by Richard Neer
He gave me a quizzical look and jumped onto the bed. “Stay. I’ll be there in a minute.”
I was jazzed from the driving and the caffeine and as tired as I was, I couldn’t sleep. I fired up my tablet and quickly found George Arliss’ website. I had to agree with Jason’s assessment of the man --- he was an insufferable snob. He railed on about the greatness of obscure bands that never had any commercial success. The few that I did know of were failures for a reason --- they weren’t any good, at least to my ears.
I could find nothing on his site about Colton Townes. On the site, the only way to communicate with this great arbiter of taste was through a comments section, which he deigned to address occasionally. When a visitor disagreed with one of his columns his replies were acerbic and condescending. The general tone was “How dare you question my musical judgment?”
I found a Bluffton address and phone number for him. My plan was to sleep late and call in the morning. As much as I value in person interviews, this was one I hoped I could conduct on the phone. At around two, I fell off, lulled by Bosco’s rhythmic snoring.
Like most of my plans to sleep in, it didn’t work out that way. I could blame Bosco for leaping off the bed and nosing the bedroom door open at seven, but I was up anyway, fruitlessly trying to grab a few more Zs. I heard the rumble of Ginn’s baritone from the kitchen.
I stumbled out to the breakfast area a few minutes later, where Moses sat drinking coffee. He said, “Cowboy jammies. How precious. Your mommy pick ‘em out for you?”
“Smile when you say that, pardner. You’re lucky I don’t pull my Mattel Fanner Fifty and shoot you dead, varmint.”
“Fastest gun in the East. We’ll see about that, hombre. Didn’t expect you back so soon. Dry hole?”
“Not saying anything until I get some coffee.”
I poured a cup, asked Ginn if he’d taken care of Bosco’s needs (entry and exit) and told him about the Paulsens. The dog settled in under my feet to listen.
He said, “Sounds like what my people went through in these parts all the time back then. Still do if you catch the wrong cop.”
“Want to come with me if I need to visit Arliss?”
“Not all that appealing, 5-0. Alex has the morning off, wants me to take her to the outlets and do some Christmas shopping. I can put her off if you really need me.”
“Maybe we’ll hook up later. I might be able to depose this guy on the phone. Also sounds like another visit to Bolton and Dugger might be in order. Could use you there.”
“You thinking Dugger seeing a black face might set him off? You better bring that Fanner Fifty along.”
~~~~~
George Arliss proved to be nothing like the nasty curmudgeon he came off as on his site. He lived in a luxurious condo hard by the river in Bluffton. I expected it to be littered with the messy trappings of a writer’s craft. Boxes of files, disorganized shelves stuffed with books, vinyl and CDs. A chaotic desk that would take an archeologist years to dig through.
But the opposite was true. The two bedroom unit was meticulous and uncluttered. It fit Arliss, the man, perfectly. He was fastidious, attired in a blue blazer over a pale checkered shirt, tan Dockers and comfortable brown slip-ons. Clean shaven, his thick hair was expensively barbered. Not quite handsome, but not unattractive. A whiff of tasteful cologne completed the picture.
When I called and mentioned Townes, he was happy to meet and said we could talk over lunch at his place. Was tuna salad okay?
I said, “Thanks for agreeing to see me so quickly. I must say, I’m a little surprised by your appearance. The pictures of you on the website are somewhat different.”
“Meet the man behind the curtain. Yeah, I was a hippie back in the day, a real iconoclast. What do they say, a conservative is a liberal who’s been mugged?”
“You were mugged? Here?”
“Just an expression, Mr. King. No, I was a true believer. John Lennon’s Imagine was my credo. Then I got a taste of the real world and realized I could go on banging my head against the wall and being miserable, or I could live well and sell out. I chose the latter, as you can see.”
“The view of the river is pretty spectacular here. But if you’ve ‘sold out’ as you say, why the website? I expected you to be like Bennie the Bearded Buddha. I expect you know who I mean.”
He motioned me toward a sprawling sectional that faced a marble clad gas fireplace, above which was an 86” flat television. The in-wall and ceiling speakers boasted nine channels of Dolby DTS, and I figured there was a massive subwoofer lurking somewhere. Put on some Eagles or Steely Dan and I’d be in Nirvana.
He said, “I know Bennie. Lovely fellow, still waiting for the revolution. As a matter of fact, I put myself in his character when I write my columns. My feed has over a million followers. I trust that you won’t let the cat out of the bag that I’m not living the life I espouse online.”
“Not my job. The site pays the rent, I guess.”
He laughed. “Covers it. But the real money I make is from my novels. I have a nom de plume and I write what they used to call bodice rippers. Same big studly gentleman on the cover. Rippling muscles, shirt open or bare chested. Not great literature but extremely profitable. I can churn out a half dozen a year if I so chose.”
I wasn’t aware that such books still existed. The last person I imagined writing them was this reconstituted hippie, but here he was, bragging about it. Well, at least he was being honest about his agenda.
I said, “I know John Peterson a little. He writes thrillers, not quite the same thing, and he has a ghostwriter helping him now.”
“I actually did one of his a while back. The name still sells, no matter how good or bad the book is. Shame about John.”
“What do you mean?”
“Word in publishing circles is, poor man’s had Alzheimer’s for years and the end is near. Funny, I co-wrote a best seller with him and never met the man. We never even spoke. I just got an outline and fleshed it out. I assume he tweaked it. I didn’t read it, couldn’t bear to. But the checks keep flowing.”
John Peterson, nee Peter Johansen, was Jaime’s dad. I knew he had been suffering from the terrible disease, but I didn’t know how far it had advanced. I should call her soon, awkward as it would be.
“Well, Mr. Arliss, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I’m sure you’re busy ripping bodices and all, so let’s talk about Colton Townes.”
“Ah yes, Colt, my Cherokee brother. Hadn’t thought about him in a while, but I truly loved the man. Let’s sit at the table. Sandwiches are ready and I hope you like wine. It’s only tuna but I’ve paired it with a nice Pinot Grigio.”
“My favorite,” I lied. Tuna on rye was fine, more like my normal fare than the gourmet stuff I’ve been feasting on of late. “I guess the first thing I’d ask is if you wrote something when Townes disappeared and if you still have it in your archives.”
“Better than that. I’ve printed everything out I ever wrote about him. I digitized all my work a couple of years back. That’s why I don’t have all that cluttering up my condo. One of the dividends from working with Peterson.”
“That’s great. Do you have any idea what happened to him?”
Arliss held up one finger in a ‘hold the thought’ gesture and opened his refrigerator. He took out a platter of sandwiches covered in cellophane and a chilled bottle of wine.
He said, “From the deli down the street. It’s not New York or even Jersey, but for here, it’s really good. Forgive me for chilling the wine in the fridge but I had to get it to forty eight degrees on short notice.”
I almost told him how outraged I was at this unforgiveable faux pas. I thought about using the Sean Connery line that ‘it would be like listening to the Beatles without earmuffs’. James Bond paid for that blasphemous remark with a blow on the head from OddJob. Koreans were really into the Fab Four.
Instead of hoping he’d get the film reference, I merely thanked my host. “You really didn
’t have to go to so much trouble.”
“No, you stimulated part of my brain that’s been dormant for a while. Retrieving those columns for you brought back a lot of memories. Colt must have been bipolar. They didn’t call it that then or if they did, I didn’t know. He’d go from being the stereotypical lazy cigar store Indian hanging out on the street, to this incredibly hard working artist. His work was deeply resonant. If his early work came out today, critics would recognize him for the true genius he was.”
“Well, some of his stuff may have come out recently. Are you familiar with a country band called The Flying Machine?”
“Can’t stand country. It’s all about nostalgia. Remember the good old days, growing up in the sticks, driving a pickup truck, drinking beer, and deflowering virgins. The entire genre preys on the fear of death.”
“Interesting take. How so?”
“Much as they sing about God, they don’t really believe there’s a heaven and they fear the void. So they sing about when life was simpler and they had things they could believe in before they got wise to the ways of the world. Ah, to be young again.”
“Not all of it’s like that.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot about the women singers, in their mini-thongs and their breasts hanging out. But now with #Me-Too, they’re getting back at those old school dads who used to get liquored up and beat the shit out of their mothers on Saturday night. I suppose there’re still a few princesses who dream of marrying a prince, but most of them hate men and wish they had penises of their own. I say more power to ‘em.”
He popped the cork on the wine and poured us a healthy portion. Damn, it was fifty degrees, not forty eight.
I said, “Well, I didn’t come to debate the merits of country music with you, but Jason Black had heard some of Townes’ songs from the new album he was working on and swears that this Outer Banks band stole them.”
“Jason Black. He wouldn’t know a good song if it hit him in the face. Actually, I’m being a little hard on the fellow. That’s a hangover from my critic days. His melodies were all right. He needed a lyricist. His were trite.”
“I’ll tell him you said that. But back to Townes. What do you think happened?”
“John Lennon died. I saw Colt the next day. His world was shattered. Mind you, we both were huge fans of Lennon. The news crushed Colt. Like his dog died. Worse. He was almost suicidal. I was pretty shook up myself. So when he vanished, first thing I thought was he was on a bender or he actually did do himself in.”
“Did you write about it?”
“The Lennon thing was so devastating that it was all I thought and wrote about for a while. I know there are McCartney fans who think he was the genius behind the Beatles, but John was my favorite. He didn’t give a shit what anybody thought, he just said what was on his mind. Some of it got him in trouble, like his Jesus comments, but he was honest. Maybe to a fault.”
“I always thought his solo stuff was a little harsh. Denouncing the Beatles and ripping Paul.”
“The shame of it is, I think right before he died, he got a new perspective on his life. He’d gotten clean, off the drugs and booze. He’d just turned forty, realized how much he loved his son and Yoko. It was like a new beginning for him and then that asshole shot him down. Senseless. I wrote a ton of columns about it if you’re interested. Just republished them on my site with the fortieth anniversary of his death.”
“I’ll check them out, but right now, I’m trying to find out about what happened to Colton Townes.”
“I wish I could help. I really dug the guy but after a month, when Colton didn’t resurface, I came to the conclusion he did kill himself. I guess there’s no harm telling you now, but I was really into reefer back then. Mellowed me out a bit too much. I should’ve been pissed off that my friend just vanished like that and I should’ve followed up.”
“Did he ever talk to you about the police in town? How they hassled him whenever they got the chance?”
“Constantly. But understand, Colt was paranoid. That doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you, but a cop would look at him sideways and he’d think they were going to bust into his place late at night, kill him and rape his wife.”
“You think they weren’t really out to get him?”
“Could be. Racist bastards had the “Nigras’ to hassle mainly, though. Colt didn’t really even look Cherokee. He did have high cheekbones, was handsome as hell.”
“I imagine there were a lot of groupies back in the day, at least that’s what Jason Black tells me. How about Townes? Did you get the sense he played around?”
“Well, we all did but I’d say Colt was the last guy to do that. He was intensely loyal to his wife. I mean, look, they were high school sweethearts. She was everywhere he was, like they were attached at the hip.”
“Not too common for a handsome rock star.”
“Colt was never a star, even locally. Even so, it was a little strange that he was so faithful to her. Forgive me for sounding piggy, but she didn’t exactly have an effervescent personality. Dude like him could’ve done a whole lot better.”
“You think he came to that conclusion and just took off that night? Left her with a few hundred bucks and a letter?”
“Anything’s possible but I’d say that would be very unlikely. They seemed as tight as two people can be.”
“I don’t suppose he told you the names of any of the cops in particular who were hassling him.”
“If he did, I don’t remember. I do remember one who actually helped him --- at that New Year’s Eve concert when he started a fight with some of the inebriated patrons. Everyone was drunk that night but no charges were filed against Colt. If they really wanted to, they could’ve thrown the book at him. The lead detective quashed it, was the story I heard. One of the few decent men on the force.”
“Someone named Paulsen?”
“Yeah. That sounds right.”
We ate our sandwiches and talked about Townes’ music. Arliss believed he never would have much commercial appeal --- too much an artiste, but that was good. He was a pure soul. Never cared about selling a lot of records. When we were finished, he handed me a sheaf of printouts from his columns about Colton and John Lennon. I thanked him and went on my way.
Nothing to see here.
22
Fresh from an exhilarating morning of Christmas shopping with Tomey, Ginn agreed to meet me at the Frog and Peach. He was hooked on the tiramisu, he said, and Alex hadn’t allowed him to stop for lunch. Not to mention that as nice as the tuna sandwiches were, my appreciation of the cappuccino rivaled Ginn’s desire for the dessert.
On the way Beaufort, the Audi signaled a call from an unknown number in the DC area code. Normally I’d relegate this to my ‘do not call’ directory but I wanted to test the quality of the car’s interface.
“Hello,” I said, in the high nasal voice that I use to blow off telemarketers. If they persist in bothering me, I string them along as a demented child for a while, hoping they’ll take me off their list.
“Riles, you have a cold or something? It’s Logan.”
“Just got a new car Dan-o. The mic needs to learn my voice.” That much was true, but it had nothing to do with my pinched greeting.
“That’s better. Did you finally ditch that old MDX? About time.”
“Nope, she’s in my garage as we speak. I need something to haul stuff around and she serves the purpose. I bought an Audi convertible.”
“Sassy. Beats a surrey with a fringe on top.”
Dan Logan is a huge fan of Broadway musicals, particularly favoring the works of Rogers and Hammerstein. He gets a lot of teasing from his FBI colleagues, that he might be the only straight man in America with such an affinity. Although I don’t go out of my way to advertise it, South Pacific is high on my personal playlist.
“You know Dan, there might be five people who’d get that reference. I always wondered what isinglass windows are, though.”
“It’s glass made f
rom fish bladders. Sturgeon mostly.”
“Your knowledge of useless trivia never fails to amaze me. What’s up? I can’t get you Panthers’ playoff tickets, if that’s why you’re calling.”
“They’ll be out in the first round and you’ll be begging me for Giants seats someday. No, it’s a little more serious than that.”
“Is that why you’re calling on a burner?”
“Now, now. I just think the director might not be too keen on us talking personal affairs on the company tab.”
“No Christmas cards either?”
“Let me make this quick. You never know who might be tuning in.”
Logan and I go way back, to the time we were rookie agents. I was too much a maverick to make it a career. I wore out my welcome in less than ten years. But Dan is a crafty dude and has managed to advance to his current high position without compromising his values. Or so I believe. He has never lied to me outright, but there were times he isn’t completely open and honest. Is this going to be one of those times?
I said, “Ooh, sounds heavy. Is South Carolina thinking of legalizing pot or something equally scary?”
“Cut the bull, boyo. It’s come to my attention that your nose is somewhere it shouldn’t be.”
“It’s right between my eyes and just north of my mouth.”
“Riley, shut the hell up and listen.”
I wasn’t used to that tone from my longtime friend. Rather than push back, I heeded his advice and stayed silent.
He said, “I’ll speak in general terms.”
I understood that to mean in code, so that if any of his superiors were listening, they wouldn’t get the wrong idea, or maybe in this case, the right idea.
“You’re a big fan of Jackson Browne. I know when you like an artist, the detective in you wants to know everything about him. Sometimes when you know too much, it can tarnish your heroes. Better to separate the art from the artist. Enjoy the work, but stay away from personal details.”
Jackson Browne, Jason Black. Not subtle, but I got the message. I had to figure out a way to respond without being too obvious.
