Salt of the king, p.28
Salt of the King, page 28
“That makes no sense,” said Grover. “Peter was hurt a few weeks ago, but he’s healed now. He doesn’t need a doctor.”
“That’s what the young woman who works for Mrs. Paulson told us. We believe your wife fled to avoid being served with a warrant. She took the two children with her. Your neighbor said she was acting strangely. We put out a citywide bulletin with a description of her and the car, but she hasn’t been spotted.”
“You came to serve a warrant?” said Grover. “I know nothing about this.”
“An officer told her she would have to register the kids in a public school or face charges, and that’s when she fled. We were hoping you’d have some idea where she went.”
“Oh, Lord Jesus!” said Grover. “No, I don’t know where she’d go.”
“Obviously, we’re concerned about her and the safety of the children,” said the officer. “If you have an idea where she might be, we need to know.”
“Holly wouldn’t go anywhere without talking to me. A warrant? This is crazy.”
“Do you think she’s been behaving strangely?” asked the officer.
“No,” said Grover. “She’s been talking to herself a lot, but she always has. She would not have just run away with the kids. It’s impossible, absolutely impossible.”
“Why do you think it’s impossible?”
“Because I would have seen it coming,” said Grover. “And I did not see it coming.”
CHAPTER 38
A Break Is Imminent
Harold ran three full takes of “Earth Is Crying.” The band was tepid and hesitant. The strings were uncertain, and JJ Johns didn’t have his usual charge-into-the-fray vocal chops. His guitar was dragging the tempo, and he muffed a couple of lyrics. On the fourth take, they played a little better, but JJ’s voice broke during the second chorus. He stopped singing and unstrapped his guitar.
“I can’t do it, man,” he said. “My playing is bad, and my voice is shit. I need a few minutes.”
“Everybody take ten,” said Harold.
Some of the musicians sat where they were, and a few got up and stretched. Brandon Bibb pulled out a drum key and started tweaking one of the small toms.
JJ headed for the back door.
“The clock is running,” said Harold. “I don’t need to remind you.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” said JJ. “I just gotta feel the breeze for second.”
He walked out into the sunlight and down the steps to the parking lot. There was not a cloud in the sky, but the air was cool. JJ walked. Maybe he’d do a couple of laps around the building.
You’re a professional, he thought. This is exactly the kind of shit you hate when other people do it. Pull yourself together.
Instead of pacing around the studio, JJ walked straight across the graded parking lot to the edge of the crushed caliche, where it met the desert. He hesitated a moment, then stepped out onto the white, salty hardpan. He continued in a straight line, watching the horizon. What was out there? How many miles would he have to walk to get anywhere at all? At about fifty feet, he stopped. He closed his eyes.
A couple of years ago, a friend had talked him into a one-day class on transcendental meditation. JJ never had the patience to stick with it, but he always liked the breathing part. He stood erect with his head back and breathed deeply. A slight puff of breeze ruffled his hair, and his scalp tingled.
In breath: one, two, three, four, five. Out breath: one, two, three, four, five.
He opened his eyes again. The air was so clear he could see for miles, and the longer he stood, the sharper his vision seemed. The oxygen filled his lungs and joined his blood to surge through his brain and body. It felt for a moment like he might rise up like a hot air balloon and glide over the landscape.
“Are you okay?”
It was Becky. She had followed him out. He hadn’t heard her footsteps.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I really am. Come here. Stand in front of me and look that way.”
She complied, and he wrapped his arms around her.
“Look out there,” he said. “Do you see it?” He pointed toward the horizon.
“See what?”
“Way over there. That gray, flat-top hill. I saw something glimmering. It must be … What? Ten, twenty miles away. I feel like I could run all the way to it.”
Becky looked but saw nothing unusual. Then, for a split second, there was a tiny glint of reflected light. Then it was gone.
“Well, don’t take off across the desert yet,” she said. “You have a dozen people waiting for you inside.”
JJ laughed, turned her around, and kissed her cheek. “I’m almost ready,” he said.
“Are you still mad about what my father did? That upset everybody.”
“No. It’s weird, but I’m over that now. Just standing still out here and breathing clean air did it, I suppose.” He took one more deep breath, throwing his shoulders back, and exhaled through his mouth. “Let’s go back inside,” he said.
ON TAKE FIVE, JJ’s guitar rang like a crystal bell, and his voice soared. The rest of the band wasn’t quite back in the pocket, but on the sixth take, it all came together, and they had a candidate for finalist, minus background vocals and keys.
“Damn, JJ!” said Harold. “I think you found your sound, my friend.”
He sensed there was still a better version out there and pressed on. After take seven, he called a five-minute break and warmed up the Fender Rhodes piano. The original plan to overdub the keys was scrapped. The piano part was too integral to leave out. There was already a microphone standing ready and a track assigned to it.
Dan Park had used up all his 16mm film, so Harold commandeered him for the engineer’s spot and gave him a quick lesson on the MM-1000. When the band regrouped, Harold and his keyboard were out among the troops. Becky came into the studio and sat a few feet from JJ.
Dan put on the headphones, hit the START button, and pointed at the drummer. That effort was very good, with minor imperfections, but on the ninth take, they nailed it. The strings played with authority, the cymbals crashed dramatically but not too loud, the electric piano filled out the middle register, and JJ sang like a tormented angel. Harold noticed that JJ kept his eyes on Becky.
Harold called for one more take “for luck,” but it wasn’t any better. He asked everyone to crowd into the control room to listen. Most of them squeezed in, but a few stood outside the door. Harold turned up the monitors and played the best couple of takes. They all agreed number nine was the keeper.
Harold pronounced the gig complete and thanked the members of his ragtag orchestra one by one. He wrote checks to the bass player, the drummer, the rogue Duro cellist, and to Garrett Miller, who would take care of the Lubbock people from his end. Dan Park packed up the camera, film, tape recorder, and tape; promised to keep everyone informed on the progress of the film; and drove away to see his family in McCauly. The others drifted out one or two at a time.
Within half an hour, everyone was gone but Harold, JJ, Becky, and Lizard the bass player, who had packed up his gear but wasn’t in a hurry to leave. JJ sat with Becky on the office couch, drained. Harold rewound the tape, labeled it, and boxed it. As he was turning off all the equipment, he noticed that Lizard had come into the office and was just standing there.
“Good gig, man,” said Harold. “I’ll keep you on my first-call list.”
“Thanks,” said Lizard. Then lowering his voice, he said, “Hey, I need to talk to you for a second.”
“Okay, shoot,” said Harold.
“Can you come in here?” said Lizard, and stepped back into the dimly lit studio. Harold followed.
“What’s up?”
Lizard leaned close and gestured with his thumb. “There’s a dead dude in that room back there.”
Harold closed his eyes and sighed. “Ah, man.”
“I know, I know,” said Lizard. “I could hardly believe it myself. I was looking for the john, so I opened that little door, and I turned on the light, and there he was. I thought he was just passed out, but then I poked him, and I’m like, ‘Wow, that dude is stone cold dead.’ I thought I better tell you guys.”
Harold lowered his voice. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. That’s Allen Wallace. He died of a heart attack last night. I found him this morning.”
“You didn’t … like … call anybody?”
“Nothing we could do for him. He was dead. He doesn’t have a family. If I did call the cops, they would have shut down our gig. One thing Wallace always told me: ‘The gig must go on.’ It’s what he would have wanted.”
“You’re gonna just leave him there?”
“No, no. We’ll call some people.”
“Yeah,” said Lizard. “Somebody needs to take care of that guy.”
“You’re right,” said Harold. “He was a good man and a great sound engineer. We’ll take care of him. And … uh … if you could just keep this to yourself, I’d appreciate it. Just for now.”
“JJ doesn’t know?”
“JJ knows, but that little lady out there doesn’t.”
“Oh.” Lizard nodded. “Well, I guess the dude can’t get any deader. If anybody asks, I’ll be that fat German guy on Hogan’s Heroes. ‘I know nothink.’ All right, I’m out of here. Call me if you need overdubs. I’ll check you back in Tulsa.”
“Thanks, man.”
Harold set the building’s thermostat as low as it would go and turned off the lights.
The recording session was over for the day. No one called the authorities about the corpse in the echo chamber. They couldn’t. The song wasn’t finished. They’d have to come back to the studio tomorrow. Harold called Nashville to try and cancel the Saturday session with the two backup singers, but he couldn’t get ahold of either one. They would be at the Midland airport in the morning. Allen Wallace would just have to stay put.
However, a good—if incomplete—version of “Earth Is Crying” was in the can.
JJ DROVE THE CAR. Becky rode in the middle, leaning against him. They dropped Harold in front of the Golden Sunset Hotel, just as they had done the night before, and the two of them went to dinner.
They had no plans for the evening, but as far as JJ was concerned, the farther they got from World Famous Best Studios, the better. At least for now.
“Should we try and find some place a little bit nice to eat?” asked JJ. “You know the city. Where do you want to go?”
“I’m not dressed for anything fancy,” said Becky.
“Neither am I, but I feel like celebrating. It’s done. By this time tomorrow, we’ll have the song.”
“Are you happy with it?” asked Becky.
“Well, yeah. Of course.”
“I was just asking, because you seem on edge. Is everything okay?
“Everything is definitely okay,” said JJ. “I feel bad about the fight I had with your dad. I hope you don’t think I’m like that all the time. I was just afraid … that you’d leave, and I wouldn’t see you again. So I kind of blew up at him.”
“He was being a jerk,” said Becky. “He’s not like that either. I guess he’s afraid of the same thing—losing his little girl. He can’t really accept that I’m grown and will leave home for good.”
They were driving Harold’s station wagon down Seventh Street. JJ spotted a small steak restaurant in a low-slung building.
“We could go there. Anyplace is good if I’m with you.”
“Oh, stop it,” said Becky. “I’ll tell you what I want. There’s a cafeteria called Fonde’s up on North Lee. It has perfectly acceptable food, but a dessert selection you wouldn’t believe. I want some key lime pie.”
“All right, Fonde’s it is,” said JJ.
“Just one word of warning,” said Becky. “There’s something there you might find upsetting.”
“All right. I’m intrigued. What would I find upsetting?”
“Bennie the organist.”
JJ looked over at Becky. “You mean, it has one of those old geezers who plays showtunes on a Hammond?”
“He’s not that old, just … so enthusiastic it brings tears to your eyes. He plays the hits of yesterday and today.”
JJ laughed. “I’m sure I can handle Bennie the organist. Hell, if he’s any good, I’ll drag him over to the studio, and we’ll lay down some tracks.”
“Well, I gave you fair warning,” said Becky.
“I’ll be sure and make some requests. I wonder if he knows ‘Step Outside Our Love’ by some weird group named the Blue Zephyrs?”
“I can guarantee he knows it,” said Becky.
“I can’t wait. Let’s go.”
BENNIE DID, IN FACT, know “Step Outside Our Love” and played it at a peppy pace in the key of C. After they’d gone through the food line, JJ insisted they sit close to the organ. JJ sang along, to the delight of Bennie and the bewilderment of most of the elderly Friday night crowd. JJ then challenged him with other hits, famous and more obscure, and Bennie knew them all.
Becky had salad and macaroni with cheese and pimentos, to save room for key lime. JJ picked chicken-fried steak with extra white gravy and soft, pale broccoli. For dessert, he ate chocolate meringue and made a show of licking his little plate while Bennie played the theme from Shaft.
After they had finished eating, and a small woman with a hair net had cleared the table, JJ reached over and took Becky’s hand.
“Where shall we go?” he asked. “I have an idea what I’d like to do, but I’ll take any suggestions.”
“I have an idea, too,” said Becky, “But I want to hear your idea first.”
“No, no, ladies first.”
“I defer to you, as a man,” said Becky.
“I insist.”
Becky took his other hand and leaned across the table. “Okay, then. I want to go someplace where I can kiss you as much as I want and you can kiss me back and nobody will bother us the rest of the night.”
“Becky, sweet Becky who has taken my heart away, I accept your proposal.”
“Suggestion.”
“Your suggestion. By some incredible, once-in-a-hundred-years coincidence, that is exactly what I was going to suggest.”
They sat holding hands for a couple of minutes. Bennie played “I Found That Girl” by the Jackson Five.
In her periphery, Becky could see that somebody a few tables away was looking at them. She glanced over. It was Nolan Batts, the newspaper reporter. He was dressed in a stylish vest and mod cabbie hat and sat with a thirtyish woman who seemed less interested in him than he was in her. He waved at Becky, and she waved back. Batts leaned over and said something to his date, then scooted back his chair and walked over to their table.
“Hello, Mr. Batts,” said Becky. “This is my friend JJ.” Nolan gave JJ a perfunctory handshake, then turned his full attention to Becky.
“I was hoping I’d see you at some point,” said Batts. “It’s regarding that conversation you and I had a couple of weeks ago.”
“About the Helen Orlena case?”
“That’s it,” said Batts. “There have been some developments, if you’re still interested.”
“I had to drop the film idea for now,” said Becky, “But I’m always curious.”
“This is not for attribution, as they say,” said Batts, “but I have some hard intelligence from one of my contacts in Duro PD.” He leaned close to Becky’s ear and said something quietly, but the music from Bennie’s tonewheel drowned it out.
“I’m sorry, what?” said Becky.
“I said there’s a break in the case,” said Betts, louder. “I have it on good authority that an arrest is imminent.”
“Arrest?” said JJ. “Who’s getting arrested?”
Batts held up is hand. “Can’t tell you. This is strictly on the q.t., but it’s going to happen.”
“When?” asked Becky.
“Imminently,” said Batts. “That’s all I can say. Hey, it’s good to see you again. I need to get back to my lady. It was nice to meet you, Jay.” He returned to his seat and cast a sly look back at Becky.
“Is this that murder case you were telling me about?” asked JJ. “Back before you settled for me instead?”
“That’s the one,” said Becky.
When they rose to leave, JJ looked for a tip jar near the organ, but there wasn’t one.
LATE IN THE NIGHT, Becky got up to wash herself. The light was dim in the hotel room, but JJ could see her by a narrow shaft of light coming from a small gap in the blackout curtains.
She is so beautiful.
The soft curve of her buttocks, her sleek pale form as she walked, her narrow and somewhat boyish hips, her round and high breasts, the way her sandy blonde hair fell in soft curls on her shoulders. No makeup and no beauty products for her hair, just an earthy loveliness. He could imagine her as a strong, sexual pioneer woman. Blue-eyed Becky.
JJ got an idea. Her rose from the hotel bed and retrieved his guitar from its case. He sat on the bed with his back against the headboard, under the generic picture of a ranch house, windmill, and a small herd of grazing horses. He strummed his guitar to check the tuning, then lowered the low E string to a low D, which worked better for what he had planned.
Becky emerged from the bathroom carrying a towel but making no efforts at modesty. She grinned when she saw him sitting cross-legged on the bed, naked, holding his guitar.
“Are you going to play for me?” she asked.
“Yes, I am. A new song, in fact.”
“That’s exciting,” said Becky. “When did you write this one?”
“Day before yesterday,” said JJ. “Now, sit down.”
Becky plopped herself down in front from him on the queen-sized bed. “Okay, let’s hear it,” she said.
JJ strummed an open chord, then put his hand way up on the seventh fret and started playing. It was “Blue-Eyed Becky,” of course. He played and sang to her, dropping his voice lower than she had heard him sing before, intoning slow and mournful notes, then letting his voice rise teasingly in the chorus.
“I fell asleep to the lonely blues
But woke up to the happy news
