by P. F. Kluge
Another item: Salvatore Amato presented brief remarks when they finally got around to dedicating the Eddie Wilson Memorial Playground down in Vineland last weekend. “He was all New Jersey,” Sally said. “He never wanted to leave and he never did.” Missing from the newspaper was whether Sally played some tunes. Or hawked his latest album off the back of a truck. Or what they were canning that day.
Two more oddments on the Eddie Wilson front. Relaxing in my trailer the other day, I listened to a radio call-in show—dedications from Louise to Tony—that sort of thing. But when someone requested the memorial song for Elvis and Eddie and Buddy, I lunged for my new tape recorder and switched it on in time to catch the part of the song concerning my late friend. I’m sure you know the basic format for this kind of song. It hasn’t changed since “They Needed a Songbird in Heaven So God Took Caruso Away.”
“A terrible crash on a wet foggy night
Took the king of the Cruisers
Out of our sight …”
They sang that part. Then came a choked-up recitative.
“Your far-away woman
That came on so strong
We hope that you found her
After searchin’ so long
That you’re movin’ and groovin’
Way up in the sky
That you’re high on God’s charts
Up where hits never die …”
And more singing:
“Now he’s riding God’s highway
And watching his speed
But the king of the Cruisers
Is still in the lead …”
There you have it: movie, monument, maudlin lyric. I could be wrong, but I bet that the Eddie Wilson revival has entered its last phase. Soon the backlash will set in, the indifference and forgetting. Returning from the dead is one thing. Remaining permanently in the hearts of the living is quite another.
One last development that didn’t make the newspapers. In Elizabeth, New Jersey, at the Union County courthouse, Doris Campbell Ridgeway filed papers for a divorce which I will not contest. We live in different countries. For Doris, today led to tomorrow; for me, it pointed back to yesterday. She hoped for the future. For me, the future was meaningless unless I could come to terms with the past. That’s why I’m sitting in Florida—just waiting for the then and the now to connect, as they surely will.
I can’t wait for it to happen! Knowing my adversary is more important to me than escaping him. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering whether publicity-starved Sally or cunning Kenny butchered Doc Robbins at his turntable. I don’t want to keep asking myself who was standing in the shadows at the back of the quonset, or sitting behind the wheel of the ’51 Ford that drove into Joann’s driveway. Every time I reread these pages, I find another suspect, a new scenario. No one escapes. Susan Foley, Elliot Mannheim, Sally Amato, Kenny Hopkins, Eddie Wilson, and Joann Carlino. Everyone I’ve met is a possible killer. I want to find that killer—and vindicate the rest.
There’s more. I told Joann that all I wanted was the true story. I meant it. But I also had to write it. Even now, I can’t shake the memory of Wendell Newton asking me, “How many books you written so far, Wordman?” They all expected more of me. Whatever happened to you, Wordman?
The question haunts me. Wendell looking me up in the card catalog. Joann watching for me on the Academy Awards. Sally figuring I must have taken a pseudonym. Whatever happened to me? I can’t ignore that question. These weren’t high school seniors voting the most likely to succeed, or jaycee hustlers electing man of the year. These were people I loved, who knew my strengths and weaknesses as well as I did, and I let them down. Well, it seems to me that whatever happened had to do with an excess of caution, a too-measured pace, a low level of expectations, a reluctance to take chances with music, with women, with life itself. There’s not much I can do about it now. I can’t picture myself picking up a guitar or peddling lyrics; becoming a Cruiser at thirty-seven makes as much sense as renting that ’51 Ford. But there is one thing I can do. I can face the man, or ghost, who’s been moving through our lives, meet him—or her—head-on. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.
Kindly Herman Biedermann knocked gently on my trailer door, reluctant to interrupt my work. He brought my eviction notice. I’d expected Martha Darmstadter, armed with broomstick and garden hose, heading up a lynch mob. But it was only Herman, blushing and shuffling. I readily agreed to move, of course, and Herman was too polite to press me for the fixed moving date Martha had obviously insisted on.
“These phone calls, Frank. What are they all about? Is someone after you?”
“Yes.”
“If it’s a matter of money …”
“It’s not money. At least not in the way you mean …”
“Some woman? Your wife? Or somebody else’s?”
“It’s not that. It’s a matter of … information.”
“Like a trade secret?”
“You could call it that.”
“I read about that stuff. Those big corporations, it’s terrible the things they’ll do to get a leg up. Industrial espionage, they call it. What line of work does this concern?”
“Music.”
“They’re the worst! I read about them. Payola and drugs and broads. U.S. News World Report had a long article about that racket. I think I saved it. Now these phone calls, what are they supposed to accomplish?”
“Flush me out, I guess.”
“Looks like they worked,” Herman said, growing angry. “We behaved just the way they wanted us to. Like chickens in a coop. Wait’ll I tell that Martha.”
“Hold on, Herman … I’ll be out of here …” But Herman was gone before I could stop him, rushing across to Martha Darmstadter’s trailer.
“Open up, you dingleberry!” he shouted, pounding on her door. They all came out, everybody but Minnie Schumacher, assembling for a town meeting that lasted all afternoon. That night, when I came back from my evening walk, I found a note under my door.
Frank …
I fixed it with the rest. You stay as long as
you like.
Your friend,
Herman
P.S. I’m looking for that
U.S. News
Reading that note, I thought there was nothing they could do that would move me more … until yesterday morning, Al Ferraro told me what they’d planned. They’d get the phone company to route all calls to one phone, at Martha’s, which would become their “command post.” Women would be in charge of food and coffee, while men took turns at the phone, four hours to a shift, and they’d keep doing it, Al said, “until the son of a bitch who’s after you runs out of dimes.”
I think they were all up for it. They wanted to transform Golden Years Trailer Court into Fort Apache. So they felt cheated when the calls stopped as suddenly as they started. A hypochondriacal torpor settled over the place this morning, the same feeling I sense when Al finds his mailbox empty or Ed Riley’s son doesn’t call.
This morning, though, there was one last call, for me. The call I’ve been expecting.
“Frank Ridgeway?”
“Speaking.”
“Wow. You took some tracking down. This is Elliot Mannheim. Remember me?”
“Sure I remember you.” So it was Mannheim! I’d wondered who the last phone call would come from. I’d hoped it wouldn’t be from Sally, just happening to be in the neighborhood, or Kenny Hopkins, suddenly anxious to talk over old times, or Joann Carlino, wondering whatever happened to me. Mannheim. Fine. Let it be Mannheim.
“I was wondering about your article,” I said. “You said you’d send me a clipping.”
“It hasn’t appeared yet. This story just got bigger and weirder as it went along. The further I got into it, the more I came across.”
“I can imagine.”
“But I’ve got most of what I need now. Except … well … you know.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“To put it frankly, yo
u turn out to be a more important source than I figured. Everywhere I go, they talk about the Wordman. I really need that second interview with you, to wrap things up.”
“You came all the way down to Florida just to see me?”
“Well, there’s another story. The Bee Gees are down in Miami, of course. You’ve heard of them?”
“No.”
“Anyway, when can I see you?”
“Oh, anytime. I’m not up to much these days. The sooner the better.”
“Look, I’m spread all over a room up at The Tides in Cocoa Beach. Would it be asking too much if you came over here? I could pick you up.”
“Not necessary. When do you want to see me?”
“How about tonight?”
“Why not this afternoon?”
“Well … okay. I’ll be ready.”
“I’m sure you will.” The conversation had gone so well, I bet Mannheim didn’t know how to top it off. How could he know that I would be so docile, so easily gulled, so willing to surrender?
“Along the way, I’ve heard that some interesting Wilson material may have come into your possession since our last interview. If it’ll help jog your memory, you can bring it along.”
“You have a tape recorder in your room?”
“Oh sure. You know me—I’m lost without one.”
“Then there shouldn’t be any problem. I’ll bet we can finish everything in one session.”
“I bet you’re right,” Mannheim said.
I’ve borrowed the keys to Herman Biedermann’s car, straightened up the trailer, and stacked this manuscript on the dining table, next to a book of airmail stamps and a large manila envelope addressed to Wendell Newton. I hope the Dewey Decimal System leaves room for unpublished manuscripts. Slip this one in among the prison confessionals: my life in crime, my soul on ice.
Wendell: I never played the tapes. Funny about that, hard to explain. Joann might understand; I suggest you talk it over with her the next time she visits. The first thing I bought in Florida was a tape recorder. But I couldn’t play them. Some failure of nerve, maybe. I feel that I have to go into this final confrontation not knowing.
See, Wendell, if the tapes were great, I might feel I had to run to New York, find someone to release them, tell it to the world. If they were awful, or if they were blank, I might not have the heart to keep this appointment that I’m about to keep.
Good, bad, or indifferent, Eddie died for those Leaves of Grass. They were his stab at pulling his life together, and the lives of everyone who touched him. He was taking a shot at what the rest of us are too small or cautious or smart to try. He wanted to cover the territory just like Whitman did. You know, Wendell, when you mentioned Leaves of Grass back at the prison, I didn’t have the faintest idea what you were talking about. Later, when I recalled Eddie’s visit to the Whitman house, it made some kind of sense, but I still didn’t grasp what he intended. But Joann’s account of the Lakehurst sessions, of all those Mr. Blacks and Mr. Whites you and Eddie brought together, completed the picture. Now Leaves of Grass sounds to me like a dream remembered, Eddie’s dream, and yours.
Does that make any sense at all, old friend? Perhaps not. Yesterday it would have seemed illogical. Tomorrow, too. But today, just now, it’s the only way to go.
16
If a couple thousand Midwest truck drivers ever want to find out where their pension money went, they can check out The Tides resort in Cocoa Beach, Florida.
It’s a resort for all seasons, with pools and beaches, greens and stables and racetracks. They sponsor tennis classics, celebrity golf tournaments, and telethons that combat the deadliest of maladies.
They can put you up on a houseboat, sell you a condominium, rent you everything from a chalet to a bungalow. You go to bed with the Gideon Bible or the Dallas cheerleaders, it’s all the same to them.
It’s not the sort of place you’d expect a scuffling young free-lancer to put up at, but I’d long since given up the notion that Elliot Mannheim lived by pen alone. Oh, maybe he could write a scratch, but as soon as he got wind of the Lakehurst tapes, he turned entrepreneur. I bet he made a honey of a deal, with enough money up front to hire all the help he needed.
I’d underestimated him. I’d put him down as one of those dopey enthusiastic kids who turn up in my high school classes from time to time. The oh-wowers who get way into comic-book collecting, Star Wars, video games. I give them a C-plus and watch them graduate, wondering how they’ll ever survive in the cruel world. But a funny thing about those goofy kids. They grow claws. They find angles. They get into collecting money the same way they collected comic books. And they kill to add to their collection.
Mannheim was staying just off the beach in a secluded bungalow, surrounded by a grove of soft-needled pine.
A ’51 Ford was parked in front. Elliot Mannheim was beyond pretending.
I pulled in next to the Ford, slipped Joann Carlino’s pistol into my pocket, and picked up the paper bag of tapes. There were five of them, all unlabeled, except for one. It said: Leaves of Grass.
Inside the bungalow, Mannheim was warming up for the interview session. I heard Eddie singing “Down on My Knees,” pounding through equipment that was so good you’d swear he was in the living room. It was so convincing, I checked myself, waiting for Hopkins’ drum break, making sure it was just a record. I don’t know what I’d have done if Eddie kept on singing unaccompanied.
With the music blaring, there was no point in knocking on the door. I pushed it open and walked inside, through a kitchen littered with leftover carry-out food. The living room was next—dark, sunken, covered with a whirlwind of transcripts, tapes, manuscripts, and magazines. I moved through, out into the patio–swimming pool area.
Mannheim was lying on the diving board, flat on his back, sunning himself. The sun had already passed over the board, however, and he hadn’t followed it. He never would. He’d never move again, unless movement meant the slow drip of blood into the swimming pool below.
I walked closer to the edge. I feared what I would find there, and I found just what I feared. Susan Foley was floating on her stomach, face down, like she’d lost something on the bottom of the pool. And, for a moment, I prayed that she was only floating. I grabbed a lifeguard’s hook off the fence and pointed it toward her. I touched her, and I thought she turned, ever so slowly, toward me. I’ll never know what it was—a last living movement or an accident of the water. But her face was gone, one whole side of it, cheek and smile just blown away. I gagged, dropped the pole, and backed away.
Eddie’s music was still playing, his twenty-year-old voice the only thing of life left in the house. I stepped into the living room, thinking that I’d better call the police. First, though, I had to turn off the tape.
Only it wasn’t a tape. It was an l.p. album, our one and only, with the phonograph arm just crossing into the innermost song. That meant that eighteen minutes ago, twenty at the most, someone had put that record on. Was it Mannheim, buck naked, flipping on some sounds before joining his woman on the patio? He knew that I was coming, but perhaps that would be his triumph over me: contemptuously parking the Ford in front, greeting me naked, his woman waiting for him at the pool. Or had they already been out there, sunning and swimming, fellating each other on the diving board, when the music suddenly exploded, loud and strong, “On the Dark Side,” and they turned to chase the maid and faced their killer, stepping out onto the patio, the sound of his shots muffled by that old-time rock and roll? Maybe the Ford didn’t belong to Mannheim. Maybe it belonged to Mannheim’s visitor.
I lifted up the needle and the room turned quiet, and then I guessed I wasn’t alone. Suddenly I heard a low, humming sound, and the living room drapes drew over the picture window, casting the room into darkness. From the far side of the room, from the top of a sleeping loft, I heard that voice again.
“Hello, Wordman.”
I peered into the darkness. There was someone sitting on the loft bed. I saw legs
dangling in the air near the ladder, but the upper half of his body escaped me.
“Don’t strain your eyes, Wordman. Better turn around.”
“Eddie?”
“Turn around, Wordman.” This time it was a command, which I obeyed.
“You do like I say, old buddy. I’d hate like hell to fuck up the group. You bring my tapes?”
“Yes,” I said. And then I muttered, “Leaves of Grass.”
“What’s that, Wordman? Speak up.”
“I said … Leaves of Grass.”
A puzzled silence.
“Leaves of … Just leave them leaves on the table. Then you can leave yourself.”
I didn’t believe him. I dropped the bag on the table, fell to the floor. By then, the first bullet had smashed into the glass-topped table next to me, and the second scraped the floor.
I fired two shots up at the loft. They both missed, but they made him move. It would take more than a mattress to protect him.
He fired again, and this time the glass table exploded, splinters of glass all around me, at my hands and knees, blood spurting through my hair, across my forehead, but I could still see. I could see his feet reach for the top rung, I could see his first step down, his feet, his knees, and now his waist, and I didn’t wait to see the rest of him. I preferred not knowing. I emptied the pistol at the ladder, heard a scream, a falling body, and a pistol that slid toward me like a shuffleboard puck.
I scooped up the pistol and tore open the drapes, first from one side, then the other, and the late-afternoon light came pouring in. And then I walked over to where he lay, a foot still caught in the ladder, hooked and bleeding so it stopped him from turning toward me, but I recognized him and the apologetic smile that flashed behind his pain.
