living room, a bathroom.
The wall of the living room was glass, making a huge
window that looked out upon the city to the north. It
was a beautiful view from up here; down there,
however, was reality and reality was never pretty.
Snow had begun to fall.
Out there, cold. He looked around the room. Here,
warm.
He decided to treat himself to the warm. One night of
luxury.
He moved the couch out from the wall a few inches. No
one entering the room would notice. He would be safe.
After turning off the lights, he crawled into the
space behind the couch. It was crowded, but he was
used to sleeping almost anywhere. The cramped space
offered no problem. He let his mind go blank, then
let it fill with a white light; it was a meditation
trick he'd developed a few years ago.
He slept about five hours. It was long past dawn when
he awoke. Snow was still falling in a gray sky.
He moved the couch back, turned off the television
set, and let himself out of the apartment, checking to
make sure it was locked behind him.
A few minutes later, as he walked along 47th Street
heading toward the UN building, he noticed the two men
trailing him.
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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August 23, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
They owe me a personal--as well as a
public--apology.
Three radio men I used to know and knew for many years
and some small-town radio station general manager
whose name I'd never heard of before and quickly
forgot. When I poo-pooed the so-called weapons of
mass destruction (an obvious lie to anyone with an IQ
above that of a baboon) and the "mass graves of
hundreds of thousands" (another obvious lie)
proclaimed by a guy who calls himself president but
wasn't elected, who literally stole the office, there
were some who accused me of many crimes, up to and
including treason, in spite of the fact that to the
best of my knowledge, like the guy in the White House,
they have never heard the howl of a Howitzer nor the
scream of lead much too close. They obvious think
killing people, including women and children, is okay.
I find it very difficult to believe that anyone can
sanction the murder of innocent citizens, regardless
of the nation, regardless of the claimed reason.
I will not get an apology, of course. Only men of
considerable moral integrity admit their mistakes.
Instead, once again, someone has praised my intellect
and acumen by sending me a virus. What an idiot.
These mistaken few are living their own lies and will
suffer from their own mistakes. You can lie to
yourself just so long...you can lie to the American
public perhaps a while longer. But truth is a hard,
unforgiving master and eventually it catches up.
Forget me; I do not even wish an apology. I wouldn't
respect any attempt they might make. However, isn't
it time for Clear Channel to apologize to the Dixie
Chicks?
In Las Vegas, there is a Republican in a white van
offering to pay $500 for each 100 voters you can get
to register as a Republican. Hanging out on Maryland
and Tropicana on Friday, Aug. 20. My wife Barbara
called the Las Vegas Review-Journal. Someone on the
paper said they knew about it, had written about it.
Someone at the board of the elections hesitated to do
anything about it, though. Said they were
understaffed. Sure, I believe that.
Telemarketeers beware. Barbara is answering the phone
and ranting about Buchenwald. Quite loudly, too.
Treason
They shout treason at me
Those few who believe it fair to kill
Women and children in a far off land
Claiming it helps keep America free.
No voice, I, to halt the slaughter
Free from what? I ask. No one answers
Shoot another terrorist! they yell in glee
But it is a child who bleeds in the street
Why war? I ask. I'm told they are evil
But I, I've always felt evil is as evil does
And only a killer kills those who kill
The good weep at Golgotha still
What happened to the world I knew?
Has the America in which I grew
Been murdered, too? and been replaced
By Bible-toting insanity in lieu of grace?
-- c. hall
"George's Lies"
Raul R. Cardenas, Jr.
(with apologies to Calvin Trillin)
Lies and more lies coming out of the blue,
Tall tales of Osama, Hussein and their crew,
All wicked and evil, our "war 'agin' the night!"
And the black book nearby - yes to make it all right.
But the thought that still nags and keeps me awake,
Is: we hit our neighbor whom you seem to hate,
Not for what you found out to be true,
But for what you thought that he might do!
Repeating a lie just does not make it right,
Nor pre-empting a war, just to show off your might.
These pieces of fiction, now seen from afar,
They're really the lies that sent us to war.
Yes, George Bush and Dick Chaney and all their
war-like crew,
Seem convinced that repeating a lie will surely make
it true!
And now we are faced with a horrible plight:,
We're killing good men in a senseless, groundless
fight.
Remember the world where we were the light,
Bright stars of the freedoms and defenders of right?
Now we've stumbled and fallen - all because of these
lies,
That continue to pour from the mouths of these guys.
No, they can't explain all the prison abuse,
Let the non-com's be guilty ! They are our excuse!
No one at the top knows much of this game,
The Reserves and the Guard? No doubt they're to
blame.
And the lies just get bigger and more painful to me,
Then there's the weapons that we've yet to see
Horrors of gas and germ warfare - attacks yet to
come,
The lies just get bigger, but we're not yet done!
Oh there was a time when the world was our friend and
ally,
But now it's more distant because of these lies.
And me? I'm embarrassed and pained by this rap,
Yes, once we were nice, but now we are crapp!
Yet none at the top will shoulder the blame,
The deeds are of others. Not them - not their shame.
Nor will they admit that they told us these things,
Its not in their nature: in an empire? They're
kings!
But more: Now the Bushies would have us believe
It's a war against evil, and for Adam an Eve.
But this war's great big impact, and the one I
deplore:
The Muslims' now hates us, and they didn't before!
But elections are coming and soon we will know,
If the people have had it with all this fake show.
No. Repeating a lie does not makes it so,
Even coming from leaders we've gotten to know.
We're tired of deceptions, and being taken for louts,
Its time we got wise, and kicked them all out.
Why the fuss and the fury, and all of my smoke?
Vote, Vote anti-Bush! - All the rest? My friend,
it's a joke!
PISMO BEACH
My son Andy is listening to 100.5, the Heat, in his
hotel room at the Sea Crest in Pismo Beach. I don't
know what they call this format these days. Probably
something fancy and pithy. It's what we used to call
chicken rock. The station is somehow connected to
95.3, the Splash. Woman personality on this
afternoon, 2:49 p.m., Aug. 15. I haven't heard a
name. Someone ought to tell her. Guess they don't
make disc jockies like they used to.
Ran into a new salsa in California. Ouchywawa made by
Red Hot Foods, Ventura, CA. Website:
www.redhotfoods.com.
Great stuff. Eat at your own
risk to health and pocketbook ($5 a bottle).
Just FYI, someone has been spreading word about the
Splash in Pismo Beach. Long lines! Still the best
buy on chowder and steamers.
OTHER MATTERS
Bob Badger,
rhbadger@hcsmail.com: "Hello Claude -
Damn it is good to have stumbled across some of your
writings. I even bookmarked your site. We first came
in contact when I was general manager, morning jock,
and you name it at Merv Griffin's WMID in Atlantic
City. Got to go to several of the Billboard
gettogethers and you even let me chair a few panels at
Waldorf in NY. I had previously been a jock at WPTR
in Albany. I think you had some ties with Troy, NY
(possibly RPI) I managed stations in Albany and later
in Tallahassee. After 45 years of radio, I quit last
year. Been working in law enforcement (liked your
comments about the mobsters and the .22 caliber for
efficient, painful executions - we addressed that in
law enforcement academy - a well-placed .22 slug will
bounce around in the victim's inners and not mess up
the surrounding upholstery). In any event it is great
to see your writing again and I hope to continue
same. Those days at Billboard must have been great -
having almost a total lock on radio programming
readership. Of course, radio was kind of that way,
too. A rock jock in Albany was a 'superstar' when it
came to name recognition because 15-25% of the radio
audience was listening to you. Now every market has
three or four stations in every niche format with more
coming via the satellite. Claude, I hope life is
treating you well."
Jack Gale,
jackgale@adelphia.net: "Saw your column
today about Pismo Beach. Brought back so many
memories. I bought KPGA, Stereo 95, in Pismo Beach
back in 1975. We lived off of Highway 101. The
studios were in a group of strip stores, with the
tower across the street on top of a mountain. They
referred to Pismo as one of The Five Cities. If I
recall, they were Pismo Beach, Arroyo Grande, Grover
City, and ..."
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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