by Bill Moody
“It’s getting better,” I say, slightly envious of Steve in his tux, saxophone over his shoulder, a flute in one hand, just ready to go on stage. “You’re a little overdressed for the Grand Ole Opry, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Steve says. “It’s shitkicker stuff all the way, but just between you and me, I think Crisp could do a lot more. Sure is tough to be funky these days. Wayne Newton next week, another thrill-a-minute gig.”
He stomps on his cigarette. The comic is almost finished. “Gotta go, man. Hey, why don’t you drop by the Hob Nob later? There’ll be some guys playing. You can dig my chops.”
“What chops? Maybe I will. See you.”
“Later,” Steve says and files on stage with the rest of the band.
Tom Swenson lets me back in the light booth and I catch the tail end of my first country comic. This one is kind of a cross between Minnie Pearl and Don Rickles. Show business is wonderful, I think. A few minutes later, there’s a drum roll and a booming voice announces, “THE KING OF COUNTRY, MR. CHARLIE CRISP!”
The band hits and, guitar around his neck, Crisp jogs on stage as the curtain rises to reveal his backing group of guitars, fiddles, and drums, augmented by the Frontier house band.
“Howdy, howdy, howdy,” Crisp yells at the clapping, whistling crowd. He strides about the stage, smiling, waving, shaking hands with people nearest the stage. They are clearly ready for a Crisp-style hoedown.
I have to hand it to him. He knows how to work a room to his advantage and gives them all their money’s worth, working through his hits, tugging at heartstrings with a couple of soulful country ballads. But something about the whole thing bothers me. I can’t put my finger on it but there’s something off about the image, the good-ole-boy, back-slapping, hard-drinking cowboy thing. For some reason it doesn’t quite ring true. Something nags at me as I watch Crisp under the harsh spotlight, especially after having seen him backstage. Then I remember what it is.
“I think I’ll pass on the finale, Tom,” I say.
Swenson nods and gives me the thumbs-up sign as he adjusts a baby spot on Charlie Crisp.
I go out and shut the door behind me, thinking about the book of Crisp’s poetry I stuffed in my bag almost as an afterthought. There’s something there, I think, but I don’t know what.
I’m in for a shock, though, as I weave my way through the casino. I duck around several rows of slot machines, past the casino lounge, a din of noise that almost engulfs me. I’m almost out the door when I spot them.
Huddled together in a booth, looking very friendly indeed, are Bo Harris and Megan Charles.
I’m too far away to hear anything, but it’s clear Megan is doing all the talking. Bo works on carving up a steak and nods between bites.
I freeze for a moment, but not long enough for either of them to see me. What is Megan doing in Las Vegas—and, more important, what’s she doing with Charlie Crisp’s main man? Checking? Keeping tabs on me? That doesn’t seem likely. Maybe now I really do have something to investigate.
I leave the Frontier and cross the Strip, now a blaze of neon, heavy traffic, and tourists on foot. Back at my motel, there are no messages, and I can’t get anything but Cindy’s answering machine either. It is a good one, though. Sinatra doing “Come Fly With Me”, then Cindy’s voice. “Hi, this is Cindy. Well, you know the rest, go ahead and do it.”
I leave her the hotel number, then dig out Crisp’s poetry and thumb through it, trying to make something jell. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I suddenly remember someone who can help.
I find the home number of an old friend in my address book, call, and make an appointment for the following morning at the university.
I just get stretched out on the bed when the phone rings and Cindy’s voice comes over the line. “Shame on you, Evan, going to Las Vegas and not taking me.”
“Where were you?”
“Had to substitute for one of the other girls,” Cindy says, “but I get an extra day off, so when are you coming back?”
“Probably tomorrow. Sit tight. I’ll call you when I know. I might have something special for you to do.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
I know. Just one of the reasons I wish I weren’t in Vegas.
I suddenly feel too tired for the Hob Nob. I turn on the TV and doze off, squeezing my rubber ball and thinking that at least tomorrow I’m going to find out what kind of poet Charlie Crisp is.
As for Megan Charles and Bo Harris, I still have that one to work out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The University of Nevada, Las Vegas, sprawls a couple of miles east of the Strip. A complex of modem concrete-and-glass buildings and an expanse of lawns and palm trees make it a true oasis. And, so I’ve been told many times by locals, it has more than a great basketball team, despite the Thomas & Mack Arena that dominates the southeast corner.
I already knew about the award-winning jazz ensemble. A lot of its alumni end up in the Strip hotel bands or out on the road touring with the few remaining big bands or star singers. The English department’s reputation was courtesy of Professor Ace Buffington.
I’d met Ace Buffington during a gig at the Tropicana with Lonnie. Ace had come backstage, introduced himself, and even in that first brief conversation it was clear not only that he was a jazz nut but that we were going to become friends. We’d hung out together a few nights running, gone to some of the local jazz joints, and now, whenever I came to town, I usually spent some time with the Prof.
He was intrigued by my request and said he had the morning free. By nine I was getting out of a taxi in front of the Humanities Building, which houses the English department, Ace’s stomping ground and according to him very respectable turf.
“Hey,” Ace says, “we’re not Yale but we’re working on it.”
The fall semester is already underway. The lobby and the elevator I take to the sixth-floor English department are crowded with students and teachers.
On the sixth floor a harried secretary points without looking up when I ask for Professor Buffington. I find Ace in his cramped corner office, feet on his desk, his nose buried in a book six inches thick.
The tennis racket for which he got his nickname stands in the corner. On top of the papers that clutter his desk I recognize a two-disk set of Art Tatum. Ace is a CD junkie. He leans back, gazes up at the ceiling as if looking for some answer there, then notices me standing in the doorway and slams the book shut.
“Evan, good to see you,” he says, coming out of his chair. At six-foot-four he towers over me, his long arms dangling at his sides. Shorts, running shoes, and a baggy shirt are apparently the late-summer uniform of the day for the UNLV English department. Ace takes in my look. “No classes today,” he says, “but I have a match with a poly-sci professor after lunch.”
He brushes a wisp of hair out of his eyes and motions me to a straight-backed chair I imagine is reserved for student conferences. Like everyone else who knows about my accident, he glances at my right hand.
I go for my rubber ball. “Therapy,” I say, holding it up for him. “It’s not so bad. I’m making progress.” I squeeze the ball hard several times and feel that comforting twinge of pain.
“So I see,” Ace says, nodding his approval. “Well, I believe you mentioned some poetry.”
“Right, I want to get your opinion on this.” Ace takes the slim volume of Charlie Crisp’s poetry that I hand over and thumbs through it quickly, puckering his lips as he scans several pages.
“This won’t take long; there’s something about this that looks familiar.” He looks up quickly. “Look, let me get you a cup of coffee from the lounge. I want to look up something, okay?”
“Fine, I’ll just check out your book collection.”
Ace returns in a minute with a mug of coffee and disappears again for about twenty minutes. I stand in front of the tall narrow window, sipping coffee, gazing out over the campus. Lots of students milling around in front of the student union an
d the lawns are crisscrossed with staff and students rushing to class. The girls are pretty, the day is clear. It all makes me kind of nostalgic for my own college days at Cal State.
Finishing my coffee, I just get into an article Ace is apparently working on for a literary journal. “Jazz in American Fiction: It Don’t Mean a Thing If It Ain’t Got That Swing” is the title. Ace comes back excited and a little out of breath.
“I was right. I knew this looked familiar.” He has a journal of some kind folded open to a page. “Here, look at this and then the poem on page fifty-two.”
I do. I glance up at Ace. The poem in the journal and the one in Crisp’s volume are identical. I turn back to the cover. “You mean Crisp got this poem published?” I ask.
“Yeah, yeah,” Ace says, “but look at the name, that’s the really important thing.”
I have the same feeling I had when I was back in Carl Caye’s studio looking at the photos of Crisp and Lonnie, finding out they were not what they seemed. Nothing, apparently, is what it seems.
At the bottom of the page is the author’s name. Charles R. Cripps, University of Tennessee.
I look up at Ace. He’s grinning at his discovery. “Not only that, check out the contributors’ page in the back.” I turn to it and find a brief note on each of the authors whose poems appear in the journal. Under Charles R. Cripps is the notation that he was a Rhodes Scholar candidate. Charlie Crisp, Mr. Country and Western, a Rhodes Scholar? Well, Carlton warned me.
I sit back in my chair and stare at the note. “There can’t be any mistake on this, can there?”
“Not possible,” Ace says.
“Why not?”
“I was one of the judges.”
I beg off lunch with Ace, leaving him to his writing, and head back to my motel, wondering about Crisp’s good-ole-boy act. Rhodes Scholars—even Rhodes Scholar candidates—are a pretty bright bunch. Why wouldn’t he want anyone to know about that? Bad for his down-home country image? I wonder how many people know about Crisp’s educational background, and if it’s in his record company bio.
It also means I’m dealing with someone far more interesting than a straight-ahead country singer. Someone quite capable of planning and pulling off an intricate extortion scheme. Maybe Carlton Burroughs had something after all.
And what was Megan doing in town with Crisp’s man Bo Harris? She certainly hadn’t mentioned knowing Harris or even suggested I contact him while I was in Las Vegas.
When I get back to the Capri, the doors of several of the rooms, including my own, stand open. A maid’s cart is parked at the end of the corridor.
When I go in my room it doesn’t take long for me to realize somebody has given it more than standard maid service.
They were very good, whoever they were, but there were enough things just slightly out of place on the nightstand, and when I check my bag everything is where it’s supposed to be but better. The change of underwear has been refolded and the shaving kit has been gone through.
The photos? I haven’t brought them with me. They are still safely stashed in the album cover back at my apartment. Crisp’s poetry book I have with me. I can’t think of anything else, but knowing someone has been in my room, gone over my things, makes me nervous. I want to get out of there.
I’m just about to call America West to confirm my return flight when Megan Charles calls me. “Evan, you’ve got to get back here right now. We’ve heard from our friend again.”
“I’m already booked on a flight,” I say. “What happened?”
“Never mind that, I’ll fill you in when you get here. Come right to the house.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, but it’s lost as Megan has already hung up and I’m listening to a dial tone again. Doing a lot of that lately. What bothers me even more is how she knew where I was staying. Was she behind the room search? I also wonder, especially after seeing her with Bo Harris, if she’s still in town or calling from L.A. Easy to find out.
I call several hotels in the vicinity of the Frontier and score with the Desert Inn.
“Could I speak to Megan Charles, please?” I ask the hotel operator. I have to endure a couple of minutes of canned music while she checks.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Charles has already checked out.”
On impulse I dial Lonnie’s number. No answer; not even the service is picking up. I try another number I have for Megan, but all I get is her answering machine.
I make one more call to Cindy. This time she’s home. I ask her to pick me up at the airport.
Gathering up my things, I head for the office, pay my bill, and get a taxi to McCarran. This flight is busier, so I have my .peanuts and beer crammed between two business types working on laptop computers.
At LAX I make the long trek to the street and find Cindy waiting for me. I throw my bag in the backseat and slide in next to her. She’s wearing clingy bicycle shorts, a halter top.
“Hi, babe,” I say. “Thanks for coming.”
“How was Las Vegas?”
“Oh, you know how boring those showgirls are.” I’d already decided to pick up my car later to save time, but as we inch out of LAX, the traffic is the usual crawl on the San Diego Freeway. Still, I save fifteen, twenty minutes.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Vegas?” she wants to know. There’s just a hint of pouting in her voice. “I’d’ve passed on filling in.”
“Business, girl, business.”
“Sure. All those showgirls. You owe me one, Evan.”
“Well, how about dinner and some talk?”
“You’re on. This time I’ll bring the wine.”
It’s nearly eight by the time Cindy drops me off at Lonnie’s. “I won’t be long,” I say. “Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee and come back in about half an hour? Sorry.”
Cindy frowns. “Maybe someday I’ll get to meet this Lonnie Cole.” She slams the car in gear and takes off. No mistake about the pouting this time. I hope she comes back.
Inside I find Megan and Carlton Burroughs studying what must be the other note. I start to ask about Lonnie and Emerson Barnes but never have a chance. “It’s about time,” Megan says.
I just let that one go. I don’t feel like getting into it with her. “Can I see the note?” Megan hands it over, and I’m aware of both of them watching me as I read it. It’s the same as before, standard typing paper, all caps, new ribbon.
WITH MR HORNE’S EXCURSION TO LAS VEGAS AND HIS SUBSEQUENT RETURN TO LOS ANGELES, WE ARE READY TO BEGIN THE NEXT PHASE OF THIS TRANSACTION. MR. HORNE WILL PROCEED TO HIS HOME AND WAIT FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS WHICH WILL BE DELIVERED TELEPHONICALLY THIS EVENING. AGAIN, MAY I CAUTION ABOUT THE TEMPTATION TO GO TO THE POLICE ON THIS MATTER.
“When did this come?” I’m already imagining Charlie Crisp writing this.
“This afternoon,” Megan says. “Damn, this is going to be the call for the money, Evan. Didn’t you find out anything?” She gets up and begins pacing around the room.
“Nothing of any real use,” I say. After seeing her and Bo together I’m reluctant to tell Megan anything, and right now I wish I could get Carlton alone for a few minutes. He seems to be the one constant in this. I try to catch his eye, but Megan is hovering over us too closely. “Just that Mr. Crisp is not the good ole boy he seems.”
“Really,” Megan says, still pacing. She either doesn’t hear me or isn’t interested. I wonder if she knows the country-boy thing is all an act. She finally stops and says, “Well, there’s nothing we can do except have you take the call and see what the hell the blackmailer wants next.”
Carlton Burroughs sits back, his fingers laced across his chest. “I think Megan is right, Evan. This will be the call for the money, some sort of exchange procedure, and judging from these initial contacts our friend will be very precise and very careful.”
“We are paying, then, I take it?”
Carlton nods and pats a briefcase next to him. “I’ve already dealt with the bank just in case.”
That would be like Carlton, I think. Is that what a million dollars in cash looks like?
“We?” Megan glances quickly at Carlton, who’s frowning. “Yes, we are paying. I just wish there had been more time.”
“I could stall him maybe, tell him we need more time to raise the cash.”
“You could try, Evan,” Carlton says, “but you must be very careful dealing with him. We don’t want to push it, do we?”
I stand up. “Well, I guess I’ll just go home and wait.”
“I want to know the minute you hear,” Megan says, handing me the briefcase. “There’s no need for you to even open this.”
There certainly isn’t, I think, but after seeing her in Las Vegas, I’m not going to meet anyone until I know what’s in the briefcase. I give Megan a salute, wave to Carlton, and head for the front door with a million bucks. Lonnie is waiting in the driveway, dressed in a velour warm-up suit.
“Evan. Anything happening, man?” He glances at the briefcase but doesn’t even mention it. He just stands there twirling his chrome-plated pistol.
“I hope that thing’s not loaded.”
“You never know about guns,” Lonnie says, with a funny kind of smile. He turns and looks out over the valley. “There’s some funny shit goin’ down, man.” He turns back toward me. “Ain’t there? I can see you know something.” He studies me closely, wondering, I guess, if he can trust me after all. I am there with five hundred thousand dollars of his money and feeling more nervous by the second.
“Yeah, Lonnie, I do, but it’s not really connected with this.”
“It’s all connected, man, you can believe that.” He aims the pistol at a large plant, sights down the barrel, then drops his arm to his side. “Stay with it, baby. I’ll be waiting.” He waves the gun at me and goes around the side of the house just as Cindy drives up.
I get in and we drive back to LAX to pick up my car. Cindy glances at the briefcase but doesn’t ask about it. She’s unusually quiet on the ride, and I’m trying to believe I’m holding a briefcase with a million dollars on my lap.
