Nowhere Man: A Riley King Mystery

by Richard Neer

  “No. Colton hated what happened that night. He wanted all copies of that destroyed. He was drunk. He was playing sloppy. Singing bad. He’d really be bummed if any of those tapes got out.”

  Yesterday, it seemed like we had a bright path towards making our case. Now, it seemed like another dead end, although bootlegs do exist of long forgotten shows. It could be like stolen artwork --- the owners could take pleasure in it but couldn’t share them with others. The difference was that rather than risk punishment for copyright infringement, the rights holder was offering a reward.

  Jason said, “We’re going to go ahead with the concert. If you don’t want it announced that you’ll be getting the proceeds, we can disguise that.”

  “I’ll know and that’s enough. No, I will not accept charity.”

  I said, “Carla, I did some research on how much those royalties would have netted you on The Flying Machine record. The concert proceeds would amount to a pittance of that.”

  “I’ll accept what’s due me from the proper source. Not under false pretenses.” She stood up. “Now I have to get to work. I’m convinced when you talk to those boys in the band, you’ll find out where Colton is and he’ll be alive. I believe that with all my heart. Thank you for all your efforts. This will work out. I have faith.”

  Jason and I said goodbye and made our way out to his truck. This woman was damn stubborn but I had to admire her principles. She didn’t want anything she didn’t earn through her work or that of her husband, who she had supported through his roller coaster life and career. Maybe Ginn was right. If I couldn’t convince a poor old lady to accept our largesse, I should hang it up.

  30

  Tomey wanted to talk. Whenever she texted me directly and didn’t convey the message though Ginn, I braced myself for the worst. Our relationship had started out rocky. Cops don’t like private investigators. Some appreciate that a cooperative PI can help make their job easier, but most feel we get in the way. No one likes someone looking over their shoulder and second guessing them while they are trying to do their job.

  Alex suggested we meet in Bluffton for lunch, with Ginn along for the ride. I didn’t have the temerity to suggest a place named Bottoms Up to her, so we picked Fat Patties. The PC crowd hadn’t yet become outraged that the name implied of fat shaming. I figured they’d get to Bottoms Up first. I’d only start to worry when they found something objectionable about Dunkin’.

  When I arrived at Patties, my two friends were already settled in --- Ginn with a twenty ounce tankard of beer, Alex content with coffee.

  “No beer, Alex? I know, not on the job.”

  “It’s never stopped you before.”

  “I’ll wait until you ream me out with whatever’s on your mind. I have a feeling I’ll need a stiff one then.”

  Ginn’s eyes were shifting back and forth as if he was watching a tennis match. He said, “Come on man, if Alex was really planning to lace into you, she wouldn’t have invited me along to watch your back.”

  “Comforting. Might as well get it over before we eat.”

  Fat Patties had yet to populate with the lunch crowd but whatever they were preparing in the kitchen smelled great, wafting out over the few patrons. I was trying to cut down on red meat, but the exotic half pound burgers they specialized in were pushing me in the other direction.

  Alex bobbed her head back and forth before speaking. She wasn’t comfortable with the mission. “I got a call from the sheriff today. He knows we talk occasionally.”

  “Does he know you live in my house with this fearsome looking man?”

  “I don’t go out of my way to advertise it.”

  I assumed that she and Ginn had already come to an understanding regarding how his presence in her life affected her career and how she should handle it.

  I said, “Let me guess. Jim Bolton’s already made good on his threat. Is that it?”

  “Bolton still has some pull with County. The sheriff talked him out of making a formal complaint against you. And an unnamed person of color.”

  Ginn thought that was hilarious. “Me, an unnamed person of color? Damn. When I write my memoirs, I could use that as a title.”

  “I thought it was going to be called Black Moses,” I said. “Okay, enough silliness. What did the John Law have to say?”

  Tomey narrowed her eyes in an attempt to show me she meant business. “Don’t get all pissy about the sheriff, Riley. He did us a favor, as a courtesy to me.”

  “And a warning to me and an unnamed person of color.”

  Ginn said, “Exactly what did Bolton complain about?”

  “He claimed you two came to his house unannounced and threatened him.”

  “So he’s returning the favor by threatening us.”

  Tomey held up her hand. “Here’s the thing, men. You’re doing a good deed. Trying to help a widow get what she deserves. But you’ve got sidetracked chasing after these cops from forty years ago. They’re old men now. A lot of bad shit probably went down back then. Moses told me that all you heard is that Dugger ran Townes off the road.”

  “And left him there to die.”

  “Let’s look at Townes’ role in this. He’s speeding or driving recklessly. A cop tries to stop him and he flees. If he had just pulled over, he wouldn’t have crashed.”

  “The cops had a history of harassing the man. What if Dugger decided to blow him away on a dark and lonely highway? Claimed he was resisting arrest? Planted a gun on him?”

  “None of that happened. There was minimal blood at the scene and no sign of any attempt to clean it up.”

  “I’m saying Townes had reason to run away from the cops, based on their history with him.”

  “Doesn’t absolve him. Look Riley, you have no body. You can’t even prove that Townes is dead. He might’ve hitched to New York or Canada or California for all we know and lived happily ever after under a different name. Or he killed himself like some of his friends were afraid he might.”

  “So where’s the body?”

  “The gators might’ve taken care of the remains.”

  She was poking holes in my scenario like a skillful attorney would. Tomey was a cop and cops stick together.

  I tried one last plea. “You don’t have a problem with a cop running a man into a tree and not calling for help? Dugger left him there to die. Is that something you’d do, Alex?”

  “Of course not. All I’m saying is that if you want justice for the widow, get her money. Go after that band who stole her husband’s songs.”

  “We can’t prove that yet.”

  She was losing patience. “The fact remains --- you can’t prove anything against Bolton either. What they did stinks. They covered their asses and didn’t go all out to help Townes. It’s reprehensible.”

  “So we just let them get away with it?”

  “How does it help the widow if you take those two down? You know as well as I do, there’s no such thing as closure. Punishing them doesn’t bring her husband back.”

  The waitress came and we ordered. Ginn and I gave into our burger lust. The heady aroma won me over. I’ll go vegan in the next life. Alex had a salad.

  When the server left, I asked Alex, “What happens if I don’t lay off? Did Wyatt Earp make any threats?”

  “You’re operating without a license. Bolton still has enough juice to get you in hot water for that.”

  “I’m shaking in my boots.”

  “Okay, how about this? You’re planning a benefit concert. You’d better be damn sure every penny is accounted for.”

  “McCarver will take care of that. His foundation has an unimpeachable record.”

  She wasn’t giving up. “As far as Townes goes, they’ll spin it to look like he was a bad guy. His arrest record will leak out --- constantly in trouble with the law. They’ll destroy whatever’s left of his reputation.”

  “That’d be pretty rotten. It’d hurt Carla bad and she doesn’t deserve that with all she’s been through. They’d stoop
that low?”

  “Count on it. Now Townes’ story is like a romantic mystery. He’s kind of a martyr. If Bolton uses his sway with the media and LEOs, he’ll look like a drunkard who abandoned his wife, maybe faked his death and ran away to be with another woman.”

  Ginn said, “Pay attention, 5-0. Alex came up with all that on the spur of the moment and she’s on our side. These dudes are seriously bent. No telling what they’d try. Let’s come up with a plan before we go full tilt after these bastards.”

  I took a deep breath. Logan had told me to back off the Brand X situation and I’d gone along. Now Tomey wanted me to stop chasing two bad cops. Javert I’m not, but I’m not a quitter either.

  I stole the quote Jason had paraphrased recently. “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil, is that good men do nothing. I’m going to focus on chasing down that band for now. But don’t think I’m done with those two slime balls. Somehow, some way, they’ll get theirs.”

  31

  The Flying Machine. I hardly knew where to begin. I started at their website to get the ‘official’ story.

  One year ago Trig Dawson was playing music in bars with his pals on weekends. He gave freely of his time at charity events, anywhere his music could give comfort to those in need. Now he leads one of the most successful bands in country music.

  The debut album ‘Like it Is’ is exactly what its title promises: an unvarnished look at a lost American dream. His lyrics are paeans to hope mixed with cries of despair, sometimes within the same verse. Trig and his bandmates have crafted a tour-de-force debut album, ranging from simple arrangements to soaring productions.

  Trig caught the attention of Embellish Records A and R chief Shep Woolerton, who happened to be vacationing in the lovely town of Kitty Hawk, in The Outer Banks of North Carolina. Trig’s band, then known as the Cruisers, were entertaining in a small seaside bistro. Woolerton was so impressed that he signed Trig on the spot. Some personnel changes ensued, until the group took on their final configuration --- Maddy Holden on vocals and mandolin, Zack Prescott on drums, Ned Smiley on lead guitar, and Cindy Fullerton on keyboards and harmonies.

  ‘Like it Is’ was recorded over an intense ten day period in Music City, and advance word was so strong that the record was rushed out a month after the final mix was completed. They were booked to headline a sold out nationwide tour which will conclude in mid December, so the band can have a holiday respite before beginning work on a new album. The venues on the tour were far too small for the demand, and the band promises to play larger halls the next time around.

  As yet untitled, Trig tells us he has already begun the process of deciding which new songs to focus on for the next record, since he has a vast trove of compelling new material.

  There was a press contact email and telephone number for the label’s publicity department on Charlotte Avenue in Nashville. From the press release, it was clear that Trig Dawson was the man. The rest of the band was expendable, assembled from the record company’s talent pool of competent sidemen and women. There were no co-writing credits on the twelve tunes that made up ‘Like It Is’. All were listed as Dawson originals.

  I had downloaded the .mp3 a few days ago but I’d yet to listen to it. I played it while scouring the web for anything else that could provide insights on Dawson. One of my acid tests for music is whether I can concentrate on work while playing it in the background. To me, good music is so enticing that it constantly draws me away from the task at hand.

  ‘Like It Is’ accomplished that. I found the melodies resonating in my brain when I broke for lunch. Lyrics from the choruses echoed in my mind. I could picture concertgoers singing along while waving their lighted smart phones aloft, an odd practice I never understood.

  I searched for critical response to the record and found few negative reviews. In fact, I found none. The worst anyone said was that there were a couple of clunkers on an otherwise strong effort. But other critics wrote glowing tributes to those ‘clunkers’. To each his own.

  George Arliss was not among the reviewers. I called him to see what he thought and asked how the quest to locate a tape from the New Year’s concert was going.

  He said, “Sad to say, no luck on that on yet, King. A few followers responded that that’d like a copy if I found one and that they’d pay handsomely for it. I suppose if we did locate it, it might be saleable to a small record label. Problem is, as I recall, Townes’ vocals weren’t up to par that night and he’s not around to sweeten them.”

  “Do you think there’d be much money in it for his widow?”

  “Frankly, no. It’s not like lost Hendrix tapes or anything. I’d want to do it for posterity, just to get it out there, but even then, if the show was as sloppy as I remember, it might do more harm than good.”

  “I see. I know country’s not your bag, but have you listened to The Flying Machine yet?”

  “I downloaded it right after you left the other day. I really don’t see it as country. It rocks. Not every track, there’s filler in there but there are some really solid songs. I was shocked.”

  “Did it sound like Colton Townes’ work to you?”

  “I must be honest. I heard those songs at that show forty years ago and back then, I admit to ingesting some mind altering substances. Don’t forget, they were works in progress when Colt played them live. I can’t say for sure. I mean, I hear tinges of Colt’s work there, but I could say that about a lot of other stuff I’ve heard since.”

  “So if it came down to expert testimony in a copyright case, you wouldn’t do it?”

  “I wish I could. There are some so-called experts you could bribe to swear that this is Townes’ work, but they’d be lying. Unless there’s someone with an eidetic memory, no one could realistically make that connection.”

  “Jason Black is pretty sure.”

  “Well, he probably heard those songs more than I did. He did go on the road with Colt. But one man’s opinion, especially a guy with connections to the widow? I’m not a lawyer, but I imagine that wouldn’t hold up very well.”

  “That’s what we thought, too.”

  “I see tickets are going on sale tomorrow for that benefit you guys slapped together. You put that together quick. Why don’t you invite this Trig Dawson to sit in with Charlene on a few numbers? If he did ‘borrow’ Townes’ material, that might spur his conscience a bit. Couldn’t hurt.”

  “Not a bad idea, George. At worst, it gives Jason and me a legitimate reason to request an audience with him.”

  “Let me know if that doesn’t work. Not to blow my own horn, but I doubt any new band would turn me down if I were to request an interview. A favorable piece on my site could open them up to a crossover audience.”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. Let me know if anyone does respond on the New Year’s show. I’ll keep you posted on Trig.”

  “Oh by the way, going through some of my old files, I came up with a name that might be of use. When I was writing a column for the local paper years back, we had a guy on the crime beat. He was good and left us to go to bigger markets pretty quickly. Wound up in Chicago, but he retired and moved back here about a year ago. You want some stuff on how they hassled Colt back in the day, he’d be the man to talk to.”

  “Can you hook me up with him?”

  “He and I shared a bone or two back then. I’ll call you.”

  ~~~~~

  Harvey Kronstien reminded me of the dozens of talking heads I’ve seen on television whenever there is a major criminal case that captures the cable news networks’ attention. Close cropped white hair and craggy features, he gave off the vibe of an old noir P.I. or former cop gone renegade.

  His house was on the Colleton River and unless he’d timed the market perfectly, it had to set him back close to seven figures. A stately brick and stucco Tudor, it was all about tweed jackets and walnut paneling. My visit to Kronstien’s study presented both. Lined with floor to ceiling bookcases and graced by hand hewn timbers su
pporting the tall ceiling, it felt like an old English drawing room --- dark, but welcoming.

  “Thanks for agreeing to see me on short notice, Mr. Kronstien,” I said.

  “If what George told me you wanted to ask about is true, I’d hardly say that something that happened forty years ago is short notice.”

  I’ve run into his type often in my active PI days. His correction to my opening courtesy was designed to demonstrate that he was smarter than me and that I’d better be precise in my use of language. I suppose in his case, it came from decades of working with line editors who insisted that every sentence be perfectly crafted, lest a stray word or two diminish the impact of the story.

  I told him how I was looking into Townes’ disappearance and needed some background on how the cops treated him. I concluded by saying, “There apparently was this splinter group called the Brandos that targeted Townes. Were you aware of them?”

  He lit a cigarette. Since it was his house, I put up with the second hand smoke without comment. Bosco would have a field day later, sniffing it on my sweater.

  He took a deep drag and blew a huge plume in my direction. “Can I rely on your discretion not to share my observations with anyone? I’ll be happy to provide you with deep background so long as it can’t be attributed to me.”

  “You have my word. Background is all I’m after right now.”

  “Where to begin, where to begin. I was fresh out of college. The little Bluffton hippie paper was my first job. That’s how I met Arliss. I won’t say George corrupted me, but he didn’t exactly install journalistic ethics in my young quiver. He was a child of the music business, where bribery was de rigueur. A record company needed a review or a soft interview with an artist, a gratuity was expected in return.”

  “Interesting. From some of the things I read in the files he sent me, his reviews could be pretty scathing.”