Salt of the king, p.12
Salt of the King, page 12
“Were you born in Duro?” asked Crowsie.
“No,” said Puga. “I’m from San Rafael, California.”
“I’ve never heard of that place. Is it nice?”
“It’s okay. It’s a small city north of San Francisco.”
Puga stared straight ahead. Sad but resigned.
To the west was a gray hint of dawn, and the stars were dimming out in the dusty sky. The wind had fallen to a soft breeze, but the past three days of whirling gusts had lifted ultrafine dust high into the atmosphere.
Deputy Crowsie yawned and put her hand over her mouth. “Excuse me,” she said. “This is a bit early for me. I’m not used to it.”
“I’ve always worked the night shift,” said Puga. “I am used to it.”
IT HAD BEEN A LONG NIGHT for Albert Puga. The police had been waiting outside his girlfriend’s house when he went out to get the mail at 3:30 in the afternoon, shortly after he rose from a day of fitful sleep. Victoria was at work, and the kids were at her sister’s house. They didn’t arrest him then, but they gave him a choice: Come downtown and talk to Detective Lamborn, or they would detain him for questioning, which would involve a very public handcuffing in front of neighbors. He briefly considered calling his old lawyer but went with them voluntarily.
The police hadn’t threatened or used any special interrogation techniques. He sat in a cushioned chair in a well-lit office, talking and listening. Detective Lamborn had found his weakness, and he knew it. Puga’s Achilles’ heel was the certain fact that he wasn’t a murderer. Not by nature. Not in his heart.
They talked about family, about wives and girlfriends and kids, about the bewildering pain of loss and never seeing someone again. And about Paul Zapeda, who would never see his two children grow up, go to school, graduate, and marry. He would never know grandchildren.
About two in the morning, Albert Puga broke. It wasn’t the kind of emotional, blurted confession you saw on Dragnet. He and the two cops were just making small talk. Puga told them about his first fiancée, who was Filipina. They had met and fallen in love overseas, and she had been excited about coming with him to live in the States. But she could never adapt to a new life in a strange country, find work, or make friends, and after two miserable months, she had left him and returned to Manila. He might have gone with her, if she had asked, but she didn’t. He still missed her sometimes, though it had been ten years. Until he moved to Duro and met Vicky, he had been deeply lonely.
“How did you get to know Victoria Zapeda?” asked Detective Lamborn.
“We met at the old VA Hall. The one they tore down last year. It was at the Cinco de Mayo Dance.”
“Did she invite you?”
“Yes … Well, Paul invited me. They both came.”
“Her husband, Paul? Were you two friends?”
“Yeah,” said Puga. “He was the first guy I hung out with at work.”
“Did you like him?”
“Oh, yeah. We were good friends. I just didn’t like how he acted toward Vicky.”
“How did he treat her?” asked Sergeant Correa. “Was he abusive?”
“He didn’t hit her, but he yelled. He was always worried about where she was, checking up on her, and getting after her about her friends. He thought they acted like a bunch of dumb high school girls. And of course, he didn’t want her to have guy friends, either. He wouldn’t let her go out anywhere unless he went along. He was jealous a lot.”
“Was he good to his kids?” asked Lamborn.
“Oh, yeah,” said Puga. “He was a good dad. The little girl, Annie, thought he was the best. And Roland, too, the boy. The kids loved him.”
They let that thought hang in the air. No one spoke. Finally, Puga took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He put his head down, covering his face with his hands. The sergeant started to speak, but Lamborn held up his hand. This was the moment he had waited for, that sigh. Puga had to take the next step by himself. The detective offered Puga a tissue, which he took, blew his nose, then raised his head. His eyes glistened.
“Albert, you’re ready to put this whole thing to rest, aren’t you?” said Lamborn.
Puga started to speak, then shut his mouth again. He nodded his head.
Sergeant Correa spoke: “Albert, we know you’re not a bad guy. Believe me, we get some bad characters in here, guys who’d hit their own mother over the head for her welfare check. Guys who murder just to stay in practice. You’re not one of those. You’re a decent man, and you know how to do what’s right. You’re not a killer.”
“No,” said Puga. “No, I’m not.”
“Albert,” said Lamborn, “will you take us to him now?”
“Okay. Right now? It’s pretty far away. We can wait ’til it gets light.”
“There’s no point in waiting.”
“I guess not,” said Puga. “I need to look at a road map.”
ALBERT HAD LEFT THE BODY of his friend and rival in an adjacent county, which made things a little more complicated, legally. Eventually, the Loving County JP showed up. Matano got out of his car, lit a cigar to cover the smell of death, and stood watching beside the dry stock tank as two county employees lifted the mattress. The police photographer snapped pictures, the flash bulbs lighting up the inside of the stock tank in bursts of brilliant white light.
They let Albert Puga out of the car and showed him the desiccated body, lit by four crisscrossing police flashlights.
“Is this Paul Zapeda?” asked Lamborn.
“Yes, sir,” said Puga. He turned away and started back to the car. Suddenly, he stopped, bent over, covered his mouth with one hand, and coughed hard.
“Are you all right?” asked Deputy Crowsie. “Are you gonna be sick?”
Puga stood up straight and took a breath. “I’m okay,” he said. She opened the back door of the car, and he climbed back in.
Inside the stock tank, two county medical workers used long-handled shovels to roll Zapeda’s body onto a canvas sheet. When the body was face down, Mike Lewis removed a wallet from the back pocket. They had to have a backup on the witness ID. There wasn’t enough left of the face to rely on a visual.
Puga sat in the back seat, facing away from the grisly goings-on, toward the gray half-dawn. The deputy thought it best to leave him alone for the time being. But after a few minutes, he spoke.
“I wish it hadn’t gone the way it did.”
“I know,” said Crowsie.
He turned away again and watched the horizon, which stood out long and sharp against the gradually lightening sky.
CHAPTER 16
Broken Glass
At World Famous Best Studios, Allen Wallace used window cleaner and crumpled newsprint to clean the inside of the glass window that faced the big room. He hadn’t used the big studio in a couple of months. On the other side of the glass, JJ and Harold were with Garrett Miller, a cellist with the Lubbock Symphony Orchestra. Miller was a large and genial man with a Marine Corps haircut. He looked more like a gas-station attendant than a classical musician. Allen couldn’t hear what they said, but he watched the three men walk around the room, gesturing to various empty spaces on the floor and up to the ceiling. They were discussing microphone placement and sound baffles. They didn’t know the room’s acoustics like Allen did, but he’d let them do the initial setup. Allen would come in later and tweak the room as necessary.
Miller had driven 160 miles to Duro, was expected back this evening, and had no time to waste. Miller claimed he could deliver himself and seven other members of the Lubbock Symphony—four violins, two violas, two cellos—for union scale plus expenses, which included gas money, food, and three nights at a not-crappy hotel. Harold didn’t have a final figure on that, but it was a bit more than they had budgeted for. Gas was cheap, but he knew nothing about the local hotels. Harold suggested the Golden Sunset in downtown Duro, where he and JJ were staying. It was a six-story hostelry from the ’50s boom days whose best years were long past. The restaurant on the second floor was okay, he said, and there was a heated pool on the roof.
Allen stood in the control room and examined the thick glass. There was a previously unseen constellation of fingerprints in the lower left corner. He crumbled up another piece of newspaper, spritzed on a little Ammonia D, whatever that was, and rubbed in a circle. He hated spots on glass.
Allen had a poor history with glass. He found himself flashing back to that afternoon twelve years ago, sitting on the floor in the family room at the old house in north Duro, looking down at his right wrist as blood streamed off his fingertips, dripping in a puddle among large, jagged shards of glass from the patio door. His five-year-old daughter screamed while his wife shouted at him.
What did you DO, Allen? Oh my God! What did you do?
Allen shook his head to dislodge the memory and turned back to the soundboard. Mentally, he checked off everything that needed doing. He had finished testing all sixteen channels on the MM-1000. This would be the machine’s first real challenge, and he knew from experience that nothing sapped the energy out of a recording session like technical problems. He also put every cable through its paces and turned all the control knobs on the console back and forth and moved the sliders up and down, listening for static. They were smooth and quiet.
He had tested all the microphones and forced himself to set aside a beautiful, classic Neumann U-87 because of a slight but audible buzz. In a studio, especially with professional musicians, you could get away with using these more delicate ribbon microphones, which produced a sweeter sound than the tougher stage mikes. Fortunately, he owned two more Neumanns, which he counted on to record the string instruments.
Allen decided to join the producer and musicians in the studio.
“I can get everybody here on the seventeenth,” Garrett Miller was saying. “I haven’t talked to one of the violists, because he’s down in Galveston. I’m pretty sure he’ll do it, but I can get somebody else if he won’t. I’m sure the rest are game. Sorry I can’t help you with the timps.”
“That’s all right,” said Harold. “I’m still working on it.” He might have to let the idea of the large timpani go and think of something else.
“Remember, we just have to have it all done and wrapped up by the twenty-first,” said Miller. “We start rehearsal for our new season in two weeks.”
“Once we get them all in here, it should go smoothly,” said Harold. “Rehearsal, recording, tracking. Bing, bang, boom. Four days, and you’re out of here.”
“What about the pay?” Miller asked. “Half up front?”
“Half the performance fee up front,” said Harold. “The rest when the tracks are in the can. Expenses will be worked out separately, with receipts and such.”
“Okay,” said Miller. “I can let you know by day after tomorrow.”
“Can it possibly be sooner?” asked Harold. “If you guys fall through, we need time to get a backup.”
“We won’t fall through,” said Miller. “But I’ll try to let you know for sure by tomorrow. It’s just that we’re talking about seven guys—or, rather, six guys and a girl violinist.”
“All right.” The four men went back into the control room. Allen spent a few minutes showing off his sixteen-track machine.
“You want me to demonstrate something for you?” asked Allen. “I’ve got a great recording of a choir you should hear. You’ll be amazed at the clarity.”
“Actually, what I’d like to hear is a demo of your new song, if you’ve got it,” said Miller.
“We have a demo,” said JJ. “Allen, why don’t you play him what we were working on yesterday?”
The tape was already on the deck, so Allen just ran it back to the double-zero mark. It wasn’t a finished track, but it would demonstrate the richness and depth of the guitar sound. They all stood and listened. Allen watched Miller’s face, but the cellist listened without expression, nodding slowly as the song played. Miller betrayed a slight wince when JJ’s voice came in, but he didn’t say anything. JJ had a style and timbre that took getting used to, but his pitch was spot on.
After listening a couple of minutes, Miller turned to Allen. “We can work with you,” he said. “If the charts are ready and make sense, our people should be able to give you a nice orchestra track. I doubt any of them have ever worked on a pop song before, but they’re professionals. I don’t suppose there’s some sheet music I can take with me today.”
“Not yet, but I’ll have all the charts done by the end of the week,” said Harold.
“Excellent. I’ll call you.”
Miller, Harold, and JJ moved toward the outer office, while Allen stayed in the control room to recue the tape.
As Harold opened the back door for Miller, they were surprised to see a bearded young man walking up the steps.
He smiled at Miller. “Hi, I was just coming up to knock. Nobody answered the front door. Are you Allen Wallace?”
“No, I’m just a poor traveling musician,” said Miller. “Mr. Wallace is right inside. Come on in.”
Before they could question the protocol of inviting a stranger into the fortress that was World Famous Best Studios, the young man was up the steps and into the outer office. He glanced from one man to the other, then his face lit up.
“You’re JJ Johns!” he said.
“I am,” said JJ. He loved the rare moments when he was recognized.
Allen Wallace came out of the control room.
“Hello,” he said. “Are you the guy I talked to on the phone yesterday?”
“Dan Park,” the young man said, extending his hand.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Park,” said Allen. “Gentlemen, this is that award-winning filmmaker I told you about.”
JJ and Harold exchanged baffled looks. Filmmaker?
“I’m a documentarist,” Dan explained.
Documentarist?
JJ shook Dan’s hand while Harold walked Garrett Miller out to his car.
“I told you there was a filmmaker coming by today,” said Allen.
Uh, no you didn’t, thought JJ, smiling congenially. “Okay.”
“Dan and I were talking on the phone about the possibility of a documentary about the studio,” said Allen.
“And it would include the project you’re doing right now,” said Dan. “I think telling the story about making a record—while it’s happening—would make a great film that people would want to see. My partner thinks so, too.”
Harold came back into the studio.
“I’m Harold Prensky,” he said. “I’m the producer.”
“Wonderful,” said Dan.
“Come on, let me show this spaceship,” said Allen, and led the young man away.
Harold and JJ waited in the hall while Allen gave Dan the tour.
“Wait,” whispered JJ. “What’s going on? This is the first I’ve heard about a film.”
“Allen never said a word to me,” said Harold. “I’m not sure this will work. We can’t have this kid underfoot while we’re trying to herd a dozen musicians.”
“Plus, he said he has a partner,” said JJ. “That’s two guys underfoot. And how do we know it’s even a real thing. That guy is too young to have made many films.”
“I better talk to them right now,” said Harold, “before this scheme goes too far.”
Harold followed Allen and the young filmmaker out into the little studio. JJ decided to let the producer handle it and turned back to the control room. He was starting to get the presession jitters. The last thing JJ needed was a camera pointing at him while he tried to focus on resurrecting his career.
He sat at the control board and studied it, then practiced working several volume sliders at once with both hands, a tricky maneuver that Allen Wallace could handle with great dexterity. JJ wanted to learn the skills himself, both to protect his own interests and because someday he might end up permanently on this side of the glass. Allen had lent him the machine’s thick instruction book, and JJ read it carefully. He slid the headphones over his ears, ran the tape back to zero, switched off the room monitors, and hit PLAY.
He had never liked the sound of his own voice, but others had convinced JJ long ago that he should be himself when he sang and not try to sound like a typical pop star. Maybe a little reverb would help. The guitar sounded beautiful and rich. He imagined violins and cellos and deep, booming kettles during the last chorus. The song would come together. The project had to work. You only get so many last chances.
Harold and Allen came out of the studio with Dan Park.
“I promise you won’t even notice us,” said Dan. “We will stay out of the way. If you’re ask us to take the camera out, we’ll do it instantly, without question. We will work with you.”
“That would be very important,” said Harold. “I don’t want to feel like we’re being watched all the time.”
“I’ve done this a lot,” said Dan, “and what happens every time is that, after a day or two, cameramen are like the furniture. You just won’t notice us anymore.”
JJ exchanged glances with Harold. What the hell? Harold shrugged. “Allen really wants to do it.”
“Give me a call in a couple of days,” said Wallace. “I’ll let you know when you can come by with your partner—take light readings and do test shots, that sort of thing.”
“Wonderful!” said Dan. “You won’t regret it.” He and Wallace walked toward the back door. Dan suddenly turned back. “Oh, Mr. Johns, one more thing. Could you do me a huge favor? I have a copy of the Zephyrs album Hard Wind in the car. It’s my favorite album of all time, and it’s in beautiful condition. Could you maybe autograph it for me, if it’s not too much trouble?”
“Sure,” said JJ. “Of course! Happy to do it.”
“I’ll be right back,” said Dan, and bounded down the steps to his car.
“I like that kid,” said JJ.
“I just hope it goes like he says and doesn’t slow us down,” said Harold. “If they start to drag the session, then those guys will have to leave.”
“I think it will be all right,” said JJ. He searched the office for a pen.
