Cutting Loose, page 8
“Who wrote that?”
“I did.”
“Are you kidding me?”
It got to number three in the hit parade and launched him into a new career. His voice was a surprise to him coming back from the radio; it had a certain warmth and immediacy he had never suspected. The public must have felt the same way, because the single stayed in the charts for a month. He had cut the record originally in his small studio at home, but Atkins invited him to rerecord it in RCA’s Studio B, and that gave the song a certain finesse. Mead was canny enough to avoid gouging contracts and found an agent, Phil Marcuse, who had some top artists on his roster. Marcuse understood that Mead was nervous at first of appearing live―backing and headlining are as unalike as night and day―so, though the single was riding high, Marcuse booked him into a few Nashville bars that provided live music, where Mead was a regular. The welcome he received encouraged him, and he knew he had to put on his grown-up pants and go out in front of the big crowds.
That was the start of a good time. He produced two more hits and three albums of country standards that were seen as true to the genre, and developed a way with an audience that came across as natural and relaxed. Jeanne and he, finally married, had a son, Earl, and soon there was another on the way. He hit the high tide of his career around the time Jonas was born. Almost as soon as he had become used to success, he found it was slipping away.
He had fretted from the beginning that his music was not the wave of the future; the kids were listening to rock and those a little older to The Carpenters. The Nashville Sound was the rustle of greenbacks and country music was for hillbillies. The divide went deep; Flatt and Scruggs split up over it. The record business had to follow the money; they had no choice. It was a clash of cultures for songwriters and artists who had to decide if they would trim their sails to the new wind, or stay pure. He had grown up inside the tradition and his song, ‘She Rode Away,’ had been formed by it. The songs and albums he recorded subsequently stayed within that idiom, but his audience was disappearing, and easy-listening melodies with violins now filled the horizon. He found himself short of money, and encumbered by an agent who had no sympathy for his predicament. Marcuse kept saying to him, “So what’s the beef with violins and a choir? It works for Jim Reeves.” Reeves, in Mead’s opinion, could put his toupée where the sun never shines. For a while, he tried to adapt, but his heart was not in it, and that was evident in the results.
He had always known there was a chip of ice in Jeanne’s heart, and he predicted almost to the day when she would pull the plug on their marriage. She found a guy named Bill who was an insurance agent for Providence Mutual, took the two boys, and was gone. He did not see them again until they were in their teens.
How many ways are there to ruin your life? The list is short, and goes not much further than addictions and crime. Perhaps that is long enough; it gives a deal of room for maneuver. Mead had smoked some cannabis and toyed with harder drugs in his teens and early twenties. When his career foundered, he relied on them more. Something held him back from disappearing into complete destruction; he never used the devastating drugs from which there was no return. His was a gradual slide into a forgetfulness and ease that never succeeded in drowning his memories and hopes, which kept surfacing in his dreams. He stopped mixing with his former peers and stayed home, watching daytime TV and wishing the days away.
The years brought some changes; the world moved on, and, one day, he was approached by an executive of an advertising agency who asked him if he would allow his song, ‘She Rode Away’, to be used in a TV advertisement for a hygiene product.
“Hygiene?” Mead said. “I’m all in favor of that.”
Younger people, who did not know his music, found it a refreshing change from their usual fare; the advertisement was popular and prompted RCA to reissue a couple of his albums. He tried to ride the wave to a renewed career, but there was a limit to what he could achieve.
Appelbaum saw Mead performing in a Nashville bar one evening and asked, after the gig, if he could buy him a drink. Mead knew who he was; Appelbaum, though new on the scene, had made an impression as an agent, and Mead was flattered to be approached: Marcuse had long since departed. Appelbaum suggested to him that traditional country music was ready for a comeback. Mead could see that Appelbaum did not make big promises; he was low-key and picked his words carefully. Mead knew straight away that they could get along, and they agreed to work together. When it came to making their situation formal, Appelbaum insisted that Mead take the contract to a lawyer before signing. The contract, of course, was good, and Mead knew this was a person he could trust.
The days of great success were past, but Appelbaum provided a steady schedule of work, and followed both his own taste in popular music and his business instincts, which told him Mead had the talent he could nurture and direct. Mead regained his sense of who he was and began to rebuild his life. He was too wary to jump into a second marriage, and contented himself with several relationships that he knew would not lead to drama.
“Willy Nelson?” said Appelbaum, leaning back. “He’s got the gig at the Opry, sure. Why not? Yes, he’s remade himself, or some guru has. That’s the American way. Anything is possible. You know that, yourself. Long may it continue.”
Appelbaum had a calming manner. Marcia told him he should have been a shrink, and Mead, like others on his list, was relaxed and smiling when the hour had elapsed. Marcia beeped to let him know his next patient had arrived. He walked Mead out, and they shook hands.
“Sim,” said Marcia, “this is Texas Ranger Emmett Capps.”
Appelbaum saw a guy about forty years of age dressed in a Stetson and plain clothes, holding an attaché case. He had a wiry build and a lived-in face that suggested a farmer who had somehow wandered into law enforcement.
“Ranger, welcome.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’m more than happy to assist in whatever way I can.”
“I’m out of my bailiwick, sir, so you’re under no obligation at all to assist.”
“Understood. By the way, may I introduce Jed Mead?”
Emmett smiled and held a hand out. “Love your music, Jed. Got a couple of your albums.”
“Why, thank you. I surely appreciate that, sir.”
“Emmett, please.”
“Emmett, right. Listen, you keep an eye on Sim here. No knowing what he’s getting up to. Hey, come see my next show, Shepley Hall, Thursday. I’ll leave a ticket at the box office.”
“Wow, thanks.”
“You take care now, Emmett.”
“You bet.”
“So. Ranger,” said Appelbaum, “come into my office.”
Emmett saw dark paneling, photos of celebrities, and leather seats.
“Please―take a seat.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Appelbaum smiled as he sat. “I confess to being intrigued. Marcia tells me you flew in.”
“Yes, sir, and thank you for rearranging your schedule.”
“My pleasure. So, not some local matter. I was scolded for jaywalking the other day, so it can’t be that.”
“Sir, jaywalking is a sin all right, and if you were in Texas, we’d surely need you to explain yourself.”
“Then, Ranger, you have the floor.” He laced his fingers across his vest.
“All right. Sir, a girl has died. It’s my job to find who was responsible. And when I say responsible , that’s what I mean. Because she was murdered.”
Appelbaum raised his eyebrows and said nothing.
“She was young―twenties―beautiful, and―the reason I’m here―she was a guitarist who played bluegrass, country, and the like. She had a fondness for Chet Atkins songs. So, we’ve been talking to agents here in Nashville, trying to get a fix on who she was.”
“Whatever I can do, Ranger . . .”
“Thank you, sir. I see a lot of people who take another view when I come calling. So, this girl, sir, she died not less than six years ago. . . .”
“Uh huh. I’ve been here nine years now, so, there’s an overlap.”
“Yes, sir, so I believe, and we’re talking to a lot of agents who were here back then.”
“I bet. No shortage of agents in this town.”
Emmett laughed. “So I’ve discovered. Sir, you’ve got some big names on your list. If some unknown came looking for work, what’s your policy? Would you just say, no, my list is full?”
“No one gets past Marcia without an appointment. If it’s a phone call, I’ll listen. There’s a lot of Walter Mittys with no talent chasing a dream, but if the caller keeps my attention past two minutes, likely I’ll say, send me a tape.”
“Okay, and if the tape is interesting―”
“Then I’ll say, let’s talk. We’re all looking for talent. It’s like panning for gold. Most of what you’re looking at gets washed downstream. Cruel, but that’s the way it is.”
“Sure.”
“A lot of hearts get broken in this town.”
“I believe it.”
“May I ask where you’re based?”
“Masonville, right now.”
“So the girl . . .”
“Yes, sir, her body was found there, in Masonville.”
“Do you have a tape of her music?”
“No, sir.”
“Presumably you’ve had no luck with other agents.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Well.” Appelbaum spread his hands. “How can I help?”
Emmett opened his attaché case and took out a photograph, which he laid on the desk.
“Perhaps you’d take a look at this.”
Appelbaum’s face was impassive as he looked at her face. He took his time, inspecting it carefully, before his gaze moved back to Emmett.
“As you say, a beautiful girl.”
Emmett noticed that he did not pick up the photograph.
“Take your time, sir.”
“Mmm. A studio shot. Can’t you trace who took it?”
“It’s a police photo, taken recently.”
“You’re kidding. That would . . . surely, have to be six years after she died. Really?”
“She may have died long before she was found.”
“Amazing. You’re kidding . . . Gives me a chill, looking at it.”
“Yes, sir. They used her own lipstick.”
“Oh man,” said Appelbaum, leaning back, his face white. “Oh.”
The shock seemed real.
“I don’t know why that detail gets to me,” said Appelbaum, “but it does.”
“The skills are there, nowadays, to produce convincing post-mortem shots.”
“Clearly.”
Emmett had glanced at a photo of Appelbaum with Johnny Cash as he came in, and it struck him that the person across the desk was considerably thinner. The shirt was too large in the neck.
He could see that Appelbaum was in no hurry to say if he knew the girl in the image, and guessed the agent was looking for more information. That delay suited Emmett; the longer he had with Appelbaum, the better. He had no intention, at this stage, of going into details about the barrel; that would happen on a later occasion. For the present, he was content to probe.
“I’m a little confused, Ranger. If she died not less than six years ago, why is she . . .” He gestured at the photo.
“Mr. Appelbaum, sir, the body is in a good state of preservation. The reasons for that―I hope you’ll excuse me, they’re matters I can’t discuss at this stage.”
“I see.”
They sat looking at each other for a few moments. Emmett guessed Appelbaum was wondering why he was under the microscope. Was there more to this than he was being told? Was he a suspect? If he was the killer, his mind would be racing in a dozen directions.
“Sir, most murders are spur-of-the-moment. A guy snaps and shoots his wife. This isn’t that sort of case. This is in a league of its own. That’s why it has our attention. All murders matter, don’t get me wrong, but this is, I guess, what they call ‘heinous.’ If I’m pronouncing that right.”
Appelbaum nodded and said nothing.
“So we’re looking hard.”
“Sure. That’s good. I mean―people who do such things―”
“Right.”
“To kill a young, beautiful person. How can you get inside the head of someone like that?”
“It’s an ugly world.”
Appelbaum sighed and looked again at the photograph.
“As to her identity, I’m afraid I can’t help. I would certainly remember if I had met her.”
“Okay.”
Emmett said it as though there were no more to be said, and put the photo back in the envelope. Appelbaum made no effort to rise from his chair.
“One other thing, sir. Would you be prepared to give your fingerprints? I have a kit, I could take ‘em.”
“Ranger, I’ll pass on that.”
“Uh―okay. Any particular reason for that?”
“I’ve spent my life as a law-abiding person. I’ve never been in any system, and that’s the way I like it.”
“Sir, this would make it easy. Submit your prints―it’s over, I move on.”
“Mm. And that’s fine. But I’m a private person, and, as I say, I’m happy to keep it that way.”
“Sir, someone with nothing to hide would say, okay.”
“I assure you, I have nothing at all to hide. I simply don’t care to be tabulated and listed in any way. The surveillance nowadays, the encroachments, I’m not crazy about it.”
“Sir, I understand entirely. That’s your right, and I have no beef with it.”
They looked at each other silently for a few moments, then Appelbaum said, “Thank you, Ranger, for coming by. As I say, anything I can do to help, short of private data . . . It hasn’t been much this time, but . . .”
“Sir, all information is useful, even for elimination purposes.”
“Good.”
“So, thank you.”
“Incredible. . .”
“What’s that, sir?”
“That someone can just slip through the cracks like this.”
“Lot of people do exactly that.”
“Perhaps transients and others who have been unfortunate in whatever way. But a person with an ordinary life, ho lives somewhere, pays taxes.”
“Same thing, sir. A lot of people like that disappear and no one notices.”
Appelbaum looked past Emmett, seeming lost in his thoughts.
“Well . . . Ranger, I wish you well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Finally, they stood, and Emmett returned the envelope to his case as Appelbaum came round the desk. Emmett, looking up, saw a partial view of a face in a photo.
“Isn’t that Elvis right there?”
“He’s sort of unmistakable. That was taken at Graceland. He genuinely was a nice guy.”
Emmett nodded.
“There should be more nice guys around.”
“That’s right.”
“If I need to come around again―”
“Don’t be a stranger. Come visit.”
“Appreciate it, sir.”
Appelbaum had not picked up the photo, but that was not a difficulty. Coming out of a bar at lunchtime, he had dropped a paper napkin in a bin, and Mack Travis had retrieved it.
Travis brought two glasses of beer to the table.
“Thanks,” said Emmett.
Travis had taken the napkin, in a sealed envelope, to his Tennessee colleagues in their Nashville field office for analysis. It had been a long day of visiting agents, and there were more to be visited over the next two days as cover for their interest in Appelbaum.
“Man,” said Emmett, after a long drink. “I needed that.”
“Yeah,” said Travis, following his example. “My dogs need a rest, for sure. All that sidewalk.”
“That’s how many, now?”
“All the guys? Thirty nine and counting.”
“Wrap it up Thursday, then.”
“Works for me,” said Travis. “Emmett, I’ve talked to all the music agents I ever need to.”
“They fall into a pattern, I guess.”
“Do they ever.”
“But the one who matters, Appelbaum―”
“Uh huh.”
“He’s interesting.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm. There’s a person there who isn’t from a mold. Whoever he is, whatever he is, I don’t rightly know, but he’s not some run-of-the-mill guy.”
