by Don Keith
He grabbed the biggest piece of broken tombstone and hurled it into the weeds and vines along the border of the cemetery, then sent another one tumbling down the embankment toward the swift brown water of the river. Then others went sailing across the highway into a pine thicket. Finally, when only two small pieces of the headstones remained among the straw and weeds, he picked each of them up, looked at them through what was left of his tears, turning them over with his fingers.
For some reason, he chose not to throw them. Instead, he slipped them into his trouser pocket.
Without even looking back, he stumbled among the plots and markers and flower bouquets, back down to where the Cadillac was parked. He jumped in, cranked it up, jerked it into gear, and stomped the accelerator, spraying clods of red dirt and pine cones as he gunned the big car away from the cemetery as fast as it would go.
Halfway down the driveway to the church, he slapped the rear-view mirror askew, just in case there might be a temptation to glance backward.
He did not dare set it straight again until he was on I-75, half-way to Atlanta.
Twenty-nine
Jimmy Gill did not even have to look up when he heard the hesitant knock on the door frame of his office. He knew exactly what the expression on Detroit’s face would be.
"Jimmy, I've been wondering how long it would be before you tell me, but I guess you haven't had the time. What's the deal with us buying these dinky little low-powered AM stations?"
Dee had been so busy working the bugs out of the radio satellite network that Jimmy had been able to stall off any kind of explanation so far. As president of the company, Detroit still had to sign off on the formal offers to purchase properties and, for once, he had read the damned things before he signed them. He was, of course, wondering what Jimmy was buying and why. And especially something that was so far off the game plan for growing the group.
"Simple, Dee. I don't think we should give up on AM radio just yet," Jimmy answered weakly, pretending sudden interest in a ten-page list of figures and columns he held in front of him.
"Yeah, maybe if they had some power and a decent dial position, like Birmingham and Atlanta and Dallas do. But five-hundred watts with a directional signal at 1540 on the dial in New Orleans? A damn kilowatt day-time-only-station on 1390 in Miami? Ain't no way those things will ever do anything, Jimmy. Hell, they are like a light bulb! And you have to tune the dial all the way to the glove compartment just to find them!"
“Uh, there may be good use for those things. Power companies using the subcarriers for remote control of some kind,” Jimmy adlibbed. He had read something about such a thing somewhere in one of the trades. “They could be valuable for that.”
“Daytimers? Not a chance. What about remote control use at night when our little dud stations are off the air? No way. You could have asked me about...”
"Look, dammit!" Jimmy half-rose from his chair to snap at him. "Let me decide what's best for this company. I know what needs to be done and I’ll damn well do it without any unsolicited advice from you. You worry about keeping the transmitters on the air! We were off for two hours in Louisville last week and I still haven’t seen a written explanation from you or..."
The intercom on the desk buzzed loudly to interrupt his tirade. Jimmy sat back down hard and glared. Detroit glared back for a few seconds and then sadly shook his head, turned and stalked out of the office.
Sammie told him it was line two. Code blue. That meant it was someone he would want to talk with.
"Jimmy?"
It was Cleo's voice, warm, wondering, too far away, on the other end of the telephone line.
"Yeah."
"Boy, you sure sound happy to hear from the only woman you love!"
"Sorry, baby. It has been one hell of a week here at the radio ranch."
"Tell me about it?"
He rarely did anymore. Even when she asked. Even when it involved their co-owned stations. No need to bother her with it all. He was making her enough money that she should not have to worry about it anyway.
"Nah, it's just business, Cleo. I got to make some decisions. It may be time to cut out some dead wood around this place."
He bit his tongue. He had said more than he intended. Luckily, her mind was on something else. She had not caught the implication.
"Well, I've got an announcement to make that you may or may not want to hear. But being the legendary big mouth that I am, you're going to have to hear it anyway."
"If it's good news, I'm game. If it’s not, please send me a damned telegram."
She was quiet for a moment, apparently hesitant about how Jimmy would take whatever it was she wanted so badly to tell him. Especially considering the mood in which her call had found him.
"Okay. Here’s the deal. I've got concert dates booked through the middle of December. And when I finish those, I'm finally pulling the plug. Laying off the band. Selling the bus. Coming in off the road. Growing up and running away from the circus."
"Cleo! That's fantastic!" he yelled. She could tell that he actually meant them.
Jimmy had juggled his schedule a few times to try to match hers, taken the company airplane and met up with her on the road somewhere. But it was always such a whirling rush for both of them. His mind was usually back with the empire he was building and hers was on sound checks and collecting money from shady promoters. Their time together was always like a blurred series of wonderful but rudely interrupted dreams.
Even when she was home between tours, she seemed to always be entangled in something. If she was not in the studio or trying to write songs she was on the phone dealing with agents and record company cranks and demanding radio stations. His thoughts, too, were usually wavelengths away from where their bodies physically were.
It was no surprise to Jimmy that she was reeling it in. The thrill of performing on stage had long since deserted Cleo Michaels and she readily admitted it to him and herself. She had grown weary of the cigarette smoke, the impossible hours, the look-alike faces in the audience, the endless roadways that seemed to mark her life by exits and rest stops. She had often talked of spending her time finding and producing new artists, writing more and pitching her new songs and the existing catalogue to producers and singers. Or she could help him run the Dallas stations. They were half hers anyway. It was not the need for money that had kept her pushing so hard for so long. Her music publishing company alone could keep her lifestyle luxurious.
Truth was, she had found someone she loved more than the vagabond lifestyle. Jimmy Gill had been the final thing she needed to bring her to the inevitable decision. Telling him had been the one thing she had not quite figured out how to do until now and she was pleasantly surprised he was taking it so well.
"You really think it's fantastic? I was afraid that...”
"God, yes, Cleo! I'm selfish enough to want you here in town with me all the time. So I can call you up for some soul food cookin' or to ravish your naked body any time of the day or night."
There was a brief pause from her end of the line then. He could hear the roar of big trucks passing by whatever roadside parking spot she was calling from.
"I thought maybe, with me finally settling down, we could....” Her voice had changed so suddenly that even Jimmy noticed it. It hardly sounded like Cleo's at all, except maybe in one of her saddest songs. Before she could finish the thought, she stopped again, took a breath. “I haven’t been ravished in so long I’m not sure what goes where. And anyway, what makes you think you'd have any more time for us then than you do now, Mr. Wizard-of-the-Wind?"
It was her newest pet name for him. She had dubbed him that after he told her about his first impressions of the magical goings-on in the field behind WROG back in Birmingham. She even laughingly threatened to write a song with that title, all about a man who loved his damned old radio more than the wonderful woman who loved him.
"Just don't roll that Silver Eagle into a canyon before you can get your butt back to Nashville. I
'll show you some free time! You’ll be begging for mercy, Miss Michaels."
She laughed that enchanted laugh of hers and started telling some tale about something one of the band members had done in Oxnard. He tried to listen to her, to act as if he was really interested, but all the lights on his phone were blinking, someone had put another stack of pink message slips under his hand, and Sammie was now standing at his door, waving her arms and mouthing the words, "Richard's here."
Richard Graffeo was now Wizard Broadcasting’s number one legal counsel. He knew more about how the rigmarole they had created was slung together than anyone else, including James Gill. Now, he had to help Jimmy untwist the corporate mess that had been made in ignorance in the mad scurry to get a signal on the air in the first place.
Jimmy motioned for him to shut the door and take a chair while he abruptly finished the call with Cleo. He wished her well at the Academy of Country Music awards that night, promised to be watching on television, and told her he hoped she would win her usual bushel basket full of statuettes. His mind was already racing ahead to the business at hand though, and she seemed to sense it. Soon she was gone.
Jimmy hung up before he realized he had not told her again how glad he was about her decision. Or even that he loved her. He promised himself he would make it right when she got home. And he half-noticed the sad note had crept back into her voice again when she said “goodbye” and “I love you, Jimmy.”
There was business to do. He stood and shook Richard’s hand.
"I need to restructure the radio station company, counselor. Wizard Broadcasting."
Richard Graffeo needed no warm up. There was no need for small talk with him. He was instantly at full stride, with no prattle about the weather, football or politics.
That was one reason why Jimmy liked him so much. Sometimes he felt as if he had already used up most of the words that God had allotted him for this lifetime. He had foolishly wasted so many speaking into microphones over the years. He could appreciate someone else who avoided throwing them away needlessly.
Graffeo was all business. He probably slept in his double breasted suit, his briefcase for a pillow. He was totally serious, painfully straight talking, always able to hit the bull’s-eye with his dart-like questions. And he had the ability to read his clients, as well as his opponents, like an open book.
"Trouble with the darkie, huh?" the attorney asked as he settled deeper into the office chair and unhinged his valise.
Jimmy shot him a sharp glance. Sometimes Graffeo went too far. The attorney simply winked and waited for Jimmy to speak.
"Look, Rich. I'm trying to do some new business with the Georges, and Detroit is going to fight me every inch of the way on it. I don’t know why. Lately, it seems like he is constantly standing in the way of everything I want to accomplish. His damned aunt is convinced he should be running the whole company just because he's got 'President' printed on his business card, so now she's pissed at me, too. When I need something signed or voted on so we can get important business done, Greta Polanski and Clarice George are out of pocket at some charity thing or traipsing across the country on some damn fool trip. I've made them all rich and they just go along their merry way, while I try to keep this top spinning all by myself. Frankly, I’m of the opinion that it’s getting too big to try to run it the way we have been doing it."
Jimmy knew he did not need to tell Richard why. He simply had to lay out what he wanted done. Then Richard would tell him precisely how it should happen. But he could not help trying to sell the attorney on the reasons for what he was about to ask him to do.
“Jim, you trying to convince me or yourself?”
Jimmy chuckled softly. On target again, Mr. Graffeo.
"Look, Rich, we've got about everything liquid tied up in the satellite radio network, and I've borrowed until I’m blue to add the new formats. We'll want to do the television channels soon, too. All of these ventures will be a license to print money within five years. You’ve seen the business plans. Hell, you wrote the prospectus, for God sakes. But it's going to be touch and go for a while yet. We have some very frightening things we may have to do to keep it together. I don't want the old women getting the vapors when they see some of the things I'm going to have to do to make this airship fly. They don't have a clue about business. And I sure as shit don't need Detroit Simmons throwing his figure-head title around and getting in my way all the time because it doesn't all fit into some kind of algebraic formula that he can cypher out with a calculator. Lord knows I love the son of a bitch! And he could build a transmitter from scratch with chewing gum and fishing line. But the bastard doesn’t know beans about running a company."
"How quick do you need it done?"
Damn, the son of a bitch was cold! No argument, no questions. Just "how quick?" Jimmy was once again glad that Richard Graffeo was on his side.
"Month or two."
"You don't need all these minorities on your letterhead to get broadcast licenses now, you know. You're big, Jim. The new Federal Communications Commission's not as hard-assed as the last one, either. Thank God for a Republican president. You can buy and sell anytime, anywhere, as long as you hang onto the properties for three years. You know the rules. And with all the money and the preferential interest rates and all the deals these banks are throwing at you, you absolutely have to be trading up right now while you can. It'll all swing the other way someday. Always does.
“Let's see, you already have yourself and Cleo on the board, and I assume you can control her. The twins' momma will do what they want her to do. You only need one more vote."
"Jerry Morrow."
The man who had helped put The River into profitability as sales manager now ran several of the stations. Jimmy knew he would do whatever he wanted him to. Except stop buying and wearing those horrid striped and plaid sport coats. Jerry was thriving on the power that bringing in so much money can give a man. He would kiss anybody’s ass to be elected to the board of directors of Wizard Broadcasting.
And, just in case he needed it, Jimmy also knew the names and apartment numbers of both of Morrow’s mistresses. The other board members would not be suspicious. They would see it only as a well-deserved perk. Hell, Detroit had even suggested it himself a few years back.
"Here’s how it’ll work, Jim. We can give Mr. Simmons some kind of title and he'll assume it's a promotion, kick you up to CEO..." Graffeo quickly planned the entire coup out loud.
As he talked, Jimmy realized that he had developed a sour feeling in his mid-section, where his ulcer often ached. But he blamed it on the hastily eaten omelet he’d grabbed at Maggie’s Diner well before sun-up that morning. He knew what he needed. Cleo. She could help him eat right.
“...and if we can get Simmons to swallow this, it will be a breeze,” Graffeo was saying.
"Hey, if you can't draw it on a damned schematic diagram, he'll never figure out what's happening until it's done. It's best for him, Dick. We'll make him far more money this way than he ever dreamed of without nearly the responsibilities. He can go on back to his transistors..."
"You're selling the sold, Jim," Graffeo growled, with a look that said, "Let's get on to something we haven't decided already, okay?"
They talked more of specifics and the paperwork needed, of the progress of the public stock offering for Wizard Satellite, of the cash flow situation for the companies. But Jimmy was distracted by the queasy ball in his stomach that wouldn’t go away. Then finally, when Richard felt that he had said all that needed to be said, he jumped to his feet, shook Jimmy’s hand and was out the office door, off to begin the execution of the plan that could change the complexion of the company forever.
Jimmy stood stiffly and fought a sudden wave of nausea. Shit. He didn’t have time to be sick right now. Too much to do.
Slowly, he ambled over to the window and surveyed his collection of satellite dishes that were visible on the office building downtown. They looked like giant mouse ears. He could
also see the corner windows on the top floor that would soon be his office. They would be moving the entire operation there in a few weeks, claiming three floors for the rapidly expanding company.
Jimmy stood at the window for ten minutes, ignoring the work that waited impatiently on his desk. The stomach ache had finally gone away as he enjoyed this view of a part of his empire he could actually see. The rest of it was mostly air. Invisible signals racing through the ether like fleeting ghosts. But there, on top of the building, was tangible proof that he had built something new, different, and revolutionary. And he was only beginning to conquer a world no one could see or feel. A world of ether and spark.
As he watched and thought and planned, he idly rubbed together the two jagged slivers of broken tombstone that he always kept in his trouser pocket.
Thirty
He had never avoided a confrontation in his life, but Jimmy Gill had no desire to face Detroit Simmons the morning after the board meeting.
They spent the first hour as they usually did in such meetings, with charts and graphs unveiled on an easel, shimmering images cast on a screen from an overhead projector, and huge stacks of documentation lurking close beside the coffee and juice and pastry that rested on the conference table in front of each director. The managers of each station came in, laid out his own good news in turn and told them all how great things had gone with their individual properties so far that year. The accountants used the overhead projectors and dozens of slides and still more paperwork to tell the story of the programming network's spectacular growth, and how the television plans would eventually pay off, though most of those on the Wizard Broadcasting board had little to do with that side of the business.
