Inherent chaos, p.14
Inherent Chaos, page 14
The date of this specific learned lesson was fourteen May in the year of our lord nineteen sixty-nine. Late spring humidity was just cranking toward its early summer prime, but still oppressive enough to sufficiently moisten the pits. In true seasonal tradition, the skies cried a trio of times since dawn. The most recent of downpours just a half-hour before our arrival at the station, the air thick, dewy and stinking of recently toked weed. I digress…
My partner on this night was my first hire, a walking stick of a dude named Deke Carpenter. He of the Barney Fife physique and a cookie-duster so bushy it was more a matter of a mustache wearing a man than the other way around. Comical appearance issues aside, Deke was no pantywaist. Far from it. Slim but sturdy, he was a forty-something former Miami patrolman and Army infantryman who knew the difference between flakes, freedom riders, bad-asses or doves. Deke wasn’t much for conversation, which was a big plus in my book. Just signed in, worked his shift and booked without causing a ripple. My kinda subordinate. Never turned down a shift and, recently divorced, wasn’t hogtied by family obligations.
As for the ‘Cancel Counter-Culture Tour’ delegates, besides the main mouthpiece, the former groupie and the dope-dealer, there was TNT’s personal bodyguard. Known as ‘The Spleen Smasher’ or simply ‘Thick’. Leroy Shoates was a former nose-guard for the Chargers, Giants and Chiefs who’d retired a few years back with scarred knees from what I’d heard was a dozen separate surgeries. With his shiny bald head, permanent squint and perpetual scowl, nobody was dog-stupid enough to test the rep of a six-five, two-hundred-eighty-pound dude whose appetite hadn’t yet got the memo about scarfing less once you’ve hung up the cleats. Still, the man’s arms were bigger than both my thighs shoved together and the second I saw ‘im hop from their ride to run interference, stompin’ around like a Tyrannosaurus with smoke pumpin’ from both nostrils, apparently, he’d just flicked away a spent Winston-Salem upon exiting, I felt pretty damn confident myself and Deke had it made in the shade in terms of any substantial issues arising. Ah man, the dangers of complacency. I digress…
I hadn’t broken out the Barracuda for a nightshift since the first few weeks of opening for business. Had the air and tunes cranked on high as we’d cruised the coastal parkway toward WZTX, The Bay’s Rockin’ Rascals. The station HQ, nicknamed the ‘Silver Octagon’ for its eight-sided appearance, was a thirty to forty-minute ride from the office, so I’d been careful to make tracks at half-past three to allow for unseen delays to make the five PM shift time. Sure enough, that afternoon’s downpour birthed the usual number of fender-benders coming into downtown, but we just managed to dodge the predictable backup.
After passing through a wrought-iron entrance gate, where we were required to enter a keypad code provided by the station, I steered us through what seemed like several miles of a narrow, winding, twisted two-lane, walled in on both sides with sabal palmettos and bald cypress. Negotiating a final curve, the pavement gave way to a dirt/sand mix for another hundred yards before dead-ending at the outer edge of what appeared to be a recently paved lot. At the moment of our arrival, it was damn obvious we were late to the party.
For one, it appeared a large grouping of vehicles, everything from Roadrunners to VW bugs to microbuses, were packed into maybe a dozen available spaces, while another dozen were splayed across a narrow field of Bermuda grass like crooked, jagged teeth toward the rear of the building. Nary a clue how such a motley collection bypassed the entrance gate. So much for a secure perimeter. As for that ragtag grouping of wheels, nearly all sported Dade County tags and the cultural accessories of the day, from painted on peace or flower-power signs to pot-shaped stick-on’s. Safe to say the word of TNT’s arrival made it to Miami and a road-trip duly organized.
Standing out like a sore thumb was a white panel Ford van announcing ‘Wired for Sound’ stereo and electrical repair, parked at an angle at the rear of the building. Thus, blocking off the one-lane path leading back there.
As for the famed octagon itself, its shape being pretty self-explanatory, the ‘silver’ portion of its moniker derived from the shiny silver dome from which its antennae stood. As she stood, a fairly compact structure, though I had the feeling it was one of those ‘bigger on the inside than it looks on the outside’ propositions.
Now, the unexpected car-lot was one thing, but it was more the gathering of those transported by the former that birthed immediate concern. Deke and I exchanged both a knowing glance and telepathic message that, roughly translated, might’ve been verbalized as ‘exactly what kind of freakshow exhibit have we agreed to babysit?’
Zigzagging around the lot, I was forced to park my beloved Barracuda in knee-high cordgrass just to the left of a faded blue Ford T-bird with a rusted-out hood, cracked windshield with what appeared to be a pot bong in the shape of bare female breasts propped on the dash.
Normally I would’ve pasted one of my own handy stick-on signs announcing our presence to each of its doors via the company name and crest, being that the company’s only official vehicle had been on assignment at a downtown warehouse in Clearwater, but wisely decided a little anonymity was in order.
I remember asking Deke to guess a headcount from the squirming, screeching masses. He’d shouted somewhere in the ballpark of fifty or so. I nodded in lieu of a verbal reply, thinking he’d undershot it by a dozen or more. Though an accurate count was impossible considering the majority donned the familiar hippie threads, baggy, flowy shirts, sun or micro dresses and above-the-knee boots, and were swaying, gyrating, even boogying in mass, creating a sort of hippie stew. I figured closer to seventy-five or eighty.
Deke and I made our way toward the station entrance via a lengthy stone walkway with little choice but to take note of a few of the signs being waved around as the usual counterpoint to TNT and the conservative voice he represented. From the relatively tame and oft-repeated, ‘Make Love-Not War’, ‘Power to the People’, to those solely Vietnam-war related, ‘Drop acid, not bombs’, ‘Get the HELL out of Vietnam’, to a select few relating closer to the demonstration at hand, ‘DICKols-Respect my existence or expect resistance’, ‘Just spin the records and shut the F&^K up,’ and finally to the downright threatening, ‘Play the music or get a real stick of TNT rammed straight up your ass.”
The first group to notice our advance did so with great relish, damn near salivating at the prospect of an up-close-and-personal with anyone representing the establishment of law and order. Be they commissioned or merely of the rental variety. At first glance, it appeared more than half were female, though I gotta admit if long hair alone was the lone characteristic on display, at least a dozen could’ve gone either way.
If I had a nickel for each and every insult tossed our way as we’d wound our way to the double-door entrance, colorful terms such as ‘rent-a-swine’, “stormtrooper’, ‘Nazi-for-hire’, or ‘Johnny one-bullet’, that next day could’ve been spent making retirement plans in the Bahamas. As it was, Deke and I reached our destination without a physical scratch, though we both agreed in the aftermath that our nostrils hadn’t been nearly as lucky. To put it mildly, those folks reeked like unwashed rear-end. Not to say all of ‘em stunk, but the majority definitely held the stench of stale BO, rotting choppers and neglected ass-cracks. It was as if they’d made it a point to uphold the west coast hippie-stereotype we’d all heard about.
A line of ‘em, sneering and growling like we’d pocketed their stashes, stood in a blocking pose at the bottom of some stone steps leading in, but they backed away quick enough once we made it obvious we weren’t about to slow our pace.
By the time the station manager’s assistant keyed the door, we’d practically dived inside just for a whiff of semi-fresh air. Surprisingly, not a single demonstrator tried to weasel their way in, content to step back, chant, curse and sway.
I did feel a light misting on the back of my neck, cleanly shaven just that morning courtesy of Bub’s Barber Shop in Jet Sands. At one point Deke later confessed he’d felt a similar spit shower tickle his jawline as well, flat refusing, much like myself, to acknowledge it in fear of an impending tidal wave.
Shutting and relocking the door behind us, the assistant to Miss Tanner introduced herself as Patti Webb, a squirrely little chick of maybe twenty-five with coke-bottle-thick glasses, buckteeth and a bouffant doo thick enough to provide air cover. The lobby was fairly bland as such spaces went, just a couple of small leather couches, a single recliner bookended by lamp tables and centered by an entertainment center holding a small tv and stereo system; the entire setup as blue-light bargain-basement as the cut-rate framed, Kmart-rate pastoral pics adorning each wall.
Music echoed from all directions from assorted wall-speakers courtesy of the live broadcast, Otis Redding’s ‘Sittin’ on the dock of the bay’ the current selection. We followed Miss Webb, she of the baggy purple pantsuit, spindly frame and stiff, upright gait, down a narrow hall, its paneled-wood walls littered with photos of past DJ’s.
I glanced at my wristwatch as we veered right and directly into a well-lit conference room, where at least two of the three folks present greeted us with varying degrees of disinterest. It was just past seventeen hours, five-oh-eight PM to be exact. TNT Nichols and his entourage were inbound within the half-hour and tensions were predictably high. Miss Judy Tanner, a snappily dressed, brunette beauty of perhaps forty with piercing brown eyes and the graceful agility of a professional dancer, breezed past her two colleagues to provide a warm smile, gentle handshake and prerequisite howdy. Meanwhile her assistant secured the door behind us with one hand while nervously gnawing the pinky finger of the other. I swear if someone popped a balloon in her vicinity that girl would’ve surely blown an artery and soiled herself, not necessarily in that order.
“Welcome to the octagon, gentleman,” Miss Tanner announced matter-of-factly, a gleaming twinkle in those gorgeous orbs. “For this particular evening however, we’ll simply refer to it as our little corner of hades. The mission that you have chosen to accept, is to help us survive the next three hours with our collective skins intact. I have the feeling that whatever payment we agreed upon for your services will prove to be one of the great bargains in private security history.”
I liked that lady from minute one. I would also grow to respect her greatly. I just wish she hadn’t proven to be so damned prophetic.
~ * ~
Inmates of The Octagon
“So once Nichols and his crew arrive, you want us to form a cordon at least wide enough for them to make it inside, basically to prevent one of his many admirers from snatchin’ his toupee?”
Drake Harrison stood stiffly behind the podium as if preaching a Sunday sermon or chairing an executive meeting.
“Precisely that, Officer Harrison,” Miss Tanner confirmed, flawless dimples briefly on full display from the flash of a smile that evaporated all too quickly.
“All due respect, ma’am’,” Deke said, twirling the right corner of his enormous mustache like a classic villain from a black and white serial, “The two of us don’t make much of a cordon, considering the mob of thoroughly perturbed longhairs out there.”
“Well, truth be told, we didn’t expect such an…impressive turnout. Just do the best you can to help protect our guests.”
“As for those perturbed longhairs, by all means, feel free to shoot ‘em if you feel the need,” a balding, bespeckled man wearing a perpetual frown first introduced as Trent Daniels, station sales manager, spat sourly. Wearing a blue suit that appeared at least two sizes too small for his pudgy build, he appeared on the verge of taking a header into the nearest wall “Well, maybe even if you don’t. Do society a favor.”
“Please, Trent,” Tanner injected, shooting the man a stern glance that strongly suggested he cease and desist. To which Daniels stared down at his Buster Browns and did just that. A second male representative, who’s blonde, shoulder-length locks matched any of those outside, Jody Gilliam by name and program director by trade, sat motionless and expressionless at the conference table with heavily tattooed arms crossed, staring into a far wall as if daydreaming of when the entire mess was just an unpleasant memory.
“It goes without saying that the least publicity we need is active gunplay,” Tanner continued, pacing the narrow space between the conference table and back wall. “Channels two and four are on their way, probably to arrive either just at or near the time Nichols and his crew pull up. As for any probable riots, we’re hoping your presence alone will provide ample deterrent.”
“Not to worry, boys,” Gilliam spoke up, his ragged, gravelly voice that of a lifetime smoker. “You got The Spleen Smasher himself backing you up. I’d bet he’s more than willing to crack some hippie-skull if push comes to shove. I saw the guy play in his prime and I’d confidently lay my money on him against forty or fifty doped-out draft-dodgers.”
“Good to know,” Deke mumbled drolly, shooting Drake a somber glance.
Noticing Tanner’s deep frown at his associate’s reckless statement, Drake quickly intervened.
“Well then, Officer Carpenter and I will do our best to keep space between Mister Shoates and the crowd.”
In the aftermath, he and Miss Tanner locked eyes and nodded in unison.
Meanwhile, Patti Webb began desperately tugging at her bosses’ jacket sleeve as if to ask for permission to use the head.
“They should be, um, pulling up within the next five to ten minutes, Miss Tanner. Perhaps these men, um, the guards should take up position at the edge of the walkway.”
“Calm yourself, Patti,” Tanner consoled with a gentle tap to her assistant’s shoulder, “I think Officers Harrison and Carpenter deserve the ten-cent tour. Join me, gentlemen?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Drake answered, stepping away from the podium and joining his partner at the door as Tanner calmly doled out instructions to her staff in-between random grumblings and complaints.
“…bad idea all along, Judith…not exactly doing my ulcer any favors…” Daniels moaned between labored sighs.
“…we got with the program. The tunes his kind are targeting are headed straight up the charts no matter the amount of bitchin’…” Gilliam said, pointing upturned thumbs into the air.
“Listen people, I don’t completely agree with the decision either, but Stevenson okayed it and that is that. Now, just do your jobs and in a few hours it’ll all be over but the crying.”
Bernard Stevenson, it was to be learned, owned the octagon along with two additional Tampa area stations. As a decorated World War II vet, he was a harsh critic of hippie culture and all it stood for.
Daniels continued his rant even as Drake pulled the conference room door ajar and held it there for Tanner to take point.
“Hey, I understand the PR aspect of it, but like everything else, there’s bad and good public relations and this has bad with a capital B written all ov…”
An overheard speaker suddenly chopped short both the man’s incessant whine and Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Mrs. Robinson’, a downtrodden male voice announcing that a pair of media vans had been spotted exiting off the highway toward the station, obviously an in-house announcement since one of the previous year’s biggest hits instantly cut back in.
“That’s Rockin’ Rick Ross, our senior DJ,” Tanner said, leading them back out into the hallway and briefly pointing out a specific wall-pic featuring a grinning, long-bearded, silver-haired gentleman sporting a fringe jacket straight out of the Vegas Elvis catalog of flamboyance, “C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”
They took a sharp left and into a spacious breakroom, home to two large fridges, a trio of dining tables and assorted snack machines. In one corner sat, not one, but two retro jukeboxes and a cleared, circular space that could only be a dance floor.
“Nice,” Drake commented, “You know you’ve got it made in the shade as an employee when the prime room in your workplace is the break room.”
Tanner nodded as they continued through. “Mister Stevenson’s vision. His blueprint for the building came partially from a fifties diner.”
As a dead-end loomed, all slowed to sidestep a man half-submerged into the ceiling, and removing false tiles being propped nearby, while another peered upward from under the bill of a multi-stained baseball cap into the same darkened space without ever acknowledging the passerby’s presence, the back of his faded blue uniform shirt declaring ‘Wired for Sound Inc. – Where clarity is next to godliness’.
“Some issue with the output or input. It shouldn’t affect the broadcast,” Tanner said flatly, all but drowning out the muffled echoes of the half-hidden worker mumbling something to the effect of ‘diced ‘em and spliced ‘em without a hitch.’
As the hall veered right, the faint but unmistakable sound of Tommy James and The Shondells ‘Crimson and Clover’ echoing through the narrow corridor, the trio passed a grouping of assorted office spaces, the last of which featured Judith Tanner’s name and title stenciled in bold lettering.
The Disc Jockey’s ‘Jam Cave’, as it was labeled in poster board across the entry door was surprisingly cramped, with enough room for the on-air DJ and perhaps one other guest, depending on the collective bulk of each. Tanner, having entered first to greet the man she referred to as ‘Triple R’, then backed out to allow the officer’s room to enter, though to do so they were forced to turn sideways.
