by Richard Neer
“Got an idea. You have Sarah Bernstein’s number?”
“I do.”
“Here’s what I’m thinking. I doubt either of those dudes would know her. If she’s at the Frog, maybe she can shoot over here and plant the mic at their table as she walks by.”
“That’s a big ask, Mo.”
“As a bonus, we get to check out that pretty little butt of hers.”
“Tomey puts up with this? Unbelievable.”
Sarah was available. The Frog and Peach was only a mile away and she was at work early. She had some time before lunch and to my surprise, was willing to do us a favor. Maybe it was because she was relieved that I was concentrating on something other than Brand X.
For a skilled FBI agent, this would be a simple task. She was there within ten minutes. She didn’t even wait for us to explain our plan. She’d thought about it on the way over.
She said, “They probably won’t get here at exactly the same time. The first one’ll grab a table. I’ll follow him in a minute later and stick the mic where it needs to be.”
She and Ginn rattled off some technical jargon to about product numbers, frequency response, range, and more gobbledygook. I was never much on wiretapping --- I leave that to the experts. These two knew what they were doing.
Bolton got there first, pulling up in a newer Cadillac Escalade. Despite the cold, he wore just a sport jacket, wool slacks and a sweater vest, no tie. He moved nimbly after parking the beast a few spots down the street.
Sarah said, “I’ll go in now. The mics’ll be live but they’ll sound muffled in my pocket.”
We could see through the storefront window. Bolton had taken a table where we could barely see him. Lip reading, a skill I’ve never mastered, would not have done us any good.
But Sarah came through like a champ. She went to the counter and ordered a bran muffin. As she passed his table, she stumbled.
“Oh, shit. There goes my breakfast.”
She dropped to the floor to pick it up.
A man’s voice. Bolton. “I’m sorry, miss. Let me help you.”
He reached down but she shook him off. “I’m fine, sir. Thanks. Five second rule. I hope they keep the floors clean. I don’t see springing for another muffin at these prices.”
“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll buy you another muffin if you’ll give me your number.”
“No thanks. I’m married.” With that, she left the shop. She made sure Bolton wasn’t watching as she circled around to the Audi.
The bug was planted. Ginn somehow routed the audio through the car’s speakers via Bluetooth. It sounded as if we were sitting at the table with Bolton. We could hear that he’d brought along a local paper and was flipping through it as he waited for Dugger.
Ginn said, “Smartly done, young Sarah. Nice moves. Smooth. Fancy that jerk thinking that a fox like you’d go for an old dude like him.”
“Not him, for sure. But I have nothing against dating older men.”
That last was aimed at me, or I flattered myself into thinking so. If she winked from the back seat, I didn’t see it.
I said, “There’s Dugger. Didn’t see his truck. He must’ve parked a ways away.”
Dugger wore a down vest, a plaid shirt and faded demin jeans. Nowhere near as nattily attired as his breakfast partner. He didn’t even glance at the counter on his way to Bolton. He wasn’t there for food.
Bolton: Thanks for coming, Paul. (He extended his hand)
Dugger: Let’s get this over quick. (He didn’t accept Bolton’s hand.)
Bolton: Come on, can’t we let bygones be bygones?
Dugger: You fucked me over, Jimbo. Just tell me what you want so I can get outta here.
Bolton: Sorry you feel that way. You know I covered for you an awful lot. I don’t think anyone else would have done that for long as I did.
Dugger: Then you ditched me when it threatened your own ass. Long as I did your dirty work, it was cool. Just be thankful I didn’t roll on you. I sure could have if I was as sleazy as you are.
Bolton: Paul, we have a common interest here. You want to re-litigate the past, we can do that another time. I’m concerned about the here and now.
Dugger: Only reason I agreed to meet.
Bolton: You want coffee or anything?
Dugger: Just say your piece. I got shit to do.
Bolton: All right. I assume you know that Riley King and that black bastard friend of his are trying to get us to roll on each other.
Dugger: What black bastard?
Bolton: He didn’t come with his valet? I guess he felt he could handle you all by himself.
Dugger: Fuck you.
Bolton: No need for that. Look Paul, We just need to get our stories straight. That’s all.
Dugger: Seems we already blew that. You must’ve told him about Amy Paulsen. Why? We didn’t need her to alibi for me at the time, why bring it up now?
Bolton: I was trying to protect you. I don’t know why you didn’t just play along. Now King’s got a loose thread to pull on.
Dugger: Let him pull all he wants. Ain’t nothin’ there.
Bolton: Paul, you ran that half breed off the road. You left him there. As a cop, it was your duty to call for help.
Dugger: Asshole wouldn’t pull over. He was speeding, probably under the influence.
Bolton: I had no use for that hippie either. Born troublemaker. But you didn’t tell me about it until the next day. That’s why I had to come up with an alibi in case anyone saw or heard anything. Turned out we didn’t need it. Good. But I need to know the truth. What happened to Townes?
Dugger: I told you. I have no idea.
Bolton: Did you kill him?
Dugger: You wearing a wire, chief? You working with King trying to lay this all on me? Well fuck you again. I’m outta here. I didn’t kill nobody.
He got up and stormed out of the coffee shop. Bolton stayed in place for a minute, then gathered up his paper and dignity and left. He didn’t leave a tip.
28
Sarah said, “I’ve got to get back to the restaurant. Honestly guys, I don’t know what you just got. Dugger denied killing Townes.”
I said, “How about negligent homicide. He pretty much admitted to running him off the road and leaving him there to die.”
“There’s no body. It amounts to dereliction of duty and leaving the scene, that’s it. It was forty years ago. If it happened last week, you’d have a case to go after him. You can’t prove that Townes didn’t walk away unharmed. I’d say you’ve got bupkis.”
I nodded in agreement. “Moses, that’s a technical FBI term ‘for not enough to prosecute’. The other thing is, we’re assuming he told Bolton the truth in the café. If he thought he was wearing a wire, he’d deny it, no matter what.”
Ginn said, “I’m thinking the killer was nine feet long with slimy greenish skin. All them teeth, those gators probably masticated him up, bones and all.”
Sarah said, “Then we need to find a blind alligator because that’s what mastication does to you. Or so I’ve heard.”
She tossed the line with such a dry delivery that I didn’t get the joke at first. As it sunk in, I said, “See what happens when you use big words with a government employee, Ginn.”
“Former government employee. I’ve got to get back to the Frog, boys. Let me know if you need anything else. I’m happy to help.”
“Thanks, Sarah. By the way, Moses here is putting on a little weight. Next time he asks you for some tiramisu to go, tell him you’re all out.”
“He looks pretty fit to me. Now you, on the other hand…” She squeezed my shoulder from behind and hopped out of the car.
Ginn was amused. “Fine looking lady with a sense of humor. She ain’t Richard Pryor but that wasn’t a bad diss on you. I’ll go back to the café and get my mics while you figure out our next move, Tonto.”
“You do that. But I thought you were Tonto.”
“There’s a new sheriff in town, kemosabe. Welco
me to the Roarin’ Twenties.”
While he went to retrieve his equipment, I called Black to see how he was making out.
“I got the Townes CDs from Bennie and listened in the truck. Good stuff, like I remembered, but not real commercial.”
“Nothing that made it onto the Flying Machine record?”
“Nah. The other thing is I talked to McCarver and he wants to meet up for lunch and we can lay it all out then. He suggested you come along. He’s buying, if you’re up for it. But we do have a little problem.”
“Pray tell.”
“I talked to Carla Townes. I thought she’d be overjoyed that we were gonna do a fundraiser for her. She’s not. Says she doesn’t want to be a charity case. Won’t accept the money.”
“Proud woman. I bet we can get her to change her mind. But we can’t wait. We don’t have a lot of time to get this rolling. I’ll join you guys for lunch. Don’t say anything about her refusing the money to Ted. Let’s push ahead with the concert and we can work on her afterwards.”
He gave me the name of the restaurant where he was meeting McCarver and I said I’d be there by noon. When Ginn came back with his surveillance gear, I told him about our lunch plans.
He said, “All the same to you 5-0, it don’t sound like you need me there. Teddy ain’t my favorite person in the world and talking hayseed concert shit ain’t all that interesting. Now if Darius Rucker was playing, might be different.”
“I don’t have enough time to drive you home and make it to the restaurant by noon.”
“Not a problem, brother. I’ll call Alex and see if she can meet me in Bluffton. Rather have lunch with her than be looking at three aging Lotharios.”
“Aging Lotharios? Masticate? Did you read a thesaurus last night?”
“What’s Jurassic Park shit have to do with it?”
“Richard Pryor would have rejected that one too.”
“Hey, if Alex ain’t available for lunch, I’ll just cruise ’round Bluffton for a bit and check out the finery. You can pick me up later.”
“Have it your way.”
“Reminds me. Maybe I’ll look for one of them Improbable Burgers. Save a cow.”
He called Alex and she was free to join him for lunch. After that, she’d take him back to the island or to hook up with me.
At least I’d get a respite from his attempts at comedy for a couple of hours.
~~~~~
Black and McCarver were already at their table when I got to Bottoms Up. I’d never been there --- the name made me think it was a strip club or a gay bar. After greeting the two of them, I asked about the choice of restaurants.
Black said, “That was my call. It was modeled after the Bottom Line in New York. About the same size, four hundred or so. A place where you could have drinks at a table and catch some tunes. It hasn’t been a music club for over thirty years, but they still keep a small stage over in the corner and they have a guitarist or piano player on weekends.”
Ted said, “They advertised on the station back when they were a music venue. WPHX-FM was formerly an underground rock station so it was serendipitous.”
Between Ginn and McCarver, my vocabulary was being tested today. This was one of the few times I’ve broken bread with Ted outside of his own restaurant, a toney French place on the island.
We talked about the concert and how the station would participate. McCarver said, “We don’t need any formal contracts. We’ll promote it with great vigor, not that you’ll need it. I’m positive it’ll sell out instantly. All I ask is that we get a room somewhere where we can have a little reception for the radio staff. I also want to invite a few alums. We’ll limit it to around thirty. And of course, we’d like you and Ms. Jones to do a meet and greet.”
Jason said, “Be happy to. The college has been great about everything, volunteered the venue at cost. They already have a mechanism in place to sell tickets online.”
Ted said, “That’s great. We’ll pick up the catering and such. And we’ll reimburse you for the thirty tickets. Now, have you set up a foundation or any formal means of disbursing the revenue? You realize that if you gift it to the lady in a lump sum, she’ll owe taxes.”
Even though I’d told Black not to bring it up, Ted needed to know about the widow’s reluctance to accept the money, so I told him.
It didn’t deter him for a second. “I have a suggestion, fellows. Riley, you know I have a home for abused women on the island and I’ve set up a foundation to fund it. It’s an alliance with the new one they’re building in Hardeeville, the mansion where that singer was killed.”
I looked over at Jason but he had no reaction. That mansion was where Katrina had killed his former lover and where Brand X died.
McCarver said, “If you can’t make headway with the widow right away, we can park the money there temporarily. When she agrees, we can funnel her compensation through the foundation and disburse it annually. That way she won’t get hit with a big tax bill all at once in a higher bracket. I can have our business manager set it up.”
Black looked hesitant, but I said, “Don’t worry, Jason. Ted’ll have all the legal papers drawn up and the money’ll be safe. I daresay it might even grow, knowing how good Ted is with investments. Right, Ted?”
As he nodded in all due modesty, a well dressed corpulent man approached our table. He was bald, with a neatly trimmed grey goatee. Active brown eyes. “Excuse me, gents. Hey, Mr. McCarver. You haven’t been by for a while. Happy to see you.”
Ted stood. “Stanley Salter, allow me to present Jason Black and Riley King. Stan’s the owner of this establishment.”
Salter said, “Welcome to Bottoms Up. Of course, I know your music Jason. Are you Riley King, the detective? You’re quite well known ‘round these parts.”
I said, “Damn, I was traveling incognito today. Mr. Salter, this is a really neat place you have here. If you don’t mind my saying, the name doesn’t quite do it justice.”
“I’ve heard that before. You see, it’s a question of heritage. It was a music club when my father owned it. When he passed it on to me, he wanted me to keep the name. It was a cool place to hear live music. We’ve had some pretty big artists play here over the years.”
He rattled off a bunch of impressive names from yesteryear, including folks like Springsteen and Mellencamp who are still active today.
Jason said, “You know, I never played here. Can’t say why. But tell you what. Maybe I’ll bring the old axe in one evening and play a few songs for the dinner crowd, if that’s okay.”
“I’d be honored. I don’t know if I you know this Ted, but we used to do live broadcasts from here on your radio station. Way before you owned it, of course.”
Ted smiled. “I wasn’t aware of that. I don’t know if you’ve heard, Stan. I’m selling the station. Radio’s in trouble these days and it’s hard to stay viable, with streaming and social media and all the other sources of entertainment available.”
Salter was crestfallen. “That’s a shame. I still listen to radio, but none of my kids do. God, we had some great live broadcasts. Not as big as the Grand Old Opry, but some pretty amazing shows.”
I said, “Mr. Salter, there’s a particular artist we’re interested in. I’m wondering if you ever did a live broadcast with Colton Townes.”
The heavyset man laughed and his whole body jiggled. “That was a legendary one. New Year’s Eve, 1979-80. Old Townes was drunk as a lord, like half the crowd. They had to cut the mics off halfway through the set, there was so much swearing going on. They were afraid they’d lose their license.”
“Were you there?”
“I was only sixteen, not supposed to be there because of the liquor laws. But my dad let me come, seeing it was New Year’s. Even brought a date. Turned out to be my first wife, matter of fact. Yeah, Townes was playing some new stuff that he hadn’t even recorded yet and people wanted to hear the hits. Not that he had any, but he’d usually pepper his sets with cover versions. My dad figured
that’s what he’d play that night. What a melee.”
“Did you keep tapes of the shows?”
“Not us, but I think the station recorded them.”
In unison, Jason and I turned to Ted, who said, “I have no idea if we still have them. That was three owners ago. But after lunch, we can look.”
Finally, a break. I said, “Mr. Salter, you have no idea how you just made our day.”
~~~~~
When we were done eating, I called Ginn and told him we had a lead and could use his help, if Alex would drop him off at WPHX.
He arrived a few minutes after Ted had taken Jason and me up to the station’s archives. They were in a small attic room, lined with utilitarian metal shelves, which contained vinyl albums and boxes of ten inch reels of magnetic tape. Tall beige file cabinets were filled with old documents and bills. There was a small desk crammed into a corner, where a clunky desktop computer sat alongside a turntable and tape deck. The room was insulated, but a few degrees chillier than the main offices.
Ginn joined us in the cramped space. He barely acknowledged Ted’s presence. “Secretary sent me up. What’s the word, Jason?”
McCarver wasn’t aware of Ginn’s distaste for him. Ted had done nothing specific to earn this, but Ginn had told me he considered McCarver the personification of white privilege. He had inherited the money to buy his first small radio station. I tried to convince him that Ted had worked hard to parlay that modest inheritance into a burgeoning fortune, which he used to build WJOK in New Jersey into a sports talk Goliath. Savvy investments had increased his wealth tenfold and he didn’t squander it all on women, fast cars and extravagant homes. His foundation for abused women was doing important work. But Ginn couldn’t get past Ted’s bespoke suits and elitist manner.
Ted said, “I intended to digitize this material but I became distracted trying to keep the business afloat. We brought in some college interns this summer who tried to organize the files. But they hadn’t gotten very far and they were casualties of our austerity budget.”
