"You leaving?"

"I have to check something out," Snake told King. 
"Anyway, you've got everything under control here. 
Tell the hospital that I'll be by later."

"You aren't wounded, are you?  And creeping away to
hide?  A busted rib or something?"

"No.  A few bruises.  That's all.  I'm okay, mother
hen."

Snake walked quickly south through the park and after
a few hundred yards, circled left.  Some birds
screamed at him from the bare limbs of a towering
tree.  A squirrel came out on a slightly higher limb
and chattered back at the birds for interrupting his
sleep.

Within a few minutes, Snake had make an entire loop. 
In spite of his careful search, he did not see the
Spider Lady.  Yet, he had felt her watching him late
in the battle with Elephant.  It was a sixth sense. 
Even though he'd looked a couple of times during the
fight-and it was partially this inattention to
Elephant that had helped the giant land at least one
of his bone-crushing blows-Snake had not been able to
spot her.

But he knew, without the slightest doubt, she had been
somewhere out there.

He circled.  During his meandering journey of the
area, he thought he'd spotted her perhaps several
hundred yards away on Fifth Avenue as she stepped into
a taxi.  But it could have been anyone.  Perhaps just
another of the wealthy people who lived in towering
condos on Fifth, someone who had not even known of the
phenomenal battle taking place out in Central Park and
wouldn't have cared anyway.  The wealthy along Fifth
considered Central Park a no-man's land, paid it
little heed, and hired guards even when their children
went to play out there in mid-day.

His shoulder hurt.  He rubbed at it gently, kneading
the muscles.  Elephant had hit him in the chest and
the side.  Why his shoulder pained him, he did not
know.

Suddenly, he felt tired.  He didn't need sleep, he
needed to not think.

He wondered whose side she was really on-the Spider
Lady.  Of course, she hired Elephant!  No question on
that.  Had she really been rooting for Elephant,
though?  He was curious.

There were a lot of things he couldn't quite figure
out at the moment and his mind, even when he was
involved in physical activity, was busy on those
problems.  One of the major things on his mind was the
trip to Oklahoma and not just because Oklahoma was
such a cruddy place and Enid crammed full of cruddy
people.  It hinged on a couple of things Mrs. Susman
had said.   Why hadn't Susman called her?  Not just in
the week since he'd been supposedly kidnapped; he had
not called her in a full month!

True, from what she'd said, he'd often gone long
periods without calling when he was on a "mission."
What kind of mission?  Had the "open" work for Caraboo
and Allied Global Destination Ltd. been more involved
than Caraboo had let on?  Could Susman have been
involved in something which no one knew about?

Then there was the $17,000 payment.  At the very
least, Susman had thought it was from Allied Global;
that's what he'd noted in his records.  Another
mystery.

Wearily, he walked back to the glade.  Everyone had
left.  He sat down on the bench, but that wasn't the
kind of rest he needed.

He walked out of the park, found a telephone stand on
a side street and noted the phone number, then hailed
a taxi and told the driver he wanted to go to Reed
Whitaker Hospital.

"You could walk that," said the cab driver.  "It's
only a short distance."

"Too tired," said Snake.

"That's the problem with you young folk:  You don't
get enough exercise.  That's why you're always tired."

"I believe you," said Snake.  He let the cab driver's
tirade about exercise and health food fade into the
background, but was glad to escape it when the taxi
finally pulled up in front of the hospital.  The cab
bill was $3.70.

Snake realized that he didn't have any money.  It was
a bit embarrassing.  He'd always had plenty of money
for things like this before.  Maybe King would be
upstairs with Elephant and he could borrow a $5 bill.

"Wait here," he told the cab driver.  "I'll be right
back."

A nurse told him that he would have to talk to the
police in order to see Elephant.  She directed him to
the second floor.  One cop stood duty.

"Hello, Snake."

It was the cop who had bet $5 for him.  He dug out two
$5 bills from his right pocket as Snake approached. 
"This is a donation from the priesthood."

"Is that who you bet with?"

"Their money's good, isn't it?"

"You're probably going to get excommunicated," said
Snake.  He held the two bills in his hand.  "Elephant
in here?"

The policeman nodded.  "His name's Alphonse Gandy by
the way.  Not wanted for anything at the moment, but
there's one hell of a file on him around this town."

"I really appreciate you helping out," Snake said.

"I'm going off duty.  I can make a call and get
someone over here for the evening shift, if you like."

"I rather not," said Snake.  "The fewer people who
know he's here, the better.  We'll handle it, I
guess."

"No problem with me," the policeman said.

Snake held out his hand.  "My name's Bill Williams."

"I prefer Snake."

"Me, too," said Snake.

"I'm Roger Foley.  I prefer Sailor."

"Good to know you, Sailor."

"Same here."

He asked Sailor Foley to pay the cab and handed him
back the two five dollar bills.  "Tell the driver to
keep the change."

King and Montague were in the room with Elephant.

A doctor had patched up Elephant's face.

"And they shot him with something to put him to sleep.
 He was about to leave.  Me and Montague couldn't stop
him."

"Good work," said Snake.  "How long's he going to be
out?"

"Another three or four hours."

"That's just about right.  Got my book?"

"Sure," said King.  He handed him the copy of "Dune."

"I would like to read a while," Snake said.

Why not?  Elephant is not going to object.  He ran
into a truck or something," Montague said.

"I'm not hurt," said Elephant.

Montague exploded from his chair and picked it up and
held it above his head.

"Put the chair down, Montague," Snake said calmly. 
"Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to Alphonse
Gandy, otherwise known as Elephant."

King gave a low whistle as he stared at Elephant. 
"That was sure a quick three hours."

"Of course, you aren't hurt," Snake told Elephant. 
"We know that, Alphonse.  This place is more than just
a hospital.  It's also a hideout."

"From what?  Elephant doesn't hide from anybody!"

"Snake does," said Snake with a sigh.  "And if you
gentlemen will just let me hide out here for an hour
or so and read my book, I would be most grateful."

"I guess I can relax here a while longer," said
Elephant.  "If you'll forget about that Alphonse
stuff."

"Good," said Snake.  "It's a deal."

Elephant felt the side of his head.  "You've got a
good punch."

"I won't lie to you, Elephant.  You were so strong, I
couldn't afford to fight you fair.  I cheated."

"I knew it!" said Elephant.  His face lit up in a big
smile.

"I used a sap on you," said Snake.  "Had it hid in my
right hand.  Planted it against your temple to knock
you out."

"Nobody saw it?"

"No.  They all thought I hit you with my fist."

"Everyone will think I got whipped good."

"I will tell them the truth," said Snake.  "I'll
spread the word that I was afraid of you."

"You'd do that?"

"Why not?"

"You might have beat me fair and square," said
Elephant.

Snake shook his head.  He sprawled on his back across
the other bed and started hunting for his place in the
book.  "Couldn't take a chance," he said.  "You hit me
once out there and I thought the earth had fallen in."

"I am strong," said Elephant.  "I've got a good punch.
 Guys in the ring all thought so.  They wouldn't let
me spar with them anymore."

"No doubt about it," said Snake.

"You got a good punch, too.  That uppercut you tabbed
me with hurt quite a bit."

"Thanks, Elephant.  That's nice of you to say
something like that."

"That's okay," said Elephant.  "Who got me to the
hospital?"

"King, Montague, and Rudy."

"What happened to my friends?"

"Guess you need a new set of friends, Elephant."

Elephant stared at the ceiling.

"I had sort of begun to suspect as much."

"I wouldn't worry about it," said Snake.  "Friends
come, friends go."

"I don't think the good ones go," said Elephant.

"Maybe not," said Snake.  "Maybe not.  Now will you
guys let me read a while?"

"We have something for you, Elephant," said Rudy.  "It
won't fit, naturally; it's only extra-extra large. But
we're going to have one made up for you that will."

He handed Elephant a Central Park Goodwill Team
tee-shirt.

"Thank you," said Elephant, taking the tee-shirt.  He
folded it gently up and placed it on his chest.

"Heard you were here," said Wekser, bursting through
the hospital room door with his accustomed fervor.

"What is this: a convention?" said Snake.  "Who's
minding the store?"

"Don't you worry about my store.  It can worry about
itself.  Actually, I closed early to celebrate my
winnings.  I took those priests for $15 this
afternoon."

"Looks as if everyone won, but me," said Elephant.

"Sometimes," said Snake, "you don't know that you've
really won a fight until you see the other guy."

"What's that supposed to mean?  You're the other guy
and you ain't even scratched!"

"Just that maybe you've actually won and you don't
know it yet," said Snake.

"Elephant, you've got a mean left hook," said Wekser.

"You the guy I hit the other day?" asked Elephant.

"Don't bother asking for forgiveness.  I never
forgive."

"Okay," said Elephant.

"I will, however, take an apology, seeing as how
you're now a member of the Central Park Goodwill
Team."

"Good," said Elephant.

"Well?  Where's the apology?"

"I've never apologized for nothing before.  I don't
know how."

"That's good enough for me," said Wekser.  He stuck
out his hand.

The giant took it and shook it.  Even though Elephant
was careful, Wekser grimaced slightly.

"This guy doesn't know his own strength," he said.  He
turned to Snake.  "How did you manage to win that
fight fair and square?"

"I didn't.  I cheated," said Snake.  "Had a blackjack
in my hand."

Elephant beamed at the public admission.

"Don't get too excited," Wekser told Elephant.  "I'm
not giving the money back.  As far as I'm concerned,
the fight's over.  Snake won."

"Same here," said Montague.

"Just the same," said Elephant.  "I might have won."

"Never would have happened," insisted King.

"Hey!  I still had a chance," said Elephant.  But his
tone was light and you could tell that winning or
losing the fight didn't matter than much to him any
more.

"Small and none," said King.

Elephant held onto his tee-shirt in one hand and with
the other pushed the button to lift the back of the
bed into a sitting position.  "How long do I have to
stay in this bed?"

"We haven't decided yet," said Montague.  He had
resumed his seat in his chair.  "Certainly not longer
than three or four years."

Wekser grimaced.  "All of these guys are comedians.

"I guess I can relax a while longer," said Elephant
with a smile.

"Now there's a perfect straight man for you," said
Wekser.  "Not a bad guy at all except when he's
sneering."

Snake had finally found his place in his book.  But a
stray thought suddenly occurred to him.

"Who told you we were at the hospital?"

"A young lady who came into the store," Wekser said. 
"She bought a lottery ticket.  Asked if I was a friend
of yours.  I told her that Snake and I were just like
rye toast and real creamery butter.  That's when she
mentioned you guys were over here in the hospital."

"Did she, by any chance, have sort of a long, thin
face?"

"Very Italian.  Yeah."

Snake closed his book.  He looked at King.  "Any
ideas?"

"Check the hallway," King told Montague.  He reached
into a cabinet and tossed Elephant his clothes.

Montague was out of his chair so fast, it tipped
backward and crashed against the wall of the hospital
room.

He slowed down, though, as he peeked into the hallway,
darting his head out like a turtle from its shell.
He moved out to the right.  Snake, instantly at the
doorway, moved to the left.  They checked the
adjoining two or three rooms and found nothing, but an
old lady in bed having a late dinner in one of the
rooms

"Maybe the Spider Lady hasn't had time yet to round up
an army," King said.

"Right.  And maybe she's taking the day off to
celebrate Elephant's loss," Snake said.

Within three minutes, King was leading everyone down a
flight of stairs toward the rear of the hospital.

They reached the street and got lucky.  Wekser flagged
a taxi.

"You should come with us," said King.  He stood with a
hand on the taxi door.

"You guys are much too noisy.  Can't read."  He held
up his book.  "Me and Frank Herbert have a date."

"The butler did it," said Wekser from the front seat
of the taxi.

King jerked his head toward the front seat.  "He does
need a straight man."

"None around here, though.  Just comedians."

"Don't worry.  I'll keep these guys out of sight.  You
remember me telling you about a good hideyhole a few
days ago?"

Snake nodded.  "Good."

King stepped inside and the cab pulled away from the
curb and headed toward Harlem.

It was late afternoon, but dark already.  Streetlights
winked in the chill of the night.  Somewhere out of
view, a boom box was playing an old Ray Charles tune. 
It was a country song.  Ray Charles had added his own
special form of blues to the song, but it remained a
country song.

Under the streetlight, Snake found his page in the
"Dune" book, then closed the book and went back up the
stairs to the second floor of the hospital.  He
entered Elephant's room and sat back down on the extra
bed.  Like Elephant, he brought the head of the bed up
to a sitting position.  He opened "Dune" and started
reading.

A doctor looked into Elephant's room.

"Mr. Gandy has checked out," said Snake.

"It was just a nose problem, wasn't it?" said the
doctor.  "No need for a hospital room?"

"You're right," said Snake.  "We were afraid, however,
that complications might set in."

"Still, a mistake to put him in a room."

"Right again," said Snake.

"Who're you?  You sick?"

"I'm waiting for someone."

"We'll need this room soon, Snake."

"I'll just rest here until they come," said Snake.

The doctor turned and left.

He wasn't a doctor, of course.  Doctor's don't have
those kinds of hands.  Too rough.

But the real giveaway was he had used Snake's name. 
Dumb.  Evidently, Spider Lady was running out goons
with any intelligence.  

Snake closed his book and put it in an outside jacket
pocket.  Evidently, he wasn't even going to have a few
minutes in which to read.

He thumbed open the packet of powder that he carried
for just such an emergency as this.

Well, it wasn't really an emergency.  He could have
crawled into the taxi a few minutes ago and gone away.
  If he'd been someone else, perhaps.

He hated to leave the comfort of the hospital bed.  It
would have been extremely pleasant to rest for an
hour.  Read.

With a bound, he was at the door of the hospital room.
 He tossed the packet of dust high into the air of the
hallway and, holding his breath, dodged into the room
next door.

The old lady-perhaps in her 80s-was still eating,
slowly pecking casually away at her food.

Snake held a finger to his lips to indicate silence. 
She nodded and placed her toast down on the tray
across the bed in front of her and looked at him with
excitement in her eyes.

Three men, visitors, came down the hallway.  They may
have been dumb, but all three carried AK-47s, which
can make you just about as smart as any bullet in
America.

As soon as the three men reached Elephant's room, two
of them began to twitch.  One of them started
scratching at the back of his neck.  The other jerked
spasmodically.  The power was quite fine and floated
in the air, settling very slowly.  But the passage of
shoes stirred it up afresh, like light dust.  It
affected the nerves almost instantaneously if
breathed.  It wasn't deadly, unless you had a heart
condition.  But it could make you awfully
uncomfortable for an hour or two.  In addition, any
place it touched the skin, the powder itched and
nothing could stop the itching and scratching didn't
help.

"Don't go out in the hallway until the air conditioner
has time to clear the air, okay?" Snake whispered.

"Sonny, I haven't been out of this bed in a week and
this is the most excitement I've had.  I was getting
awfully tired of soap operas."

Snake held his breath and ran down the hallway toward
the front stairway.  By now, the three men were having
serious problems, scratching and twitching
uncontrollably.

En route, Snake met the "doctor" coming back to check
on the "visitors."

Snake slugged him on the chin without even stopping. 
Just hard enough to break his jaw.

By the time he reached the street in front of the
hospital, however, the Spider Lady had disappeared. 
If she had been there at all.

Of course, she'd been there!  She was present every
time something happened!  Somewhere near, but out of
view, out of reach.  Was that her over there in that
blue Mustang speeding down the street?

Yes!  The same car that had pulled away from the front
of the post office in Harlem the other day.  Not
driven by her.  But driven by who?

Since it didn't matter at the moment, he walked back
into the hospital lobby and found a pay booth.  He
called the room and asked the girl who answered to pay
for the hospital bill at the Reed Whitaker.  "Tell
Caraboo to come to the Reed Whitaker Hospital.  Now. 
And tell him to bring some money."

He hung up.

Out front in the lobby, someone from the hospital
wanted to be paid for Elephant's medical bill and the
room.  Snake explained about the hospital bill, that
it had been rented for an entire night and that the
bill would soon be paid.  They weren't happy.  When he
showed them his empty billfold, they were even less
happy.

When he explained about the four thugs in the hallway
upstairs, they became totally depressed.

He decided not to tell them about the itch powder. 
Might do a couple of the nurses good.

Within a half hour, Caraboo strode into the lobby
followed closely by Neva.  She headed for the
accounting window.  Caraboo walked straight toward
Snake who had finally found a soft easy chair and a
chance to read "Dune."

Caraboo immediately handed Snake an envelope.

"Getting around money."

"Thanks.  The Spider Lady intercepted the last batch,"
Snake explained.  "Did you check on the $17,000 that
Susman deposited?"

"Yes.  It had already been withdrawn.  Evidently by
someone using Susman's signature."

"That's interesting," said Snake.  "Because I believe
Susman to be dead."

He folded the envelope Caraboo had handed him and
placed it in his right hip pocket after tearing off a
piece of the corner and scribbling down a phone number
on it.  He handed the piece of paper to Caraboo. 
"That post office is now off limits.  And I can no
longer communicate by the usual phone method.  If I
call and say I need to talk with you, call me that
same day four hours later at this number, but don't
use your regular phone, not even your car phone; go to
a pay phone somewhere and go alone.  The Spider Lady
has tapped into your phone lines in some way."

"I've also heard rumors about a lot of men needing
medical attention.  Some of them had been shot in the
leg.  Some of them had a broken this or a broken
that."

"Funny thing about rumors," said Snake.  "I've found
it best not to put much faith in them."

Caraboo nodded.

"What I'd really like to know," said Caraboo, "is
whether these rumors are coming about because of that
Spider Lady...or for her?"

"I am getting rather fond of her," admitted Snake.

"It's the old kidnapper syndrome, you know.  I don't
know the precise psychological name for it, but
something like that."

"I'm aware of the psychological implications.  And the
causes," said Snake.  "But that doesn't make much
difference to me right now."

"So, it's like that?"

"I suppose so," said Snake.

He told Caraboo about her being perhaps at the fight
with Elephant and maybe outside the hospital just a
while ago.

"Wish I could have been at that fight!" said Caraboo.

"Funny, but Elephant hit me in the ribs once and I
sort of suddenly wished I were somewhere else," said
Snake.

"Elephant!"

"His real name's Alphonse Gandy, but he prefers the
title Elephant and I don't think I'd dare going
against his wishes any too often."

"I've heard about him.  Giant of a guy."

Snake nodded.  "Even bigger than that."

Neva finished up paying the bill and came over.  She
reached inside her purse and pulled out a couple of
folded sheets of paper.  "The report you asked for."

Snake couldn't remember asking for a report.

She saw the puzzlement in his eyes.

"The gun," she explained.

He took the report.  He remembered now.  The police
.38 he'd taken from the goon he'd shot in the knee cap
over on Riverside Drive.

"This is interesting," he said and handed the report
to Caraboo.

"So, he stole a gun."

"From a woman cop named Mary Sue Landis."

"Your Spider Lady?"

"Who else?"

"Very interesting," said Caraboo.

"Check on this Mary Sue Landis for me," Snake told
Neva.  "Give the information to Caraboo."

She seemed slightly puzzled by the request, but
quickly nodded her head in agreement.

"I have another favor to ask," said Snake.  "Do you
know Michael Jordan?"

"The baseball player?" she asked.

"To some people, including me, he will always be a
basketball player, whether he's playing basketball or
not."

"No.  What makes you think I'd know him?  What a
curious question."

"I was talking to Caraboo."

"I know a lot of people and maybe one of them might
know someone important in Chicago.  That's all I can
think of," said Caraboo.

"Check around.  The Central Park Goodwill Team would
like to invite him to a basketball tournament."

"Would he come to something like that?"

"Maybe.  If he knew it was for a good cause."

They walked out of the hospital.

Caraboo had not come alone.  Several men were
scattered up and down the street.

"Just a precaution," said Caraboo.  A black limousine
pulled into the curb.  "Do you need a ride?"

"No," said Snake.

"I don't think I'd hang around here," said Neva.  She
looked up and down the street.  "Would you like me to
book a hotel room somewhere?"

"No, thanks," said Snake.  "I'm thinking about
sleeping on the roof of the Empire State Building
tonight."

It was meant as a joke.  Neva gave a small, sharp
giggle.

"Call and let me know if you need anything," she said.

"Okay," said Snake.

She climbed into the limousine after Caraboo.  The
door closed, hiding both of them from view.  The car
pulled away from the curb and sped into the night of
New York City as Snake walked quickly down the street.

And, one by one, several men up and down the street
also faded away.

At the corner, Snake turned and in a moment was at the
rear stairway of the hospital.  A moment later, he'd
run lightly up the stairs and was back in Elephant's
room with the door shut.

There was a small, hesitant knock on the door.

He opened it cautiously.

It was the lady from the room next door.  She was
dressed in a white gown down to the floor and held in
her right hand a rather huge gun for such a small
woman/

"Just wanted you to know, son, that I don't sleep very
well at night these days.  I'll sorta keep watch for
you."  She held up a .457 magnum.

"Good lord, lady!  Don't you know you could hurt
someone with a gun like that?"

She nodded.

"My intentions precisely," she said.

Snake thanked her.

Just the same, he closed the door and put a chair up
against it, the edge of the back braced under the
doorknob, and slept on the floor under the bed that
had belonged to Elephant.  The light stayed on, but
that had never bothered him.  He read half an hour
before getting sleepy.

His last thought before falling asleep was whether the
Spider Lady would make an attempt to find him tonight
on top of the Empire State Building.

(continued next week)

Next week:  "Acapulco!"  Written already, but not on
computer.   Maybe a photo with it.  Can't promise.

My son John Alexander Hall, esq., haunts swap meets in
Los Angeles.  He is loaning me a CD of an aircheck of
Joey Reynolds, Feb. 24., 1964, when he was on WKBW,
Buffalo, NY.  The printed four-color cover proclaims: 
Featuring the music of the Beatles.  On back:
"Reynolds made it clear he was not impressed with the
Beatles.  Although the Fab Four was taking over
America's airwaves, Reynolds felt that there were
local bands in each city that were just as good. 
Reynolds was also involved with a song called 'The
Beetle' by the Buddies, and he claimed Brian Epstein
was pressuring him to change the name."

John said he was in a slight moral quandry about
buying the CD--and others such as one by B. Mitch
Reed--because he knows that Joey, G1boney@aol.com, is
not getting any of the proceeds.  On the other hand,
he wasn't about to miss the opportunity of gaining
this particular CD!

I suppose I should say something nice now about Joey
to make him feel a little better about not getting
rich from his old airchecks.  How about this: His
ratings on WOR in New York are pretty dadgummed good. 
King of the night!  Joey said that recently "I had
Picasso's grandson on the show along with Winston
Churchill's granddaughter, I have been invited to Frank
Sinatra Jr.'s birthday on Friday and Buckley's
daughter is working at WOR."

Hah!  I can top that one, Joey.  I once went to a
birthday party for William B. Williams at the Rainbow
Grill atop the rock and Frank Sinatra Jr. played piano
for the occasion.  Frank Jr. must be a pretty good
guy.  Ernie Farrell told me that he had a car wreck
once and Frank Jr. sat up with him at the hospital.

Hal Smith, hal-smith@sbcglobal.net: "I read with great
enjoyment your article about the Singing Cowboys and
the in-depth interview with Jimmy Wakely.  In 1975 I
was Program Director at KLAC in Los Angeles. Dick
Haynes was on 6am-9am. We decided to have a week on
Dick's show devoted to the Singing Cowboys...as guest
stars on the show with Dick.  We had Rex Allen, Gene
Autry, Eddie Dean, Lloyd Perryman (of The Sons of the
Pioneers), Roy Rogers and Jimmy Wakely. All were
extremely gracious...staying after the show, to meet
and have pictures made, with members of the staff. I
can still remember many of the stories they told,
especially Jimmy Wakely talking about the difference
in riding a horse for pleasure and riding one in the
movies. Roy Rogers telling how he first got into the
movies. Rex Allen's story of a singing cowboy meeting
at Nudie's. Gene, Roy and all of them were talking
about what they were going to do when they got away
from Columbia Pictures. Tex Ritter said...'you keep
talking about what you're going to do when you get
away from Columbia Pictures. What I want to know is
how do you get there in the first place'.  We were
concerned about Mr. Autry appearing since he owned
KMPC, and, in a way, a competing station. He
accepted. When Dick Haynes arrived at the station at
5:30 am that day, Mr. Autry was waiting for him. 
These gentlemen were 'How the West Was Sung'.  P.S. 
Have you ever heard Rex Allen's 'I'm Heading for the
Last Roundup' with the Victor Young orchestra? It's
great!"

Been a while on the Allen song.  But like you, Hal, I
always found those men absolutely great and gracious. 
And Tex had absolute recall on names and faces, so far
as I know.  At least, he remembered me once at the
Palisades Amusement Park and I felt extremely
flattered.  What a great, great man.  But here's one
for you, Hal; have you ever heard "Blood on the
Saddle" by Tex?

Jim Rose, rosekkkj@earthlink.net:  "Good morning,
Claude.  A month or so ago, you wrote to me about
something I sent didn't make it completely through to
your mail slot. That you have a pretty strong virus
blocker installed on your 'puter which might've
knocked it dead in its tracks. Made me wonder
what happened. This was a period when my ole ISP was
really acting up. You probably did not receive it
because my ISP probably did not fully send it, only
indicated that I tried to send you something. This
booger pulls new stunts almost daily. Their 'support'
staff in India can't understand English very well,
plus don't know how to fix their own doo-dads which
crop up often. But, it does have a very good spam
and virus blocker package. However, a new
battlefield front has been attained. My 500 limit spam
blocker folder has been filled to capacity. Never
realized that my spam button had been pushed that many
times. Neat feeling when you can aim the orange spam
ray gun at unwanted objects. Time sure does fly
by when you're having fun. This thing
automatically zaps as many as 70 or more spam
zits each day. But in addition to that, I receive at
least one-third this amount of new crud in web
mail every day. I WHAM the delete key for those
that are recognized.  Occasionally, from somewhere in
the world, a fraudulent spammer puts on the guise of
my ISP with intriguing messages such as my email will
be 'suspended' if I don't 'update' my vital data. Must
come from the deep dark jungles, because the
salutations open with 'Dearest'. A dead giveaway.
Received four of those operas the other day. Just
wonder how many unsuspecting kind-hearted folks are
duped into filling out these blanks in good faith.
Must be many. This opens them up for grand larceny
theft to be shoved into their lives.  Nowadays, we
have to very wary of nearly everything we do. Even red
lights at intersections. Almost nobody in Houston
stops for red lights anymore. When your red light
changes to green, count to ten before you push the
pedal to the metal or else your metal will be pushed.
They stream right on through just like convoys. Makes
you wish you had a spam blocker for them, too.  HAPPY
THANKSGIVING to the HALL family!"

I got that "dearest" thing, too, Jim.

Rose also sent me an item about the format changing on
KLOL by Carol Christian, carol.christian@chron.com, of
the Houston Chronicle from rock 'n' roll to Spanish
hip-hop and other pop styles aimed at a young Latino
audience.  This leaves Houston with just two rock
stations.

Tom Noonan, Tenoonan8@aol.com, let me know that Artie
Mogull passed away.  Heart attack.  Thanksgiving Day.

Guess everyone in the record business has at least one
Artie Mogull story.

Ted Marvelle, shazam@mvdsl.com, I'm just now getting
around to catching up on my usual routine, including
the reading of the latest in 'Hall talk'. In the Nov.
1 column, you had an old letter from Bill Randle
mentioning San Diego of the early 80s.  'While I was
there I met with a tremendous young guy (Minelli) at
the Gannett station KSDO. He is the PD there and has
a really brilliant future'.  As it happened, I was
working for John Mainelli as KSDO at the time and then
later when he tried, valiantly, to make CNN radio work
at the former legendary KBG, recalled with the letters
KCNN. The local segments were well done, with good
writers with a touch of mischief...'six sick sharks,
swimming at Sea World have been diag...' one sentence
that comes to mind, actually right in keeping with
John's personality. He was absolutely, by far, the
very best News Director, PD, etc. I have ever had the
pleasure of working with. He always encourage
out-of-the-box thinking and over-the-top
performances. Sometimes, my performances tended to be
quite wide of the box and way over the top, but he
always backed me up when upper management came
calling. Were he still doing that today, I would be
begging him to let me work with him again.  Since
apparently Bill had the spelling wrong, you may not
know that John has much in common with you. He is a
radio-TV columnist with the New York Post. You should
drop him a line and compare notes on the now ant then
aspect of things and living in NYC, He has a
Manhattan apartment, high above the fray. Best to you
and Barbara."

George Pollard, gpollard@ccs.carleton.ca: "Two RPM
sites are now up and running. Here are the urls,
avtrust.ca/rpm/en/ and
collectionscanada.ca/rpm/index-e.html  You can search
every RPM chart and read about Walt Grealis and Stan
Klees. In case you weren't aware of it, Walt passed
away in January 2004 and RPM ceased publication around
the time Walt fell ill, in 2000. Stan  remains in
disgustingly good health, roams the world and
continues to be a fountain of the most entertaining
anecdotes. George  Burns used to say he asked Gracie
how her brother was doing and she talked for 27 years.
 Ditto for Stan.  The RPM sites are well-worth a visit
from anyone with even the most passing interest in the
music business, and radio, too, in Canada."

Thanks for the information, George.  Good on you!

Jimmy Rabbitt, jimmyrabbitt@hotmail.com, is pushing
Doug Sahm for the Hall of Fame.  Write Jimmy if you'd
like to help.