Ghosts on Tour: Wylie Westerhouse Book 1

by Nathan Roden

  “Why did they run you in? The best I remember it’s not a crime to get ambushed,” he said.

  “Maybe because I got in the only punch. You’ll never guess who that guy is,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Grady Plimpton.”

  “So who is…oh, crap. Mr. Plimp—”

  “Mr. Plimpton’s grandson.”

  Nate gave an ironic laugh.

  “Oh, man. What are the freaking odds? Hey, is this going to mess with your job? I’m just saying—”

  “Mr. Plimpton’s been really cool about it. But his son Porter has me in his crosshairs. He wants the store closed and he thinks I’m the only thing in the way of that happening.”

  “So what does he have against success? That place was dead until you took over,” Nate said.

  “Porter thinks that they can make more money by selling or leasing the property because the area is booming.”

  “Yeah, it’s booming—because of you and Elvis. I guess Porter’s never heard the story about killing the golden goose, huh?”

  “I don’t think Porter or Cruella De Vil paid attention to any stories when they were kids. So, what did you do after the movie? Did you guys go shopping for dishes and towels?” I asked.

  Nate laughed.

  “Very funny, Wyles.”

  “What do you call a drummer without a girlfriend?” I asked.

  “HOMELESS!” We yelled at the same time, for about the thousandth time.

  “So, we’re still not booked for next weekend, right?” Nate asked.

  “No, afraid not. I still need to get back with a couple of club managers, but we could use one weekend off, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “For sure. We’ve been going ten weeks straight. That leads me to this question; I have a chance at some tickets for Iron Maiden in Kansas City Saturday night. What do you say? We haven’t banged our heads for a long time, my metal-head friend.”

  “Oh, man. That sounds awesome,” I said.

  “There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?” Nate asked.

  “I can’t do it right now. The lease on my place goes up seventy-five bucks in two months, and I had to take off work today because my right hand looks like a foot.”

  “Well, I could—”

  “No way, Nate. You didn’t move here with me to carry me on your back. We are still on for Slipknot in St. Louis in November for a solid fact.”

  “It’s just, we don’t hang out at all since Tooie and I have been…dating,” Nate said.

  “And that has contributed greatly to the health of her optic nerves,” I said.

  Nate was silent.

  “I make her roll her eyes, is what I’m saying. She doesn’t like me very much.”

  “That’s not it, Wyles. She doesn’t understand our sense of humor.”

  “I guess I see that as more than a little problem. Without my sense of humor, I am a potato,” I said.

  “Well, I think of you as a sweet potato,” Nate said.

  “That’s precisely what I’m talking about. If Tooie was listening to us right now—”

  “Wyles—”

  “Oh. She is listening, isn’t she?”

  “Well, she wasn’t before….”

  “Is she—?”

  “Yep.”

  “Rolling her eyes. I told you,” I said. “You know, I remember the first time that Tooie answered your door after I knocked on it. I asked if Nate could come out and play and she looked at me like I was something on the bottom of her shoe. I knew we were in trouble.”

  “Maybe we just need time to adjust to the south, or mid-west, or whatever this is. You know—this is her sandbox. We’re just playing in it,” Nate said.

  “I guess,” I said.

  “Hey, uh, I haven’t brought it up before, Wylie, but…you ever think about… you know? Getting back on the horse? That was a bum deal you got back home, but man, I hate to see you turning into a monk,“ Nate said.

  “Look, Nate, right now—“

  “I’m just saying, dude, Tooie has these two friends that are always asking her about you. These girls are smokin’ hot.“

  I laughed.

  “I want to make sure this music thing is going to work before I climb back on the horse—or jump back in the water, or whatever you want to call it. I’m spread thin enough as it is, and to tell you the truth—I’m too scared right now,” I said.

  “Good enough for me, Amigo. If you change your mind, you don’t need to give notice. Just say the word,” Nate said.

  “I know. Thanks. Hey, I’m gonna have to go. I just got a call from Elvis, and it sounds like Mr. Plimpton left the golf course in an ambulance,” I said.

  “Really? Man, that’s too bad. I hope he’s okay. Let me know something,” Nate said.

  I crept into the emergency room entrance, ninja style. I spotted Porter Plimpton, Tammy Fay, Grady and his wired jaw sitting in the waiting room. I slipped back out into the parking lot without being spotted. There was no way I was going to infiltrate while that group was there. I pulled my car to a remote part of the parking lot, where I could watch the front doors.

  My surveillance skills are pretty much nonexistent. I woke up about two hours later with my neck screaming at me. I had no idea if the Plimpton family, or for that matter, Bigfoot and the Easter Bunny, had left the ER. The last sliver of sun disappeared behind the building. I wouldn’t be able to see Mr. Plimpton tonight anyway. But I knew that it was true—he was here.

  I followed Toby into the back yard, and my home phone rang.

  “Hello?” I said, but my caller was having another conversation.

  “Stop barking at me, woman.”

  Mr. Plimpton was not talking directly into the receiver.

  “My hand, my brain, and my mouth are not crippled. Yes, I know what time it is. There’s a clock on the wall right behind your head. Why don’t you do something useful, like changing into a shorter skirt? Lord knows I’m paying this place enough to afford a decent view.

  “Wylie. I’m sorry I didn’t get to call you yesterday—”

  “Well, sir that might be because you’re in the hospital. What happened?”

  Mr. Plimpton sighed.

  “I must be running out of gas. I always push extra hard off the tee on number fifteen; that’s a long par five. But I felt a snap in my left knee on my downswing and then my right knee buckled, and I fell. Doc says my hip is fractured in two places. I hit the Trifecta the hard way.”

  “Holy crap, Mr. Plimpton,” I said, showing off my gift for language. “You’ll have to…how many surgeries will that call for?”

  “At least two, I’m afraid. That doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is no golf for months—not to mention what these vultures will bill me.”

  “But you have insurance, right? Isn’t that what it’s for?” I asked.

  “Sure, sure, I have insurance. If I was having heart surgery, I would be set. But participating in a leisure activity and sustaining multiple injuries that call for multiple surgeries—they’re only going to cover so much of that. You don’t have to worry about this kind of thing, son. Eighty-year-olds go through this all the time if they’re lucky enough to still be around. I wanted to apologize for standing you up for lunch.”

  “Don’t mention it, sir. I know you’re a man of your word. And under the circumstances, you’re going above and beyond.”

  “You’re a good boy, Wylie. I want you to know that I’m embarrassed about the trouble my grandson has caused.”

  “I’m not exactly proud of the way that I handled that situation. I want to come and visit you, but I don’t want to make trouble with your family. How long are you going to be there?”

  “About a week, is what they’re saying. You can come in after eight. That’s when they run everyone out,” he said.

  “They’ll let me in?” I asked.

  “If they want to get paid, they will. I’m in a private room. We won’t bother anybody.”

  “So why does your
family have to leave at eight?” I asked.

  Mr. Plimpton chuckled.

  “They don’t really. But I’ve usually had my fill of them by that time.”

  Mr. Plimpton was recovering from his first surgery the next night. I slipped into his room the following night; about eight-twenty. He seemed to have aged since the last time I had seen him.

  “Have a seat, Wylie,” he said, as he waved away a hovering nurse.

  “I’ll just stay a little while,” I said to both of them.

  “You look tired, Mr. Plimpton.”

  He waited until the nurse had left the room.

  “Son, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Porter just left a few minutes ago. He dragged our accountant in here after they came from the billing office.”

  Uh, oh.

  “It appears that I’m going to have to make some tough choices,” he turned to look out the window, which looked out onto the lighted courtyard.

  “I’ve always loved that store. The Mrs. and I built it from the ground up, long before the future plans for this town were even in their infancy. We painted walls and we argued over the inventor. We made some dumb mistakes, and we occasionally did some things right. It may be more than you want to know, but Porter was conceived in that store…was it on the counter…?” Mr. Plimpton looked up at the ceiling.

  “Or it may have been the store room…

  “Anyway, Son, Porter is convinced that the building can be leased for a considerably greater sum than we’re clearing from the store. Our accountant agrees with Porter, though I don’t trust that man as far as I can throw him. But unfortunately,” Mr. Plimpton looked down at his casts, and the slings and pulleys. “I’m afraid that I have no choice, Wylie.”

  I nodded.

  “I understand, Mr. Plimpton. The important thing is getting you back on your feet. I love the store like it was my own, but I’ll be okay.”

  “I understand that a lot of people are keeping an eye on your music career,” he said. “Perhaps it won’t be necessary that you hold down another job.”

  “I’m not quite in that place yet, sir,” I said. I wanted to be honest with this man that I counted as a friend. Fear wrapped itself around my neck.

  I expected the process of closing the store to take a few weeks, but I underestimated Porter Plimpton’s tenacity. When I arrived at the store on Tuesday morning, Porter and his wife were hanging up a large banner.

  “Going Out Of Business Sale—Everything Must Go— All Sales Final—Pennies On The Dollar”.

  Branson Music— the “Love-Child” Of Herbert and Violet Plimpton would close for the final time, just twelve days from now. I was nauseous all day. I’m not sure that Mr. Plimpton knew about the timeline for the closing but it didn’t really matter.

  I think Porter knew that I would stay until the very end out of respect for his father or because I needed the money. Both were true.

  I asked Johnny B. to cover for me next Thursday afternoon. I couldn’t waste any more time lining up gigs for the band. We needed to be playing by the weekend that the store closed for good. I had to pay the band out of my pocket for a week though Nate had put his money in an envelope and shoved it under my door.

  The bookings made by my former manager had run their course. The open-ended extension we had been cruising on at the Majestic Mizzou ended after last weekend. Like it or not, I was now the business manager/booking agent for Wylie Westerhouse. We had done well at each of the clubs, but I suddenly had no other source of income. Confidence was low.

  Tuesday afternoon, I called the offices of two different club managers. I made appointments to see them on Thursday. Maybe I was worrying too much. We had completed the gigs at four local clubs on good terms. Two different managers had actually given us a little cash bonus. Those were the two that I was counting on.

  I pulled into the parking lot of Cousin Earl’s Rockin’ Country at two o’clock. Earl crushed my hand and pointed me to a seat.

  “What can I do for you, Wylie?” he asked.

  “I was hoping to line up some more dates for the band, Earl,” I said, trying to appear confident and mature. I was wearing a tie and everything.

  Earl appeared to chew on this information for a few seconds. He pulled a portfolio from his desk and began looking around for his reading glasses. He finally found them on top of his head.

  “Well, son, you do realize that the summer rush is over, right?”

  “Yes, sir. But it’s always tourist season in Branson, am I right?” I asked with all the confidence I could muster.

  “Well, yes and no…“ he said, “Right now I have some more established acts booked for the next ten weekends. A lot of Nashville regulars move through town this time of year. It looks like…yep. Every weekend through New Year’s is booked or tentative. I’m afraid all I can do for you is two weeks of Monday through Thursday, and only until the end of October. That doesn’t include Halloween, of course. That’s on Friday this year.”

  I nodded and bit my lip. I hadn’t been expecting this. Monday through Thursday was not going to be enough for me to pay a five-piece band. It finally occurred to me that I could lose band members if I couldn’t guarantee them a decent income. The room began to feel too warm and I hoped I didn’t have sweat pouring from my forehead.

  I stood.

  “Thanks for your time, Earl. I’m not sure if that’s enough for me to work with. I’m afraid that I’m going to have to make some more rounds.”

  Earl stood and extended his hand.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have better news for you, Wylie. You guys did a real fine job for me. Check back with me if you can work with those dates. Just don’t wait too long,” he said. “The sooner I finish booking the rest of this year the quicker I can take a vacation myself. There are slots and blackjack tables calling my name,” Cousin Earl said, clapping me on the back.

  I had a three o’clock appointment with Razor Griffin, owner of the Trick Shot Lounge. This was one of the smaller venues in town but it had a great vibe. I got along great with Razor before, but something was wrong.

  He welcomed me and we sat down at a corner table. Razor has an office, but it’s the size of a small bathroom. When I’d been here before, Razor always had to move things around to give us a place to sit down.

  “Looks like you’re dressed for business today,” Razor said. And then it looked like he winced.

  “I’m sorry to have to say this, but I hope you’re not looking for a gig.”

  I gulped hard. My ace in the hole just got royal flushed.

  “Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here, Razor. We ran the table at the Mizzou, but Bubba says they’ve never kept the same act there more than four months straight. We just matched that. So you’re booked solid?” I asked.

  Razor stood up.

  “Not exactly, Wylie. I want to be straight with you. Some people here in town have expressed concern over…well, you know. Your temper. Word gets around fast around here.”

  “Hey, Razor. All I’ve done is try to defend myself. So, yeah, I’ve called out a couple of punks who want their fifteen minutes of fame at my expense. But it’s never been inside a club, and never in front of other customers. I have too much respect for the people that give me a shot.”

  “I can appreciate that. But, man, I hate to say it, kid, and you didn’t hear it from me. There are some people that are pushing to…I don’t even want to say it. I hate that word—“

  “Blackballed?” I said. “Someone is trying to have me blackballed?”

  “Sh, sh, sh,” Razor whispered. “C’mon Wylie. You can’t be talking like that out loud.”

  I reeled myself in; a little.

  “Yeah. That’s what’s happening. I’m not sure who’s behind it, but there’s pressure coming from certain members of the City government and the Chamber of Commerce. Lots of club owners and managers don’t want to upset them. Look, Wylie, I’m not happy about it, but we’re not exactly setting the world on fire here, you know? Plus, I
had that little misunderstanding last year with the sting operation and the kids with the fake I.D.’s. I’m still fighting that because it was straight-up entrapment—but I’ve stepped on a few toes in this town and some people never forget.”

  I couldn’t do anything but breathe. Breathe, and open and close my fists.

  Some people never forget. Porter Plimpton certainly hasn’t forgotten about me.

  Ten

  Holly McFadden

  McIntyre Village, Scotland

  Holly marveled her new Vespa’s craftsmanship. The engine purred with an effortless whisper. The suspension carried her over every road imperfection as if she was riding on a cloud. The perfectly balanced machine responded to her slightest motion.

  But how could she ever appreciate it? The cost had been immeasurable. She had only gone a mile down the road when she slowed and turned back toward the cottage.

  “What did you forget, Holly?” Seth asked when Holly came through the front door.

  “Oh, I…nothing, Uncle,” Holly said. “Would you mind driving me over to see the girls for a little while?”

  “Sure thing, Holly. I’m not doing anything,” Seth said.

  Seth started to rise from his chair.

  “Let me get my—“ Seth sat back down heavily.

  He chuckled.

  “If I can get my big backside out of this chair, I’ll be getting my keys.”

  “Perhaps we can install a beam over your chair,” Holly said with a smirk. “A beam that we can mount a chain hoist to. We don’t want to put that off for too long. Maybe we’ll make your pub and your stew and buttered biscuits off limits for a little while.”

  “And where might you be hidin’ the army that will be enforcing that now, Lassie? Don’t you worry about your Uncle Seth. Whenever you look over your shoulder, I’ll be right there lookin’ out for you.“