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"Snake and the Spider Lady"
Chapter Four of a novel
by Claude Hall
"Ain't no job, then?"
"Afraid not," said the detective.
"I sure hate to hear...sure hate...it," said Snake.
He walked over to the elevator and punched the button.
When the elevator door opened, he stepped inside,
faced front, shoulders hunched forward.
The last thing he heard before the door closed was the
thin-faced woman explaining that Mr. Edwards hadn't an
enemy in the world.
A lot of movies and a lot of novels and a lot of
television shows have glorified the New York City
police detective. But, as far as Snake was concerned,
it was the typical beat cop who really deserved the
glory. Most detectives didn't know enough to come in
out of the smog. Whereas a beat cop had seen it all
and was still human enough to treat people with a
sense of respect. True, many beat cops were apes.
But they were good apes and a lot smarter than most
detectives for some reason or other.
It was now late afternoon. The dark of night was
crowding the sky and a hard cold had set in with a
vengeance, even though the wind had stilled. This was
the kind of cold that ate into you and stiffened you
up.
The punks had been scared away by the arrival of
another police car.
Snake walked with a slouch and kept his pace slow
until he reached the corner and turned out of direct
view of the policeman sitting in the patrol car.
Once around the corner, his stride picked up and he
walked quickly east until he found a small deli.
There were all kinds of delis in New York City these
days-Arabian, Puerto Rican, and some you could not
classify at all. This one, however, was not only
Jewish, it was probably kosher. He darted inside and
ordered a cup of coffee. The coffee was served in a
Styrofoam cup, but it was a large cup and it was
steaming hot.
He downed a strong slug of the coffee and capped the
rest and took the cup with him.
In a few minutes, he was sitting on some steps in
front of one of the few remaining brownstones in the
area. He was mostly out of view, but he could see the
front entrance of the building that housed Allied
Global Destination Ltd.
It was more than an hour before the thin-faced woman
appeared. Earlier, the coroner's office had showed
up, along with a car carrying two men and a women;
all of them carried small bags of equipment and all
went in the entrance. Then an ambulance had arrived.
In a while, two men in white came out of the building
rolling a stretcher. The stretcher was placed into
the ambulance and it sped away. The others came back
with their bags of equipment and got in their cars and
went away.
Snake sipped at his coffee until it was gone. He
didn't believe in adding any more litter to the trash
that cluttered the street, so he kept the empty cup in
his hand.
Later, the detective came out. The two uniforms did
not appear for a while. When they appeared, they
quickly walked up the street.
Foot soldiers. Everyone else had a car. The
policemen had to walk.
When the woman came out of the building, she stopped
in the entrance way and searched both directions. She
didn't see him, as far as he could tell, but she
evidently didn't like what she saw. For a moment,
Snake thought she was going to go back inside.
But, with an almost angry motion, she jerked down the
ear flaps of her black cap and tugged her coat tighter
about her and walked around the same corner and headed
up the street in the direction of the deli where Snake
had bought his coffee.
He followed at a distance. This was something in
which he excelled. Because he enjoyed it. But only
skill involved; no guess work, no tricks.
He did not move fast; he stayed in shadows and behind
corners and in doorways. Along the way, he dropped
his empty coffee cup into a trash can. Then moved to
another doorway further along.
A couple was walking home from a nearby subway
entrance; he fell in behind them, shoulders hunched,
head low as if seeking comfort from the cold weather.
He was mildly surprised when his quarry turned into
the same deli.
She was even more surprised when he walked in and sat
down at her table.
He was surprised at himself. Again, it was an
impromptu thing.
His plan, though tentative at best, had been to follow
her to her apartment to find out where she lived.
Find out who she was. Check her out.
Instead, here he was blowing what little cover he had.
If he had any cover at all. Remember, this was the
girl who'd shot at him.
She recognized him. She appeared uncomfortable at his
presence. But tried to hide it.
Snake sat there a few moments before asking, "How did
he die?"
"Heart attack," she said. She downed the rest of her
Dr. Brown's celery soda.
"Sure. Caraboo always had a bad heart."
"Caraboo?"
"Mr. Edwards."
"Did you know him?"
"Friend," said Snake.
"This man had no friends."
"At least one."
"He had no friends," she repeated.
"What did the police say about his death?"
"You'll have to ask them."
The conversation stopped as one of the two men behind
the deli counter came from behind the counter and
placed another celery soda in front of her. He took
away the empty bottle.
He examined her, casually and coldly. She'd taken off
her cap and it rested on the table. Her coat was
draped over the back of her chair the way that many
women do.
Under the neon lights in Caraboo's office, he had
assumed her hair was solid black. But now he noticed
a red sheen as if she'd recently had a bad dye job.
Like her face, her fingers were long and thin. Her
hands, without question, were the most noticeable
thing about her. You were struck by them.
If she'd ever smiled, it must have been a long, long
time ago, because her lips were also thin.
"I'm not enjoying this conversation very much," said
Snake. "But I would like to know at least one thing:
why you shot at me this morning."
"You're kidding, of course."
He nodded.
"I guess I am," said Snake.
He stood up, but stood there looking down at her.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"That's not the major question," he said. "The
question is: Who are you?"
"I work for...worked for Mr. Edwards. His secretary."
No. No, you didn't," Snake said and turned and walked
out of the deli.
He knew that he would be followed. But after a couple
of hundred yards, he stepped into a doorway and looked
back and there were only two or three people on the
street, both on the other side and going the other
direction. A drunk came by; he staggered a few times,
but didn't stop.
The girl did not appear.
Strange. He waited for a while. She didn't come out.
Suspecting another javalina trick, he walked back and
looked in the window.
She was casually eating a sandwich. She showed no
outward appearance of being nervous or disturbed. In
fact, a slight smile played on her face.
He quickly stepped back out of view and returned to
his distant doorway.
After some while, she came out, and walked up the
street in his direction. However, she soon turned
into a doorway.
Snake waited until he was sure that she'd gone inside.
He walked over, noted the address, entered and looked
at the names on the hallway mailboxes. There was a
Jennifer Lasher on the fifth floor. Plus a lot of
Smiths with female first names. He mentally noted
them all. One of them might be her. Of course, she
could be living with someone. Or it could be a ruse.
It occurred to him that, perhaps, it had been a
mistake to follow her into the building.
t was a trap.
For the world's most deadly weapon, you're pretty
dumb, he told himself. The thin-faced girl had duped
him again.
He quickly glanced out of the hallway and just as
quickly drew back. Two men were out there in the
dark. One was across the street in a passage below a
stoop. The other was leaning against a tree just a
few feet away, no thought of protection. He probably
thought he had the place surrounded.
A surge of what a psychiatrist might have referred to
as pure and unadulterated glee raced through Snake.
He would have preferred a couple of more men out
there, just to make the situation more interesting.
But, except for a minor fracas or two, Rio de Janeiro
had been a dull and rather uneventful trip. And he
needed a workout. He'd been on his way to Central
Park earlier to do an hour of isometrics, just to keep
in muscular tone. The thin-faced woman had
interrupted him. Now, she had been nice enough to
bring a little excitement into his life.
The man leaning against the tree did not have a gun
drawn. But he would have quite obviously noticed
Snake glancing from the entrance way.
Thus, he more than likely would have pulled a weapon
and moved to another position. Probably, to the left
behind a street lamp pole that only barely threw a dim
glow. The street lamp wouldn't offer much protection,
but a man like that probably didn't think he would
need it.
The other man, without question, would stay below
sidewalk level below the stoop until flushed out or
until you went in after him. It was dark below the
series of concrete steps and the gunman was going to
be hard to find down there.
If he stayed here, some bullets would eventually fly;
if he went out, bullets would damned well fly. Head
shots would be difficult in the dark. His jacket,
Snake knew, would protect him somewhat. The inner
lining was a new cloth designed by the boys in the lab
at Dupont. It would stop anything but a .475 magnum.
And it would even slow a large slug like that down
enough to keep him alive for the medics. Assuming
that some gunman didn't check to make sure he was dead
and finish him off.
Unfortunately, Dupont didn't make bulletproof Levis.
A bullet in the leg could put him out of commission
long enough for a head shot.
His major problem was the girl. She was behind him
somewhere. Either in the stairway, waiting. Or down
the rear hallway beyond view. And, except for being a
lousy shot, she was dangerous; even people who can't
shoot well sometimes get lucky.
>From a pocket, he pulled out a small cherry bomb with
a pull fuse. He pulled the tab on the cherry bomb and
tossed it out in the direction where he thought the
closest man would be. Then threw another one as hard
as he could across the street. The cherry bombs were
essentially harmless, mostly just a loud noise
although one could stun you briefly if it went off
under your feet. All he hoped for at the moment was a
distraction for a few seconds.
Just for the hell of it, he also tossed one down the
hallway behind him.
At a silent count of three, just as the first bomb
exploded outside on the sidewalk, he ducked low and
ran-dodging bullets-from the entrance in a diagonal
direction across the street and jumped down into the
passageway by the stoop just a few yards from where
the second man was hid.
He rolled as he landed, breaking his fall with his
feet, then throwing himself sideways and rolling to
prevent being a stationary target. A couple of
bullets had ripped past as he ran. Now, another one
splattered against the wall of the building just above
his head. Another gun flash roared from in front of
him. He rolled back the other direction in the narrow
passageway, pausing only long enough to toss another
cherry bomb in the direction of the person up ahead of
him.
He jumped to his feet and, keeping low, charged.
The gunman tried to dodge a flying form that he only
partially saw in the dark. Snake sensed, rather than
saw him. His hands found a gun hand and jerked it to
the side, then pulled the entire arm over his
shoulder, bent down with the arm as a lever, and threw
the gunman hard against the concrete wall of the
stoop.
He had no time to check, but that maneuver usually
resulted in a broken arm if not more serious injuries
from the collision with the wall.
Already, Snake had moved on, running bent over on
hands and feet like a huge cat, down the passageway.
Unfortunately, the passageway ended on the other side
of the stoop.
He took a quick look over the edge of the trough. The
other gunman was running across the street. He jumped
into the passageway.
When he did, Snake rolled over the side of the trough
onto the sidewalk, climbed to his feet and ran as
silently as possible down the sidewalk and jumped into
the trough on top of the gunman.
It was over in a second. He elbowed the man alongside
the head and his head jerked back. He collapsed onto
the surface of the passageway.
Keeping a careful watch on the entrance to the
building, Snake checked the man's pulse. Just
unconscious.
He collected the man's gun and put it in his jacket
pocket, then took the man's billfold and also tucked
that away.
In a couple of minutes, he'd also collected the other
man's gun and billfold and searched his pockets for
anything that might prove interesting.
The girl had not shown her face. Maybe the cherry
bomb had frightened her off. He doubted it. But, on
the other hand, he wasn't too worried about her at the
moment.
After glancing both directions to make sure the way
was clear, he headed down the street and turned uptown
on Eighth Avenue. As he turned the corner, he looked
back and noticed three more men converging on the very
building entrance he'd just left.
She'd tried to set him up. Probably called for help
from the deli.
She was, obviously, a professional.
Twice, he hesitated by a store window, searching there
for the reflection of someone trailing him. He saw no
one.
As soon as he got a couple of blocks further, he began
hunting for a telephone. He found one, but it was too
near a street light. He used the glow of the street
light to examine the contents of the two billfolds.
He dropped the billfolds and the guns into a nearby
trash can. At the next telephone, one shrouded in
dark, he called and told the woman on the other end of
the phone very quickly what little he knew and hung
up.
At the next corner, he flagged down a taxi and went
down to the battery at the bottom end of Manhattan
Island, where he got out and stood for a while by the
entrance to a bar, but just out of a weak glow thrown
on the sidewalk by a porcelain lamp designed like a
small leprechaun with a tall green hat.
He noticed nothing unusual in the two or three people
who entered the bar. They seemed more interested in
beer or scotch than a man who looked an awful lot like
a homeless bum. One of the men shouldered quickly
past as if afraid Snake might ask for money.
After fifteen minutes, Snake decided he'd had enough
of the cold weather. He walked over to a subway
entrance and was soon speeding uptown, standing and
holding onto a metal loop even though the subway train
was virtually empty and seats were available.
The thin-faced woman had evidently told the police
that she worked for Caraboo. But Snake had talked to
Caraboo's secretary earlier and would have recognized
that voice anywhere. The woman with the thin face and
the black fur cap had a voice that wasn't even close.
Tonight, she'd made a mistake. Not by revealing her
apartment. That had been a trap. He suspected that
she didn't live even live close. But the waiter at
the deli had brought her another celery soda without
being asked. That indicated he was somewhat familiar
with her habits.
What had happened to the real secretary?
And how had Caraboo died? Certainly not by a heart
attack. Men like Caraboo don't die from heart attacks
as a rule unless the heart attack is caused by the
impact of a .45 slug.
He came up a different street, aware that someone
could be watching outside Susman's building.
Very little light penetrated the alley. The faint
glow of a distant street light reflected off a wall.
Several floors overhead, light came from a window, but
it didn't fall into the alley way.
The crate was still there and it was perfect for his
purpose. He found a board loose.
Careful to make sure no followed him, Snake crawled
inside and with a pencil-sized flashlight surveyed his
living quarters. The crate was comfortable enough.
He spread out some wrapping paper until it was more or
less even, then wrapped himself in a wafer-thin space
blanket that he carried in a jacket pocket. The
metallic blanket was thin, but it reflected your own
body heat, closed it in. Within minutes, he was warm
enough to sleep.
He woke up at 3 a.m. The cold had, unfortunately,
crawled under the space blanket and he was stiff from
the cold. No matter. He'd slept cold many a night.
After he folded up the blanket and tucked it into his
pocket, he pushed open the loose board. There was no
one in either direction that he could see. And if he
couldn't see them, they wouldn't be able to see him.
He crawled out. Some new snow had fallen. With some
of the wrapping paper, he brushed it out to obscure
his tracks. Not that it really made much difference.
He had a rule: Never sleep in the same place twice.
Snake tossed the dampened wrapping paper into a trash
can.
Since he didn't want to chance anyone was watching at
the other end of the alley way, he left the direction
he'd come. His pace was slow. His legs were numb
from the cold. After a block, the blood began to
circulate a little better and his pace picked up.
Hunger gnawed at him. But he didn't want to waste
time finding a restaurant or deli, even though one was
probably open somewhere.
As he walked, he nibbled on some trail mix. He kept a
small packet on him at all times. It was his own
blend of nuts and raisons and shredded coconut.
He actually ate few meals, per se. Now and then, he
treated himself to a hamburger and a glass of milk,
but he otherwise seldom sat down at a table in a
restaurant and ordered from a menu. He found the
atmosphere too disconcerting. The more open and
spacious a restaurant or any other public place, the
more uncomfortable he became. Too dangerous.
He took a subway downtown. His subway car was empty.
He got off and walked over to the building and took
the elevator up to the offices of Allied Global
Destination Ltd.
A uniformed police officer had been posted on duty,
but he was listening to a small transistor radio and
probably didn't even feel the side of Snake's hand
against the back of his neck. Snake caught him as he
collapsed and leaned him gently over the
receptionist's desk.
Half an hour later as Snake stepped back into the
elevator and headed down, the policeman was just
beginning to struggle to consciousness.
Snake had found nothing of consequence in the large
office that had supposedly been occupied by Caraboo
Edwards and even less in the other offices. It was as
if someone had very thoroughly taken everything in the
offices that was a record, everything that indicated
humanity or occupation, and hauled everything away.
There was no coffee pot in any of the offices, no
random desk drawer with a forgotten comb, no personal
file. He'd riffled through several file folders about
shipments. Even as he looked at them, he thought they
were fictitious.
Caraboo's office was merely a telephone sitting on the
surface of a glass-topped table that he evidently used
as a desk. His chair was an ordinary office chair,
neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. There was a
couch against the wall across from the glass-topped
table.
The thing that bothered Snake most, though, was the
missing bodyguards or whatever you wanted to call
them. Where were the stealthy men with the AK47s?
And he didn't believe for one second that Caraboo had
ever sat in that chair behind the glass-topped table.
What in hell was going on?
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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September 13, 2004
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
Sen. Tom Hickey was visiting once. We were
working on
a project with Helen Mortenson and others of the city,
seeking to preserve the Frenchman Mountain area as a
public park. This is the huge mountain on the east
side of the valley for those of you who've frequented
the Strip in Las Vegas.
We were discussing the people who've trashed the
mountain. You've got those kinds of people in every
city in America. So, I would surmise that Las Vegas
is no more afflicted than anywhere else. About these
people, I remarked to Tom that one should never
over-estimate the average intelligence of the American
person. This was sort of an intellectual joke, as
those of you familiar with IQ and the bell-shaped
curve will realize.
However, my statement, in retrospect, seems to be
quite wise.
In my opinion, Buchenwald and his robber baron friend
are trashing America. The great pity is that a large
number--no, not a majority--of people on the lee side
of the bell-shaped curve are permitting this to
happen...literally cutting their own throats, in the
vernacular. Along with, of course, the throats of
everyone in America. I don't know any of these
people--we used to call them white trash back in
Brady--personally anymore. Don't even want to know
them. What I find apalling, however, is that they are
standing by, letting it happen. They are literally
not participating in any known growth pattern of
humanity. We are trashing America's seniors through
outrageous medical costs. We are trashing the middle
class by destroying jobs (no matter the lies of
Buchenwald, an enormous number of people are
unemployed and can't even locate jobs other than your
basic fried chicken establishment). This will
continue. We are trashing education. We are trashing
the water ways, the forests, the streets. At this
rate, America is going to be uninhabitable in another
thousand years.
Worse: There are presently more than a thousand
American men and women dead, killed on a battle front
that is not a battle front and, actually, in a place
we had no moral or ethical right to be. How many more
will die, we do not know. But they will die. And the
growing number of wounded, maimed, these, too, will
continued. We are, in effect, trashing the world.
These white trashers yell "terrorists." But, in
reality, they are merely patriots protecting their own
countries. We are the terrorists.
We, you and I, are becoming known as baby killers.
It has got to stop, this trashing of the world.
Solution? Draft Cheney's daughter and send her to the
streets of Baghdad. Your son gets killed, he doesn't
care. His daughter? Maybe. On the other hand, maybe
not. When he levered that bonus from Halliburton, he
showed that ultimate greed consumes him more than
compassion for his fellow man. A $34,000,000 bonus is
merely stealing from the pockets of others. You and
me. A daughter probably doesn't mean much to him in
the final analysis. Your daughter certainly means
absolutely naught to him.
Meanwhile, on the lee side of the bell-shaped curve,
the problem continues. These who have been deprived
cannot see what is happening to America or, otherwise,
refuse to think about it. So Buchenwald and Cheney
continue their trashing of everything my forefathers
did to build this land. America isn't America
anymore. It's a never-never land currently ruled by
those short-changed on the bell-shaped curve and
supported by compatriots. Come November?
OTHER MATTERS
I tapped into Chuck Blore's website at
www.chuckblore.com.
Blore's interview with George
Wilson is rather unique, as well as quite interesting.
It's a legend interviewing a legend. Very good
interview. Some George Wilson philosophy that
everyone might enjoy, to wit: "I feel very strongly
everyone will get a chance. The people who are not
smart enough to admit when they are wrong and learn
from the experience will not get very far. But when
their opportunity comes to people that have the
ability to store up real knowledge, not knowledge as
they would like it to be but the real stuff, will be
ready when their chance comes." You owe it to
yourself to read this interview. And Chuck also
interviewed Guy Zapoleon. A really phenomenal
website, Chuck.
Referring to a poem about George Wilson in last week's
Commentary, Gary Allyn,
gallyn@adelphia.net: "You
captured 'poetic justice' for G.W., Claude. Beautiful
indeed. Many of us who befriended this enigma,
wrapped in a psychological riddle of a man, are
constantly amazed by him. After his 75 years, he
continues to be the one straight arrow that finds its
target. Howard Cossell certainly coined the phrase:
'telling it like it is', but George Wilson PERFORMED
it, daily. His radio thoughts are not always popular,
but most of the time they are RIGHT. One doesn't
simply work with or for George, you get consumed by
him. One becomes pulled to the center of his force,
much as in toward the eye of a tornado. A vacuum
cleaner, that moves from town-to-town; cleaning up the
radio debris, and moving on. Sometimes the trail is
littered with people and frequencies who were not
prepared for the 'storm'. But often, the rebuilt area
is better off following in the wake of George's swath.
The learning experience that is being around George is
similar to that demanding teacher one has in school
,who is both tough and caring. It's not until years
later, that you realize that this 'Love-Hate'
relationship was one of the best experiences of your
Life. I know it was for me. Our common denominater was
our Love of Radio, and 'gut feel'. The thrill of
victory- however fleeting. You mention of George's new
demand on the Talk Circuit. The timing couldn't be
more precise. This time, when George Wilson
speaks...LISTEN! Radio's edgy calm is ready for
another storm. As for me, riding the many 'storms'
with you, George, was both frustrating and
exhilarating. Happy three-quarters of a century, pal.
Your fellow 'Rider of the Storm', Gary Allyn."
Just FYI, I'd hoped to convey in the poem about George
that the stations were in chaos before he got
there...not after he left. WOKY in Milwaukee remained
on top and in fine fettle for years after George went
on to other radio stations that needed his expertise.
You know something unique about George? In all of the
years I've known him, going back to the 60s, he has
never told me a lie and never hid a lie. I don't know
everything about him...don't even need to know
everything about him...but to me he has always been
absolutely honest. About himself. About others.
About radio. I've always felt that it was sort of an
honor to be around the guy. That poem was meant as a
tribute.
Karin Moss,
karinmoss@softcom.net: "My friend, Rick
Frio, turned me on to your column and it's been great
reading about many of the people I used to know in
L.A. during the 60's and 70's. I'd love to have an
update on Ernie Farrell who was a good friend of mine.
He was truly an original! Any contact info would be
appreciated."
I wrote Karin back that George Wilson, "One of the
great radio legends keeps in touch with Ernie Farrell,
who last time I heard from him was living in a suburb
of Cleveland. The email I had is no longer in use.
But you might write George, see above. I hope Rick is
doing well these days. Always like him. After I
became a college professor, I sort of drifted away
from the music aspect. A pity." One of my last
memories of Rick Frio was his Mexican place on the old
western street at Universal Studios. Remember last
week when I mentioned meeting Al Kooper at the party
tossed by Elton John? Well, the entire street had
been changed to fit a music industry motif and there
was Rick's name on a sign proclaiming Rick Frio's
Fijoles or something similar. Heck, it's been more
than 30 years! Anyway, in those days it was a covered
wagon at the head of the street which was loaded with
ice-down Coors that fascinated me more. Just FYI,
when I gave up drinking beer, the industry had to
close down at least a couple of breweries.
Later, I got this from Karin: "Claude - so many
'blasts from the pasts' surfaced when I began reading
your column. Some of the luminaries from my past
include: Kenny Revercomb, Rick Frio, Johnny Musso,
Joe Saraceno, Ernie Farrell, Mike Gould all of whom
were my bosses in the 60s followed by David Geffen,
Ahmet Ertegun and Jerry Wexler in the 70s. I also
knew many of the KHJ Boss Jocks since my best friend
married Bill Drake and I tossed back many a 'winky
poo' at Martoni's with them. Wouldn't it be fun to
coordinate a West Coast reunion one of these times? I
have so many rich and colorful memories. I've often
thought about writing my Hollywood memoirs and calling
it 'Everything I Needed to Know in Business I Learned
at the LaBrea Inn!!!' All good wishes and keep the
juicy columns forthcoming."
Bill Drake winky poo'd me under the table once in
Manhattan. He was drinking seven and sevens. I was
drinking beer. Don't know how he did it!
Garvin Rutherford,
rutherfordbilletdoux@bigpond.com:
"I got this picture recently, thought you might enjoy
it...Jack Thayer and Howard Kester are in there
somewhere."
The picture was of broadcasters and others attending
Radio 73, a meeting in Sydney, Australia. I couldn't
find me. But I found both Jack and Howard and also
Kevin O'Donohue, then general manager of 2SM in
Sydney. Those were darned good meetings. Jack took
his son Todd with him to Australia. Ah, memories!
Bruce Goss,
bjgossii@yahoo.com: "Bush has much more to
hide than the obvious lies. Hell just the contract
alone to the V.P.'s corporation alone should breed
mistrust. A no bid contract for 7 billion dollars, we
could end hunger in this country for that. Although we
do have to support our troops we sure should require
an accounting of bid awards and should never award an
open ended contract to any company without allowing a
firm quotation from at least four concerns."
One thing for sure, he was/is a coward and a liar
(i.e., the memos that have just surfaced regarding his
National Guard service which the not-so-White House is
trying to say are forgeries). But only a miserable
coward (which is worse than just being a coward) would
try to diminish Kerry's war efforts while refusing to
do a Vietnam tango on his own. Face it, Buchenwald is
a lousy excuse for a human being.
Diane Kirkland,
kirkland@dcwis.com: "Say, I was
cleaning a buncha stuff out last week and found one of
those gold/black Radio Forum insulated mugs from the
1970s.....would you like it as a souvenir? Or do you
have many of these things? Let me know, OK?! And if
you'd like it, where I should send it."
Diane was conference director at Billboard Magazine
during the years I did the International Radio
Programming Forum. I've suggested that she sell the
mug. I think $25 would be a good price. At the Forum
in San Francisco, we also provided free-flowing Anchor
Steam Beer to fill those mugs. They were highly
prized. I will never forget the day Lee Baby Simms
conned me out of one because he'd lost his. Yes, I
still have a few. No, I'm not going to sell any of
mine. I have given away a couple over the years,
but....
Diane Kirkland has another unique item someone might
wish to buy. Price? Negotiable. "I just happened to
think of another memorabilia item you might like - or
know someone who would cherish it. For some reason, I
have an LP - white label, no writing on it - that's a
long 'pep talk' from Sid Nathan of King Records to
'his boys' (presumably all employees) giving his
philosophy of how he runs King Records...don't know
the date, but he said he'd been in the business for 25
years at that point. There may be some clues on the
record re when he mentions he talked to certain
artists or writers, etc. He talks about how to avoid
being a 'janitor to some of these starry-eyed artists
and writers' when being solicited to be on the label,
'we're all satisfied to wear good clothes, eat good
food and be content with being a normal human
being'...'I'm Jewish but the town [Cincinnati] is
Dutch! We're in the Midwest and we are not
contaminated by New York or Chicago'...'The day will
come when I'll pass on--I don't have any contract with
God' ....basically a stream of profanity-dotted
consciousness in his own gravelly voice on both sides
of the LP. Very funny in parts! I was at MGM, Decca
and of course Billboard over 13+ years, but I have no
idea how I ended up with this treasure...thought about
selling it on eBay but so few people would be
interested and not doing an auction search for King
Records or Sid's name. But YOU might love this record
or know of someone who would. Let me know!"
Like Diane, I've accumulated a few collector's items.
I have No. 50 of the belt buckles that David Moorhead
gave staff members of KMET, Los Angeles. There were
only 50 produced. Heavy suckers! Jack Thayer was
also considered one of the staff and got one. I have
the LP produced of Dr. Martin Luther King's speech "I
Have a Dream." Wonder how many of you saved that
album. Must have been several thousand produced. I
think NATRA issued one and perhaps Atlantic Records as
well. I also have a picture LP of Elvis. Mint.
Never been played. I might be willing to part with
it. Starting price? $5,000. That would enable me
and my beautiful bride of 40-plus years to take a
cruise. On the other hand, maybe I should ask for
$6,000. Buy me a funny hat to wear on the cruise. I
suppose you can buy a hell of a hat for about $1,000.
More from Karin Moss,
karinmoss@softcom.net: "You are
a wealth of information. Thanks for the website
info. Had an email from Ernie Farrell yesterday so
you must have had your fingertips on the keyboard."
Had to be George Wilson, Karin. Ernie doesn't talk to
me. He doesn't talk to Pat O'Day either, so far as I
know, and he's the godfather of Pat's kids!
Burt Sherwood,
bohica1@comcast.net, made it through a
couple of hurricanes down in Florida, to wit: "We are
back...only lost cable and TV for almost three
days...all other services were on. We got a hurricane
lesson on the last day...heavy wind and rain...little
damage. Hopefully this is the last one this year.
Fat chance. Here comes Ivan as I type this. Poor
Burt. Survived early Top 40 radio and now this!
Dale Tucker,
daletucker@surewest.net: "Just a
reminder, I WAS 'Dan' Tucker -- KOIL, WABB, WRKO, KOA,
etc. Guy Williams did mornings for a bit when I was
at KOIL in the mid-sixties. David L. Moorhead. Odd
stories of his later 'career' and why, etc., from a
buddy who does know. David's gone now, of course.
That KILT reference causes me to wonder who has a copy
of the KILT Singing Newscast that Toby Arnold let me
dub in 1966 or '67? I believe I sent it to Don
Worsham to copy, not sure. Enjoy your site,
postings, but must admit haven't kept up with the
novel very well. Will renew my effort, time
permitting. Best to you, sir!"
Ah, yes, the stories about L. David Moorhead are vast.
And probably all true. But I do love stories!
PISMO BEACH
Old and crotchety, things fester me
Yet, doesn't pay to fight the sea
Someone near claims obscenities
Life isn't kind and he screams
The ocean hears, but does not care
The world's left hanging while waves
Shout peace, calm to you and me
There, yonder, pelican spins, seagulls whirl
A simple life awaits, a feast of fish
More sun, more sky, distant fears
Meanwhile I've healed, the sea is kind
I survive yet longer the disease of years.
- c. hall, 2004
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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