“The greatest gift is the realization that life does not consist either in wallowing in the past or peering anxiously into the future; and it is appalling to contemplate the great number of often painful steps by which ones arrives at a truth so old, so obvious, and so frequently expressed. It is good for one to appreciate that life is now. Whatever it offers, little or much, life is now –this day-this hour.” Charles Macomb Flandrau

Ernest Hemingway drank here. Cuban revolutionaries Fidel Castro and Che Guevera drank here. A longhaired young hippie musician named Jimmy Buffett drank and performed here, too. From the 1930’s through today this rustic dive bar has seen more than its share of the famous and the infamous. It’s a little joint called Capt. Tony’s in Key West, Florida. Eighty-seven-year-old Anthony ‘Capt. Tony’ Tarracino has been the owner and proprietor of this boozy establishment since 1959. It seems Tony, as a young mobster, got himself into some serious trouble with ‘the family’ back in New Jersey and needed to lay low for a while. In those days, the mosquito invested ‘keys’ (or islands) on the southernmost end of Florida’s coastline was a fine place for wise guys on the lam to hide out. And this was well before the tee-shirt shops, restaurants, bars, art galleries, charming B&B’s and quaint hotels turned Key West into a serious year-round tourist destination. Sure, there were some ‘artsy’ types like Hemingway and Tennessee Williams living in Key West during the late 50’s when Tony bought the bar, but it was a seaside shanty town where muscular hard-working men in shrimp boats and cutters fished all day for a living. From dawn to dusk they’d set their lines and nets in these warm salty waters where the Gulf of Mexico meets the great Atlantic Ocean. Today the commercial fishing trade is all but gone and tourism has replaced it as the economic backbone of our community. The narrow streets and walkways of Key West are teeming night and day with visitors from around the world and a few will find their way here to Capt. Tony’s. A few meaning those who don’t give damn if the lights are dim and dangerous and the old wooden bar stools are a bit worn and wobbly. A tree grows in the center of the tavern and disappears through the roof. Up above the bar are countless women’s bras, like veritable helium filled balloons’, that have floated up and hang stapled from the ceiling. And then there’s the grimy smoke-stained windowless walls that are covered with license plates, business cards and faded Polaroid pictures of visiting drunk men and women and the dollar bills they’ve left with names and dates and comments they wrote on those George Washington’s. I as a local and a regular at the bar have seen many a tourist pop their head into the darkness here at Capt. Tony’s and quickly move up to Duvall Street and the trendy tourist bar’s that line it. Like a place called Hemingway’s. Sure ‘Papa’ drank in there when it was something altogether different than it is now, but his main watering hole after a long day of deep- sea fishing was Capt. Tony’s. He loved his dark rum and he liked drinking that shit in a joint that was dark and dangerous. I mean, hell, he was Ernest Hemingway.

On this balmy Key West early evening, it’s only me at the bar and two college aged guys in khaki shorts and tee-shirts who sit over at table and nurse a couple of Jamaican beers. Other than that, there’s no one else around except a longhaired and bearded man who reads a book by flashlight behind the bar. This mysterious looking fellow in his mid-sixties is my old friend and the night bartender and everyone knows him as ‘Poet.’ Nobody but me and Tony, Gypsy Mama, the cocktail waitress, and a few close friends know his real name, but I gave him the moniker ‘Poet’ and he’s that and more. On any given night, Poet will down a few shots of tequila and launch into some new poem he’s just written. With a commanding presence, he’ll bellow out the words for all the bar to hear and, believe me, they will gladly listen and for as long as Poet wants to speak. I remember just the other night when Poet went on a quick rant and screamed out, “Slay me angel slay me good Cut me tear me like a good girl should Make me fall down at your velvet feet And burn me baby let me feel your heat Strike the match on my funeral pyre Smoke me up and take me higher So torch this scene with fire so hot Please pretty mama please don’t stop…” The cat is a little scary, mind you, but he’s so damn good that nobody cares, and the bar patrons even encourage him on. His badass big voice can arch almost into song as he spits out the words to some incredibly bizarre little number he’ll concoct on the spur of the moment. Most times it’s a good-looking female customer who unknowingly acts as the muse for a sudden burst of maniacal poetic inspiration. And speaking of women, this guy is still a chick magnet. I, for a fact, know that Poet was a very good-looking guy in his youth and long before the silver began to streak the long brown hair that falls well past his shoulders. That same silver also inhabits his unruly beard and together with the long hair it all conspires to conceal some very handsome facial features. Maybe it’s the full, pouty mouth and penetrating brown eyes that still gets to the girls these days. Who knows? But it happens all the time and I see it for myself every night. There’s just something about Poet’s cool demeanor and laid-back character that appeals to the divorced lonely female tourists who sip on fruity rum drinks and look him over with hungry eyes. But, man, let me tell you they go from hungry to famished when his silky, yet gritty voice carries those wild words out into the dark corners of the bar. It’s then and there they want to know him a whole lot better. Much, much better.

Did I mention Gypsy Mama? Oh yeah, I think I did. That’s her coming in the door right now so I guess it’s about time to get this party started. The night shift at Capt. Tony’s, that is. “How you doin’ Mama?” I call out. Gypsy Mama’s a little on the hefty size these days and she’s wearing one of her usual oversized colorful cotton dresses tonight. Always covered with beaded necklaces, turquoise rings, and silver bracelets, too. Gypsy Mama is walking slowly over here to the bar and I can feel it coming…. you just never know with this wild and wonderful woman… she’s laying her large leather purse on the counter and my hunch it’ll be the old Victorian English thing tonight. Sometimes she goes French, Italian or even Russian. I really do love the mock English accent when she’s starts spouting that Shakespeare shit. “What ya’ got to say for yourself, mama?” I ask. Gypsy Mama slams her fist on the bar and shakes her wild mane of white hair and…I was right…. “Are not you moved, when all the sway of the earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen the ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam, To be exalted with the threatening clouds: But never till to-night, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world, too saucy with the gods, Incenses them to send destruction. Gypsy Mama turns now and walks towards the juke box in the corner of the room and speaks over her shoulder in a Texas drawl, “In other words, my damn dog got out of the yard again and I probably won’t see the son-of- a-bitch til’ tomorrow.” Well, what can I say about our Gypsy Mama? She’s a walking contradiction and I think that entrance pretty much says it all. Mama has been the nighttime cocktail waitress here at Capt. Tony’s for almost forty years now. That’s right, forty years she’s been slinging those drinks to the poor boys, millionaires, angels and assholes alike. Don’t matter who you are, though. Gypsy Mama treats everybody the same and she can quickly see through any crap, too. And Gypsy Mama always gets right to the point if necessary. For instance, I remember one-night last week when two Alabama dudes had been hitting on a really drunk chick and they started getting a little pushy. And I mean literally. They were trying to push the girl out the door, and most probably, back to their little hotel room. Gypsy Mama don’t miss nothing, either. She’s got this scene figured out and calmly walks over to these guys and stands in the front of them and says in her straightforward way. “Where ya’ll going with the girl?” The bubba’s look at each other conspiratorially and one of them says, “Just taking our friend home. She got a little drunk.” In fact, the girl can barely stand up when Gypsy Mama takes her by the arm and leads her back over to a table and gently settles her down in a chair. “I think she’s staying here for a while, boys. I’ll see she gets home,” states Gypsy Mama. The bubba’s quickly walk over and proceed to lift the girl back up and that’s all it took. Gypsy Mama rears back and throws a right-hand punch into the closest guy’s face and then clocks the other dude, too. Gypsy Mama’s ready to swing again and glares at them. “Now get the fuck out of here before I get my gun.” She stares them down as they think about it. They don’t have to think about it too long because that’s when Fingers comes into the picture. He’s the door man and bouncer and does all the sound for the bands that play here. Fingers may not be a young cat, but he knows his mixed martial arts and you better not fuck with him, either. Then again, he will first try to persuade you with great human kindness. And if that don’t work…. things gonna get ugly.

Fingers is an African-American gentleman but like he says “I don’t see the color of a man when I look at him, but I see the color of his soul. You could say I got x-ray eyes, spiritually speaking.” To digress from a moment, Fingers grew up in Seattle and eventually went into the service but had an accident and got his discharge. It was after that he started to play some music for a living, and he was damn good, too. Played the blues, R&B, early rock n’ roll and eventually started to put it all together into his own style. It was his guitar playing, though, that stood out in all those musical styles. That’s why Tony started calling him ‘Fingers’ many years ago. He really likes his guitar chops and Fingers grew to like the name, too. Fingers. Got a certain ring to it, huh? Fingers has been here at Capt. Tony’s about as long as Poet and Gypsy Mama and together with Tony we’ve all become family and love living the island life. No matter that my own hair has gone snow white like a tasty frozen margarita, I still feel young at heart and love the life I live. Especially spending a good part of the day with Fingers, Gypsy Mama, Poet and Tony. Simple things are what we’re about here. High times, well played music and telling a good story is what we all love to do here in the bar. And that’s what I’m about to do for you. Tell you a damn good story. You may find it hard to believe but we all think it’s time for the truth to finally come out. I call this little tale, “Zack & Pandora and the long and winding road that led them to the light.”

Chapter 2

“The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials.” Confucius

Key West. A brief tourist guide to the island.

In Pre-Columbian times, Key West was inhabited by the Calusa people. The first European to visit was Juan Ponce de Leon in 1521 as Florida became a Spanish colony, a fishing and salvage village with a small garrison established here.

Today you can stroll amid tiny, colorfully restored homes where thousands of cigar workers lived in the 19th century. Huge, architecturally rich mansions were built by business tycoons and city leaders. Some have been converted into guest houses and inns with modern swimming pools and lush tropical gardens. `

Novelist Ernest Hemingway found inspiration for some of his best work here. Hemingway purchased a pre-Civil War mansion on Whitehead Street in the 1930s and lived in it for nearly a decade.

Playwright, Tennessee Williams, lived in Key West from 1941 until his death in 1983. It is believed that he wrote the final draft of Street Car Named Desire while staying at the La Concha Hotel in Key West in 1947.

Singer/songwriter, Jimmy Buffett, arrived in Key West in November 1971 with singer and songwriter Jerry Jeff Walker (already famous for "Mr. Bojangles") and was offered refuge in Jerry Jeff's open-air Coconut Grove home after Jimmy fled Nashville's weather and music business climate.

Treasure hunter Mel Fisher also called Key West home. Using Key West as a base, he recovered millions of dollars’ worth of gold and silver from the ship Nuestra Señora de Atocha, a 17th-century Spanish galleon that sank 45 miles west of Key West.

Residents and visitors to the island actively participate in sightseeing, diving, fishing, watersports, golf and shopping by day, and then become part of the sunset celebration held each evening at Mallory Square, when tightrope walkers, jugglers and animal acts perform before the fiery sun settling into the Gulf of Mexico.

Which brings us today. It all started in those so-called dog days of summer. End of June to be exact. By ‘all started,’ I mean the catalyst for a series of circumstances that could numb the mind and unquiet the heart of any music loving man, woman or child. That is, if they knew the truth. It was close to dusk as Tony sat at a table and listened to a young singer/songwriter who accompanied himself on guitar. Tony liked musicians. He liked them a lot. In fact, Tony would go out of his way to help a musician in ways that no one can imagine. In the case of the long-haired young guy on the stage, Tony had agreed to let him audition and he insisted that he should be paid for his time. Whether he got a gig didn’t matter, Tony believed that any musician should be paid in some form for his efforts. In this case, Tony told the young man he could drink as much free beer as he wanted for the rest of the night. Gig or no gig. “We’re all here together now side by side Want to have some fun and a real good time Tired of the craziness lookin’ for love I believe what they say about the eagle and the dove…” The kids name was Zack Zimmerman, and he was good. Damn good. Tony listened intently to the song Zack had written and was now performing in the way of an audition. It wasn’t long before a small smile found its way onto Tony’s face. There had been that other kid with the long hair so many years ago, he recalled. In this very setting, the shoeless hippie comes into the bar and asks to speak to the owner. Tony is bartending that day and looks at the kid skeptically and speaks in his heavy Jersy accent. “What do want with the owner?” “Like to play him a few of my new songs.” “Why the hell would he care about your new songs?” Tony spits out. “Cause they’re really good songs. Besides that, I’m out of money and a cold one would go a long way in making this a beautiful day,” says the hippie kid who smiles in spite of Tony’s East Coast cynicism and looks around the bar. “Man, I dig this place,” and he walks over to the stage and pulls out a guitar from a worn and weathered old guitar case. Before Tony can protest the hippie starts to strum the guitar and sing the words to one of his ‘new songs.’ “Livin’ on sponge cake Watchin’ the sun bake All those tourists covered in oil…” That’s all it took. Tony had ‘great ears’ as they say in the music biz and he quickly popped the top on a beer for the kid. Tony had heard a lot of bands and artists but, in this case, he knew he was in the presence of someone special. And someone who might go on to become a major recording artist. The kid’s name was Jimmy Buffett and that was his first paid gig. And it was soon going to be another young singer/songwriter’s first paid gig on the island, too. “The train has come and it’s pickin’ up speed Take a little trip we got all we need No matter what you say no matter what you do This peace trains come and its come for you Come for you come for you

You are the reason that I’ve come today You are the reason that I’ve come to play Brothers and sisters on this rock we call home Now is the time…we all get stoned

Stoned like the rock of Gibraltar Stoned as I’ve ever been Stoned now and I’ll probably get stoned again Stoned like that rock and roll Stoned as I’ve ever been Stoned now and I’ll probably get stoned again Stoned like the rock of ages Stoned as I’ve ever been Stoned now and I’ll probably get stoned again And again and again and again….”

Zack was bringing it on for Tony and anyone with ‘ears to hear.’ And that included the pretty young woman at the end of the bar as well as Poet, Gypsy Mama and Fingers who’d begun to pay close attention after the first few words of the song were sung. They also knew this kid had some serious talent and ‘serious talent’ in this bar gets a lot of respect. It was an hour or so later and Tony was still listening to the kid perform. He was now tapping his fingers in time to the music and ‘happy as a clam’ was the crusty old bar owner when Zack came to the end of a song. Tony waved him over to the table. “Come here kid. Let’s have a talk.” Zack nodded and reached down to pack his guitar away when simultaneously a man walked through the front door and headed straight for Tony’s table. He was tall and thin with long boney arms and he moved awkwardly and with some effort. The guy could have passed for ‘The Tin Man’ in the Wizard of Oz had he’d only been wearing a silver suit garnished with some metal studs and a hoary cone hat. His name was Johnny C, a fifty-year-old bearded, longhaired Englishman, and he was a regular at the bar and a self-professed ‘musicologist.’ Johnny C could ramble on for hours about the making of Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of The Moon,” The Beatles “The White Album” or The Sex Pistols “God Save the Queen.” British rock was his fixation, but he did love good music of any kind and he also happened to be an ace bass player. “He’s dead. The King of Pop is dead,” stated Johnny dramatically. Tony turned around and stared at the bearer of the bad news. “What the hell you talking about Johnny?” “Michael Jackson. They just announced it on TV. He’s dead, man.” Tony got a strange look on his face but said nothing. From the other side of the bar Gypsy Mama’s voice rang out. “Michael Jackson’s dead? Is that what you said Johnny?’ “That’s right Mama. Rushed him to hospital and they pronounced him dead,” replied Johnny breathlessly. “Thought you should know. I’m going back home to watch some more of the news,” he said and walked quickly away. Tony was stone cold silent when Gypsy Mama followed by Poet and Fingers arrived at the table. They all looked shocked and said nothing. It was if an old friend or relative had just passed and everyone needed to sort out their feelings. Or was it something else? Something quite terrible in their past that made the news of this superstars’ death seem strangely familiar and very personal. Finally, one of them spoke. It was Poet. “What do you think, Tony?” “They killed him,” replied Tony quietly. “I heard some things lately. Didn’t want to say nothing.” “Shit. I knew that was comin’, I knew it was comin’,” interjected Fingers who now looked visibly angry. Listening to all this was the young singer/songwriter who clutched his guitar case at the lip of the stage. He’d also heard the news brought in by Johnny C and was stunned. I mean, Michael Jackson had made some great music and he was such a big part of American music history. Love his music or not, this strange, tormented and talented entertainer had changed the course of popular music forever. There was also someone else eavesdropping in on the tragic news from Johnny C and the subsequent obscure conversation. She’d been in the bar by herself for the last hour and she too had been listening. Especially to Zack. And of all things and against every ounce of her rational brilliant brain and twenty-two years of life experience, she felt herself falling in love. In love with his songs…in love with his singing…in love with his face and hands and eyes and she was flat out… falling in love with this young singer/songwriter. Who knew she would find ‘the love of her life’ on this particular day in this particular bar in Key West, Florida.

Chapter 3 “Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor could wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shall lie down With patriarchs of the infant world— With kings, the powerful of the earth--- The wise, the good, Fair forms, And hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulcher.” William Cullen Bryant

Her name was Pandora Palmer and her mother, a former philosophy major in college, had given her the name Pandora from the writings of Philo of Alexandra. This Jewish writer (ca. 30/20 B.C.-A.D. 45/50) sought to establish truths of philosophy through allegorical reading of biblical scriptures. It was his discourse on God and his plan for nature that inspired the name.

“…..But there is no swerving in the nature of the universe, for that nature is supreme above all and so steadfast are its decisions once taken that it keep immutable the limits fixed from the beginning….A clear proof that the earth retains its vigor continually and perpetually at its height is its vegetation, for purified either by the overflow of rivers, as they say in Egypt, or by the annual rains, it takes a respite and relaxation from the weary toil of bearing fruit, and then after this interval of rest recuperates its native force till it reaches its full strength and then begins again to bear fruits like the old and supplies in abundance to each kind of living creature such food as they need. And therefore it seems to me that the poets did not do amiss in giving her the name of Pandora, because she gives all things that bring benefit and pleasurable enjoyment not to some only but to all creatures endowed with conscious life.

And so, Pandora Palmer graduated from Vanderbilt University only last year and she was now working as a journalist for the Miami Herald. She’d gotten lucky with the help of an old family friend and was given the plum little writing job only eight months ago. So far it had been a few small assignments and one feature story for the travel guide section in the Sunday paper. Family friend or not, Pandora was a good writer. A seriously good writer. She’d graduated in the top of her class and the girl really knew how to throw some words around. It was hard news stories, though, that she hoped to be writing someday soon. War, disasters, political intrigue, murder and mayhem is what interested her most. Odd for such a pleasant and good-natured young lady but that was her goal as a journalist. Little did Pandora know she would soon be living out, in her own life, that very kind of sordid story.

Once again, Fingers spoke up in a highly agitated voice. “Those sons-of-bitches are at it again. They don’t give a shit about anyone or anything. We all know that Jackson was worth more dead than alive,” said Fingers and continued, “Trust me. He was killed. Somehow, someway they pulled it off.” At this point, Gypsy Mama, who still looked like she was about to cry, took Fingers by the hand and spoke softly “It’s alright baby. Nothing we could do.” “Hell, I could have warned him. I saw it comin,’ Mama. I saw it comin’ a long time ago. Damn, I should a done something. I could of warned him.” He stopped his tirade and glared at Tony. “And you knew something was going to happen? Hell, Tony, why didn’t you say anything?” Tony did not return the intense gaze and stared down at the table. “Nothing we could do, Fingers. It’s the young guns in the family who are runnin’ things now. They’re just picking up on where their fathers left off.” Over at the bar, Pandora had listened in on this oblique exchange and had some questions, too. It was a little hard to believe these old folks would be so upset over Michael Jackson’s death but then again, they were all music lovers, she reasoned. But there was that comment. They killed him. What the hell did that mean? She wondered. Stay totally quiet and don’t move a muscle, Pandora commanded herself. Be invisible. Maybe they forgot she was sitting a few feet away and taking in every single word of their conversation. Zack was equally intrigued and finally decided to speak up. “Did you know Michael Jackson?” In their apparent grief, or whatever it was, they forgot he was standing there, and they still hadn’t paid any attention to the girl at the bar. “No man, I never met the cat,” replied Fingers who still looked like wanted to hurt somebody. “So why would you want to warn him? About what?” Fingers glared at the kid. “No matter, man. Just be glad you ain’t no superstar.” Zack looked at him puzzled when Tony abruptly stood up from the table. “That’s enough, Fingers. Let’s move over there and talk about it,” and he pointed to a table in the far corner of the room. Tony glanced back at Zack and nodded his head in approval, “Your good kid. Come on back tomorrow night and you can play around eight o’clock. We’ll work out the money part later but tonight the beers on me.” Zack smiled big and extended his hand, “Thanks man, thanks so much.” Tony gave him a little smile, turned back and shook his hand and then walked away. Poet, who’s said very little up to this point, looked at Zack and spoke in a hushed voice, “Congratulations, man. You got a gig. I like your songs and I just hope someday you never have to join the classic rock club” and he left that cryptic comment hanging as he walked away with Fingers and Gypsy Mama. “The what?” asked Zack. There was no reply from Poet.

At that very moment two thousand miles away, a meeting was about to begin. A meeting Las Vegas style. Sin City style. ‘Old mob school’ meets ‘new mob school’ style. Viva Las Vegas. Surrounded by stark stone mountains and a vast never ending arid desert this adult playground has, for seventy-five years, lured people from across the world to its guilty pleasures. Non-stop gambling, dazzling entertainment and plenty of girls with their clothes on or off or anywhere in- between. Tonight, it’s the ladies of Caesars Palace who wear sheer see-through sexy black undergarments and dance suspended in cages above an open-air bar where the intoxicated gamblers, just below, drink hard and play blackjack. That is, when they’re not leering up at the slinky dancers who grind and gyrate in time to the heavy bass line that drives the pounding electronic club music. Just across the cavernous interior of the casino are the large and looming video screens that show live baseball games, horse races and even some early pre-season pro football. A gigantic, digitized wall with odds on those games and all upcoming games blinks incessantly in red and blue. At a table, just across from the bar sit four men. Three of them are in their mid to late thirties and the older man appears to be in his late seventies. Except for the older man who wears stylish sweatpants, and a silk New York Jets sweatshirt, the younger men all wear Armani. Top to bottom these guys look like any other upscale young professional man with good taste and money. And that last word is the key word. Money. “So, my wife Louise tells me you just had a baby,” says the old guy. This is Luciano ‘Lucky’ Capesi and the undisputed mafia boss of North America for the last forty years. His young counterpart is Peter Antonetti, and he takes a sip of his martini and smiles. “Sure did Mr. Capesi. A girl. Got her mama’s good looks, too.” “Salude. I wish you and your wife and new baby great happiness,” replied Luciano and lifts his scotch and soda and toasts Peter. “Nothing like a pretty little girl in the family. They bring you back to reality when things get a little too hard out there. Ya’ now what I’m talkin’ about?” “Yes, sir. I do,” responds Peter gratefully. From across the bar a tall heavy-set man in his mid-thirties, also in Armani, appears at the table and looks down anxiously at Peter. He speaks urgently before turning to leave, “Sorry to interrupt you, Pete, but I thought you should know. Michael Jackson just died.” The two other young guys look at Peter knowingly but don’t say a word. “Too bad,” replies Peter calmly. “Never really liked his music or that glove thing anyway.” This gets a few laughs from the guys, but Mr. Capesi holds up his hand. “Don’t be makin’ light of the dead. ‘Cause when he was alive, he made us millions. Sometimes, though, a dead guy can make you even more. Right, Peter?” “Yes sir, Mr. Capesi. And we appreciate you showing us the way on all this.” Luciano pulled a fat Cuban Cohiba cigar out of a small leather two pocketed humidor that lies on the table. Quickly, one of the guys takes a lighter out of his pocket and lights the cigar for the old mobster. It takes a few moments for the slow and methodical ‘lighting’ ritual that goes with any good cigar and then Luciano takes a big hit and lets the smoke out very slowly. He speaks quietly and with great purpose. “In the old days, when the rock and roll first got started we made our money the hard way. Payola and payoffs to radio stations and all that shit. When we went legit and started investing and running the record labels, we hit pay dirt. The album sales were out of this world. It was like getting on a never-ending streak of good luck at the crap table.” Luciano takes a sip from his scotch and soda then inhales another mouth full of smoke and slowly blows it out before continuing. “After we bought controlling interests in those big labels, we learned something. The thing we discovered was this. They call it ‘catalogue sales.’ In other words, a recording artist has a good run of hits and then it’s over. Bing bang boom. He’s done. But in the case of some artists the sales of their big hit albums will sell for years to come. In some cases, sell fifty or hundred times more than when they were first released. And especially after their dead. Look at Presley, he’s made more since he died than when he was alive. It’s like an annuity.” Peter sits up in his chair and interrupts the old man. “Did you do that?” “You mean wack him? In the end, yeah. We had him so juiced up and hooked on pills here in Vegas we figured it was just a matter of time. We decided to have some patience with Elvis ‘cause we thought it would happen sooner than later. The fat slob just wouldn’t die. We finally had to take of business, ya’ know what I’m talkin’ about?” “Yes, I do. Very well done, Mr. Capesi,” Peter replied approvingly. “Let’s just say we started to figure this out back in the old days with Buddy Holly. Before your time, but he went down in a plane crash.” “You arranged that?” asks Peter. “Hell yes, we arranged that. Buddy Holly was pretty famous, but he became a legend overnight,” Luciano replies proudly and continues, “In the sixties and seventies we got really good at it. The rock stars were doing lots of drugs and if they’d accidentally overdosed, who’d question that? “ Peter takes a sip from his martini and looks at his two companions and says very sincerely, “We owe a lot to Mr. Capesi and the others. They were geniuses.” Luciano sit’s up a little straighter in his chair with this compliment and speaks with authority. “Now you take a living legend like Michael Jackson. He sold millions and millions, but he’s become a schlock with all the weirdness he’s done. Plus, he’s over fifty years old. No more new multi-million selling albums. It’s over. I don’t give a shit if he went and toured the rest of his life, he was done. In my opinion, he also deserved to die.” Luciano aims his cigar like a gun and says loudly, “Bang! Michael Jackson…. you’re dead. Rest in peace, you little pervert,” and he takes a big hit from the cigar. Quickly getting back to business Luciano continues, “But the pervert is a legend and when the news of his untimely death gets out to the world, his fans are gonna shit. They’re going to canonize the guy. He won’t be the weirdo Michael Jackson anymore but St. Michael. And his catalogue sales will go through the roof. The old fans and the new fans are going to buy all those old albums again and, trust me, he’ll sell more albums now than he ever did when he was alive.” Peter has been listening intently to all this and speaks up again. “That’s why we so appreciate you letting us come into the music business. We’ve done everything you suggested, and I promise we’ll make it worth your while. And, of course, all the other families, too.” Luciano nods his head and takes a puff off the cigar and exhales. He stares hard at Peter for a moment and speaks very slowly and deliberately. “You get them when they’re in their prime and make them a legend…. or you get them when their old and still a living legend. Either way you make them dead and you make a lot of money.”

Chapter 4

“The most wonderful things in life, I believe, is the discovery of another human being with whom one’s relationship has a glowing depth, beauty, and joy as the years increase. This inner progressiveness of love between human beings is a most marvelous thing, it cannot be found by looking for it or by passionately wishing for it. It is sort of a Divine accident.” Sir Hugh Walpole

Back at Capt. Tony’s, Zack had made his way over to the bar and was sitting next to Pandora. They’d been talking for a while and something singular was ‘in the air’ and they both felt it. Not only had Pandora been smitten with Zack but he’d been very aware of her throughout his entire audition. In fact, he was playing as much to impress her as he was to get the gig. I mean, that’s why most musicians get into performing, right? The chicks. Ask any professional musician with a guitar or a set of drums or a keyboard. They’ll tell you the same story. When they were young, they wanted to impress the girls. Most likely they weren’t some hot shot football, basketball or baseball player or even very popular in school. But they knew if they could just play some music up on a stage, they’d get the attention they so desperately wanted. And that’s not to say they didn’t do it for the music, too. Of course, they did. Music was life and it was the air they breathed. But impressing a pretty girl was a huge part of it. Zack drank deeply from one of his ‘free all night’ beers that Tony had so generously made available to him and spoke again to Pandora. “So, you just stumbled here? How cool is that.” “Well, I was walking up the street and saw the sign. I’m writing a piece on Key West for the Miami Herald travel guide and it looked interesting. And very different than all the other places I’ve seen.” “I’m really glad you did.” Pandora smiled and took a good close look at the gifted young twenty- three-year-old singer and songwriter. He was so handsome with his long velvety dark hair and those eyes of his. Those mesmerizing amber, green eyes set inside a face that oddly resembled a young Leonard Cohen meets a young Elvis Presley. And there was his genuine kindness, she had now discovered. This was a kind and gentle man with a fierce intelligence and teeming with talent. Stop gazing into those eyes, she told herself, and she turned and pointed around the room. “This is quite a place.” Zack nodded his head in agreement. “Sure is. I’ve heard a lot of things about this bar and really wanted to play here. Jimmy Buffett got his start here, you know.” “Really?” replied Pandora. “Oh, yeah. Heard he came in here before he got famous and asked Capt. Tony to let him play a few songs for a beer. Or something like that. Anyway, the rest is history.” On the bar counter Pandora had a pen and paper with a page full of notes scribbled on it and she quickly jotted down this piece of information. “I’d like to ask Capt. Tony about that,” and she looked across the room where Tony, Fingers, Poet and Gypsy Mama sat talking. “Can you believe Michael Jackson died?” “Unbelievable. Man, he was so talented.” “You are, too,” said Pandora sincerely. “Thank you.” “I think you’re as talented as Michael Jackson.” “Oh, come on. He was a genius,” replied Zack just as sincerely. “Who says you’re not a genius?” Wow, thought Zack. No one had ever said anything like that to him before. Was she serious? “You really think I’ve got that kind of talent?” “Yes, I do. I love your voice and music and your lyrics.” Little did Zack know that Pandora was quite the lyricist herself. Although a journalist she’d been writing poems since she was a child and all inspired by her incessant reading of great literature and, especially, the famous poets down through the centuries. In fact, Pandora was quite a fanciful girl. At that very moment, and most probably because of Zack, she thought back on one of her favorite writings from the Celts in the seventh or eighth century. It was The Voyage of Bran Son of Febal to the Land of the Living. It told of Bran’s summons, after sweet music, by “a woman in strange raiment” who sings of distant isle where nature and art, silver twig and blossoming trees, combine to bring everlasting joy. She vanishes with her silver apple branch, and Bran sets out. After hearing from Manannan son of Ler of the “wood of beautiful fruit” with golden leaves, which is the sea on which he is sailing--and of the future coming of Christ--Bran sails to the Land of Women, where many years seem one and no savor is wanting.

Bran deems it a marvelous beauty In his coracle across the clear sea: While to me in my chariot from afar It is a flowery plain on which he rides about….

Sea-horses glisten in summer As far as Bran has stretched his glance: Rivers pour forth a stream of honey In the land of Manannan son of Ler

The shine of the mane, on which thou art, The white hue of the sea, on which thou rowest about Yellow and azure are spread out, It is land, and is not rough

Speckled salmon leap from the womb Of the white sea, on which thou lookest: They are calves, they are colored lambs With friendliness, without mutual slaughter….

Along the top of a wood has swum Thy coracle across ridges, There is a wood of beautiful fruit Under the prow of thy little skiff.

A wood with blossom and fruit, On which is the vine’s veritable fragrance, A wood without decay, without defect, On which are leaves of golden hue.

We are from the beginning of creation Without old age, without consummation of earth Hence we expect not that there should be frailty; The sin has not come to us….

A noble salvation will come From the King who has created us, A white law will come over seas; Besides being God, He will be a man…. Steadily then let Bran row, Not far to the Land of Women. Emne with many hues of hospitality Thou wilt reach before the setting of the sun.

And emne with many hues of hospitality had found Zack Zimmerman at that moment. A gig and a girl who thought he was a genius. He was a little taken aback and took a good long look at this young woman. Beautiful green eyes, lovely auburn hair, plump kissable lips and a fine little body, too. But there was something else about her. Something he’d never known in a woman. What was it? He pondered. Changing the subject, Pandora leaned in close to Zack and spoke quietly, “Did you hear them talking about Michael Jackson? Very strange, I thought. It was like they knew him or something. And one of them said he was killed.” “Yeah, I heard that, too. I even asked the black guy what he meant about warning him and he didn’t want to talk about it. He was really pissed off about something.” Pandora thinks about it and looks across the dark room at the bar owner and his three distinctive employees. She jots down a few notes and speaks quietly again. “I don’t know. There’s something else going on here. I don’t know what it is but there’s something else.” “Like what?” asks Zack. “It’s hard to say,” and she points her pen again in the direction of Tony and the motley crew of three. “Those people are really fascinating. Who knows what they’ve done in their lives but I’d really like to know.” Pandora’s got that look on her face that all professional journalists seem to get when they’re sizing up a potential good story. Maybe it’s their natural born sense of curiosity. Probing, digging deeper and finally coming up with answers are what a good journalist does best. And, of course, writing the compelling story. And Pandora had all the ear marks of a good journalist and she sensed she might be on to something. What it was exactly, she didn’t know. But she felt certain there was something else under the dark surface of this curious little bar called Capt. Tony’s in Key West, Florida. Breaking the spell, Zack spoke again. “So how long are you going to be in town?” Pandora turned back and smiled, “Just until Sunday.” “You going to come and hear me play tomorrow night?” Pandora took a moment before answering. Not wanting to appear overly anxious or anything that might resemble the fact that she was now more than ever…. falling madly in love with this charming young man…. she replied casually. “Well, I guess I could drop by.” That was enough for Zack. Life couldn’t have gotten any better than at that moment. Yeah, Pandora was very beautiful and sexy but there something about her that really ‘spoke to him.’ She was obviously very intelligent and seemed so ‘down to earth’ but there was something about her that had been missing in the other young women he’d known. They’d just met and yet he felt like he’d known her for years. Chemistry? He considered. Some kind of molecular attraction? Her atoms and my atoms makin’ love on the invisible sub-atomic level? That’s it, he concluded. Me and Pandora have some atomic love going on. That’s right, pretty mama. It’s Atomic Love. No doubt, the title to a new song, too.

Chapter 4

“Of all paths a man could strike into, there is, at any given moment, a ‘best path’ for every man; a thing which, here and now, it were of all things wisest for him to do; which could he but be led or driven to do, he were then doing ‘like a man,’ as we phrase it. His success, in such case, were complete, his felicity a maximum. This path, to find this path, and walk in it, is the one thing needful for him.” Thomas Carlyle

It was three weeks later, and Zack had become a regular performer at Capt. Tony’s. From eight o’clock until ten he would sing his clever songs and accompany himself on guitar. And the small early evening crowds seem to love it. The tips, including Tony’s monetary contribution, gave him just enough for his expenses like new guitar strings as well as food and drink money. It was also a phone call from Tony that helped him secure a job, in exchange for lodging, at a small bed & breakfast just up the street. Zack’s early morning duties now included putting the pump pots of coffee and hot water for tea out on the dining room table for the guests along with the delicious homemade scones and muffins. It was a charming old Victorian house, turned B&B, which was owned and operated by a middle- aged woman named Rachael O’Donahue. With a small inheritance, she had moved to Key West from Chicago many years ago and lovingly turned the old house into a small but thriving business. Antique furniture, leaded crystal lamps and hand-woven throw rugs on the wood floors graced the small dining room and sitting room where the guests could eat, mix and mingle and make their plans for the day. And on the walls, were Rachael’s paintings. Abstract images of island flowers and foliage, painted in bright oil-based colors, lined the walls of the place known simply as ‘Rachael’s.’ Island life on Key West had been very kind to Zack apart from Pandora not being there to share it with him. The two of them had spent one glorious night together before she had to return to her job in Miami and he missed her. Missed her bad. She’d come to his first gig at Capt. Tony’s and stayed the entire time for his two sets and later that night they walked the shadowy streets of Key West. And for hours they talked. They talked about anything and everything and it was probably the best night of his life. Pandora promised she would try and return to Key West soon and that promise was all that kept him going. Sure, he was enjoying his early evening acoustic shows at Capt. Tony’s, but Pandora had really gotten to him. Sneak attack. Blindsided. Out of left field this breathtaking baby show’s up in his life and just as quickly disappears. And there was the poem Pandora had given him late that night. Sitting on a park bench under the light of a lone streetlamp she had meticulously handwritten out an old English poem from memory. He couldn’t get rid of the last image in his head of Pandora putting the piece of paper in his hand and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek and walking away. As she turned to go, she spoke sweetly. “This has been the best night of my life. Thank you.” And that’s it? He thought. I gave you the best night of your life and you walk away? You’re welcome. My pleasure. Anything to make your little trip to Key West most enjoyable.

Zack had finished his chores for the morning and sat alone in the sitting room of Rachael’s B&B and stared down at the now crumbled piece of paper with the handwritten poem. He’d probably read it fifty times and once more he read it, but this time out loud. “As it fell upon a day, In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade, Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring Everything did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Leaned her breast against a thorn, And there sung the dolefull’st ditty, That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry, Teru, Teru, by and by, That, to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain. For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own. Ah (thought I) thou mourn’st in vain, None takes pity on thy pain. Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee, King Pandion, he is dead, All they friends are lapped in lead, All they fellow birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing. Even so, poor bird, like thee, None alive will pity me.”

What did it mean? He contemplated again. A parting lyrical gift and then she walks out of my life forever? A woeful poetic memento to remember her by in the years to come? Damn, he thought, she should of just shook my hand and said goodbye but, no, she had to leave me this poem and keep me wondering. Women! I should have seen it coming, he concluded. Standing in the doorway of the sitting room was the B&B owner, painter and pastry chef, Rachael, who’d been listening to Zack read the poem. “So, sad. Beautiful. But sad,” she commented. Zack looked over at the long red-haired woman in her cotton print dress with the apron around her waist and nodded his head. “Yeah, I know.” “Who wrote it?” she inquired. “I think it’s an old English poem. My friend Pandora gave it to me before she left town.” “Why would she give you something so sad?” “Couldn’t tell you. I guess some people want to leave you with something to remember them by. Her way of telling me something. I just don’t know what.” “Did you know her long?” “We met at Capt. Tony’s one night and she came to hear me perform the next day. We spent the night together walking around town. That was it. One night,” said Zack sullenly. Rachael walked into the room and sat down in an overstuffed dark green wing tipped armchair. She took a few moments and gazed up at the ceiling and then around the room and she appeared to be lost in thought. Rachael lived on ‘island time’ and did not hurry with anything and advice to the lovelorn was even more important than most things. Finally looking at her new employee and lodger she asked, “Are you in love with her?” Zack had to think about that one. In love? What does that mean? Am I dying the death because she’s not here? Absolutely. So, does that mean I’m in love? Maybe, he considered. “All I know is that I miss her a lot. She was very special,” he answered honestly. “More special than any other woman you’ve known?” pried Rachael. “Yeah, she was. Crazy huh? Spend one night with a woman and you can’t get her out of your head. Believe me, that’s never happened before.” Rachael got a small smile on her face and leaned into Zack. “You are.” “I’m what?” asked Zack. “In love,” stated Rachael and she stood and walked under the archway that leads into the adjacent dining room. Looking back at Zack she spoke one last time. “From what I gathered from the poem she was trying to tell you something. While you’re apart you both are sharing some sweet misery. She’s going through the same thing as you are right now.” “Really?” “It’s called love, Zack.” And with those words of womanly wisdom, Rachael turned and disappeared into the dining room leaving Zack to his ‘sweet misery.’

Chapter 5

“Home is where the heart is.” Pliny

A little later that evening at Capt. Tony’s, Zack sat at the bar next to Gypsy Mama. After a few weeks of performing at the clandestine little club, it felt like home to him. Especially, the almost immediate friendships he’d made with Tony, Poet, Fingers and Gypsy Mama. They had ‘opened their arms’ to him, so to speak, and made him feel like one of the family. They also understood him like no one else he’d ever met before. Somehow, they all seem to really relate to his life as a struggling musician. Gypsy Mama was doodling a picture on a bar napkin, Poet was reading a book by flashlight behind the bar and Fingers was straightening out some mic cables up on the stage. There were only a few customers in the bar, and it was almost time for Zack to begin his first set. He stared down at Gypsy Mama’s drawing on the bar counter and pointed at it. “That’s really good, Mama.” “Thanks. Passes the time away” and she glanced up at Zack before continuing her drawing. She liked this boy. She’d also come to truly appreciate him as a brilliant musician, singer and songwriter. Musicians came and went from the bar, but she knew he had some exceptional talent. “So, Zack. What’s your story?” Gypsy Mama asked. “What do you mean?” “Like where did you grow up and all that.” “Oh. Milwaukee. My dad’s been an electrician there for years. Contracts for houses and hotels, that sort of thing.” Gypsy Mama nodded her head and went back to doodling. “Some famous musicians came out of Milwaukee,” she stated. “Like who?” asked Zack very interested. “Les Paul for one.” “Really? The guy who invented the electric guitar? He’s from Milwaukee? I didn’t know that.” “Had an old musician friend, Steve Miller, in San Francisco. That was his god father.” “Steve Miller? You mean the Steve Miller Band?” “That’s the one,” replied Gypsy Mama matter-of-factly. “You knew Steve Miller?” exclaimed Zack excitedly and he launched into a line from one of Miller’s classic rock hits, “…the night is fallin’ and the music is callin’ and we got to get down to …” Gypsy Mama quickly joined in and together in perfect harmony they sang, “…Swingtown!” They both laughed and Zack asked again, “So you really knew Steve Miller?” “Back in the hippie days, around nineteen sixty-seven I think,” replied Gypsy Mama and she shook her wild mane of white hair up and down like a rock diva and laughed, “We’d smoke a dooby and get high together in his GTO convertible outside the Fillmore Auditorium.” “You used to hear him play, too?” “Oh, hell yeah. All the time.” Suddenly, a gloomy little look crept onto Zack’s handsome face and he spoke a little quieter. “My mom used to listen to his albums all the time. She really loved his music.” “Yeah? Where’s your mom now?” Zack took a moment before answering. “She died when I was young.” Gypsy Mama looked at him and said sincerely, “Sorry, man. That’s rough for a kid. How old were you?” “Twelve.” “Had to grow up fast, huh?” “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” Gypsy Mama went back to drawing on the napkin but she was intrigued. Her instinct told her not to pry but she did anyway. “What did she do? Your mom.” “I guess you could say she was a dancer,” replied Zack almost inaudibly. Mama stared back up at him and decided to probe a little deeper, “A dancer? What kind of dancer?” Zack went totally silent. She could tell he didn’t want to talk about it so she returned to her drawing. But she knew. And after a moment, Zack decided to confide in her. “She danced with her clothes off. She was a stripper,” he stated bluntly. Gypsy Mama did not react to this disclosure and nodded her head nonchalantly. “I’ll bet she was a good dancer,” is all she said. “So they say,” responded Zack acerbically. Gypsy Mama knew it was time to change the subject and laid her pen down and tried a different line of questioning. “So how did you end up here in Key West?” “A musician friend of mine has a relative who owns a restaurant on an island called North Captiva. It’s just up the coast from here and lots of boaters come in for lunch and dinner.” “Sure, I know where that is. ‘Bout a hundred miles up the coast.” “I came down from Madison, Wisconsin where I’d been playing some gigs with a band. Played solo for a month or so. Made a little money and thought I’d try my luck here in Key West. Met some people who had a big fishing boat and they dropped me off here on their way to the Caribbean.” Gypsy Mama looked at him and smiled. “Well, you tell ‘em thanks for me. It’s real nice having you around.” Zack got a little grin on his face and put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “Thanks. I really appreciate that. You’re cool Gypsy Mama. Very cool.” Gypsy Mama flashed him a smile and started to doodle again on the napkin. It was Zack’s turn now to ask a few questions as he’d been very curious about Gypsy Mama and, her cohorts, Poet and Fingers. Not one to be nosy but, in this case, he really did want to know more about these new friends of his. “How about you? Where’d you grow up?” Zack asked. “Texas. Can’t you tell?” she replied. “I say ya’ll a lot if you hadn’t noticed.” “So how long you been working here, Mama?” Zack questioned her again. “’Bout forty years, now,” she replied casually. “Believe it or not, I haven’t been off the island since I got here.” “Really? That’s a long time to be in one place. Did you work at any other bars before you came to Key West?” “No. Not as a cocktail waitress,” responded Gypsy Mama and she ceased her doodling on the napkin and got a faraway look in her eyes. After a moment, she spoke again. “Use to hang out in a lot of bars back in the day, though,” she said somewhat wistfully. “Some real cool places in San Francisco, L.A., Austin and my favorite place was in New York City.” “Yeah?” asked Zack eagerly. “What was it called?” “Max’s Kansas City. Maybe the coolest scene on the planet at the time. Cat named Mickey was the owner and everybody, and I mean everybody, hung out there. Musicians, painters, writers and you never knew who you’d run into at Max ‘s. Some great music, too.” Gypsy Mama paused and once again got a distant look in her eyes and then went back to doodling on the bar napkin. Zack waited patiently for more and finally it came from the intriguing lady. “Funny we’re talking about Max’s ‘cause I was at a coffee house the other day and somebody left a New York Times at a table. I started reading it and damned if there wasn’t an article on the place. A couple cool pictures, too,” she said excitedly.

Arts&Leisure The New York Times

Revisiting Max’s, Sanctuary For the Hip By Randy Kennedy

If a fiction writer were to sit down and conjure up a Manhattan nightspot where a John Chamberlain sculpture flanked the jukebox and Debbie Harry waited tables, where the earth artist Robert Smithson held court with Waylon Jennings, where struggling artists could cash their checks and pick up their mail, where the New York Dolls and Charlie Rich played (in the same year!) and an unknown named Bob Marley once opened for a slightly less unknown named Bruce Springsteen, he would probably be scoffed at for his fabulist excess. But when Mickey Ruskin, a shy, strange looking impresario with a chipped gold tooth, opened Max’s Kansas City on a nowhere stretch of Park Avenue South in 1965, it became that kind of fact-trumps-fiction place, ultimately one of the few New York clubs that could be said to have lived up to its legend. And the legend was not inconsiderable. It played an important role in nurturing at least two art movements (Minimalism and Pop); it enshrined a new, subversive, generation of rock music; and it helped give birth to the counterculture itself, or at least provided it with a dazzling ideal. “Truly, the F.B.I. would have done well by itself to closed the place down,” said the sculptor Forrest Myers, known as Frosty, who helped design the bar and restaurant for Ruskin with the help of painter Neil Williams. Back in the 1950’s the Cedar Tavern was the most famous artist’s bar in the world, but got that way mostly because its drinks were cheap and because it was near painters’ studios in Greenwich Village. Max’s, on the other hand, was out of the way and a little too expensive for people without regular paychecks, but it may have been the first New York bar designed especially for artists. It became “a kind of Ellis island” for a wave of them who came to the city in the 1960’s and ‘70’s, said Anton Perich, a photographer and early video auteur who worked there after arriving from Paris, failing as a busboy but allowed by Ruskin to stick around and take pictures. “It was a place where I felt safe,” Mr. Perich said. The demise of the original Max’s in 1974 (it would continue as more of a straight-ahead music club under new ownership, one of the crucibles of punk, until closing in 1981) was brought about not by the F.B.I but Ruskin’s tax problems and increasing drug use. But beginning Sept. 15 in Chelsea many scattered pieces of its history--including some never made public before, discovered in old film files--will be reassembled in two exhibitions, one at the Steven Kasher Gallery and another, focusing on Max’s regulars, at the Loretta Howard Gallery. In conjunction with the Kasher show Abrams Image is also publishing “Max’s Kansas City: Art, Glamour, Rock and Roll,” a raucous photo book with reminiscences of the club from the guitarist Lenny Kaye, the artist Loraine O’Grady and others, along with reproductions of time-yellowed artifacts like an Andy Warhol bar tab ($774.73 for September 1969, minus $200 credit for a work of art identified only as “Marilyn Monroe”). While mountains of words have been devoted to Max’s over the years in the memoirs of musicians and artists the new book is only the second extensive treatment of the club’s history, following “High on Rebellion: Inside the Underground at Max’s Kansas City,” now out of print, a 1998 collection of photos and interviews edited by Yvonne Sewall-Ruskin, Mickey Ruskin’s longtime companion, who now runs the Max’s Kansas City Project, a nonprofit philanthropy that helps artists and promotes drug-abuse prevention. The paucity of publications has been a result, in part, of the strict control that Mickey Ruskin exercised over the taking of pictures and most other kinds of documentation of the doings inside the club, which often involved casual nudity and more-than-common drug use. (Amphetamines were the controlled substance of choice at the beginning, in the pre-cocaine days.) Newspaper photographers were rarely allowed in, creating a much different atmosphere than the one that prevailed at Studio 54 when in opened in 1977. It was an oasis, and nobody there wanted a record of what they were doing,” said Mr. Kasher, who edited the Abrams book and helped discover previously unknown pictures of Max’s from insiders like the music producer and writer Danny Fields, Mr. Perich and others. “This was a long time before the era of blogs and You Tube.” As suggested by the title of the Loretta Howard show---“Artists at Max’s Kansas City 1965-1974: Hetero-Holics and Some Women Too”---the bar was mostly a boy’s club, as most of the art world then still was. But female artists like Dorothea Rockburne, Lynda Benglis and Eve Hesse also hung out there. The artist and philosopher Adrian Piper did a well-remembered piece inside the bar in 1970, walking around with a blindfold and ear-plugs in a place that was all about looking and listening. Besides, the Chamberlain crushed-metal sculpture, a Frank Stella on the wall and a red-fluorescent Dan Flavin work dominating the back room, the bar featured a collage by Ms. Rockburne and photographs by Brigid Berlin. Ruskin also deployed women---like Warhol followers Abigail Rosen and Dorothy Dean, a Harvard-trained editor---to control access to the front door. In her memoir “Just Kids,” published this year, the singer Patti Smith recalls being taken there for the first time in 1969 by Robert Mapplethorpe; they shared a salad and stared toward the back room, the holiest of holies, rendered so by Warhol, who had held court there for many years. After lots of hanging out the pair were finally admitted and seated at the round table where the coolest kids---the lead singers, the transvestites, the successful artists and Factory regulars--still sat. “Robert was at ease,” Ms. Smith wrote, “because, at last, he was where he wanted to be. I can’t say I felt comfortable at all. The girls were pretty but brutal.” When first asked Mr. Myers and Mr. Williams in 1965 to take a look at the site a bit north of Union Square where he wanted to open the club, then occupied by a run-down Southern-food restaurant, the two artists were confused. “We thought, “How are you going to get people over here?” Mr. Myers recalled recently. “After 5 o’clock that neighborhood in those days would just die.” It was first the restaurant interior Mr. Myers ever designed, and he said his idea was make it look sleek and clean, like a gallery space, with red booths and white walls. “Mickey was into art,” Mr. Myers said, “and so we decided that this was not going to be a working-class bar, or a poets’ bar.” Maurice Tuchman, a longtime curator at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and the curator of the Loretta Howard exhibition, said he remember visiting Max’s in the mid-1960’s because it was a place any good contemporary art curator had to check in. “And I was bowled over by the presence of so much new art that was so prominently displayed all over the place,” he said. “Mickey didn’t talk about it. No one talked about it much, but there it was. It sent an intense subliminal message that art was the subject at hand.” Mr. Perich added: “They were not in museums, back then, these pieces. The only place you knew you could see them was at Max’s.” Flavin’s red-light work , which memorialized victims of the Vietnam War, and Mr. Chamberlain’s sculpture next to the jukebox, evocative of James Dean’s crashed car, always struck him as “pieces of the American-dream-gone- wrong puzzle,” he said, a theme that resonated with a crowd desperately trying to discover a new kind of American dream. Throughout Ruskin’s tenure at Max’s that crowd was usually full of artists, many of them unknown and never to be known. They came for a free steam-table lunch of chicken wings and chili served every afternoon. And they stayed into the night. “Basically, if you were an artist, he wouldn’t keep you out,” Mr. Myers said. “Which is unusual because artists at that time didn’t really have much social power.” In an interview conducted in the early 1970’s by Mr. Fields, the music producer, Ruskin---a middle-class New Jersey boy who left a job as a lawyer to seek a more exciting life---described how little he knew at first about art and music even as his club came to revolve around them. His first bar, the Tenth Street Coffeehouse in the East Village, became a poet’s hangout through almost no effort of his own, except his welcoming spirit. When he opened the Ninth Circle in Greenwich Village in 1962, he hoped only that it would be a “beatnik” hangout, as he told Mr. Fields. But Mr. Williams began drinking there and introduced Ruskin to fellow artists like Mr. Myers, Mr. Chamberlain, Larry Poons and Carl Andre. It was a propitious moment not only for the New York art scene but for Ruskin as a club owner. “Poets really aren’t drinkers, and artists are,” Ruskin explained, one of his sociological apercus is often repeated. The story goes, however, that a poet, Joel Oppenheimer, was responsible for the club’s odd name. He suggested the Kansas City part because of the general feeling that it would sound more authentic for a place featuring steaks; Max’s was either borrowed from the poet Max Finstein or, more probably, added simply because it sounded like a reliable restaurant proprietor’s name. Yet no one sought out the spot for its food. Even the dried chickpeas that were on the table and strangely featured on the sign out front (“Steaks, lobster, chickpeas,” though the sign made it look like “Steak, chick, lobster, peas”) were sometimes too hard to eat and better used for throwing. Most of the art that once hung or sat in the bar has long been dispersed to the winds, much of it sold by Ruskin, who died from a drug overdose in 1983 at the age of 50. At the Kasher gallery exhibition, the Flavin light sculpture will be recreated. (It couldn’t be obtained for the show; a version of the work sold for $662,000 at Christie’s in 2009.) The old Max’s space itself is now an upscale Korean deli, where only the steam tables evoke it past life. In the interview with Mr. Fields, printed in the Abrams book, Ruskin often sounded elegiac, even at what probably should have been a high point for him, with the fame of his establishment and of his role in creating it assured. “I wonder, if there is no Max’s, does that mean there is no Mickey Ruskin?” he pondered. “Is Max’s all I ever want to do?” It wasn’t quite. Before his death he created other nightspots, including one in TriBeCa, long (too long as it turned out) before TriBeCa became what it is today; it closed for lack of business. But it was only on Park Ave. that Ruskin proved to be a kind of prophet, one who seemed to understand that a place as successful at defining its times as Max’s would not be allowed to outlast them.”

Chapter 6

“One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon—instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today.” Dale Carnegie

An hour later, Zack was up on the stage with his guitar and singing a song he’d recently written. A lone spotlight bathed him in blue and there was now a dozen or so people in the bar and they all listened attentively. “When you wake up in the mornin’ See an eagle flying ‘round your door Take your ticket for tomorrow Grab your broken heart don’t look back no more His lyin’ lips never took you higher His burnin’ touch never touched your soul Empty days just walkin’ the wire You’re far too gone to pretend Start all over again

Take the hand of an innocent man Give me one day on the witness stand Love you so strong it’s a sweet surrender In the hands of an innocent man Take the hand of an innocent man

You need a lover to depend on You need a lover who won’t let you down Illegal passion is a poison And you’ve had enough to turn your head around His lyin’ lips never took you higher ‘ His burnin’ touch never touched your soul Empty days just walkin’ the wire You’re far too gone to pretend Start all over again

Take the hand of an innocent man Give me one day on the witness stand Love you strong it’s a sweet surrender In the hands of an innocent man Take the hand of an innocent man

I love you I love you I love you I love…you I think about you baby night and day I want you I want you I want you I want you In the worst…. kind of way

When you wake up in the mornin’ See an eagle flying ‘round your door Take your ticket for tomorrow Grab your broken heart don’t look back no more His lyin’ lips never took you higher His burnin’ touch never touched your soul Empty days just walkin’ the wire You’re far too gone to pretend Start all over again

Take the hand of an innocent man Give me one day on the witness stand Love you strong it’s a sweet surrender In the hands of an innocent man Take the hand of an innocent man Take the hand of an innocent man….”

The small crowd erupted into applause as the song came to an end. Zack smiled and looked out into the dark bar. It was then he saw her. Or was it his imagination? Or maybe it was just someone who looked like her. Like Pandora. Zack squinted his eyes and sitting at the bar was the girl. The girl of his dreams. Pandora had come in during the last song and he couldn’t have been more surprised and elated than he was at that very moment. Pandora was also experiencing those same familiar feelings she’d known before leaving Key West. Those feelings that seemed to rush through her and dance all around her and now she knew for certain. She was in hopelessly in love with this young man and just the sight of Zack made her feel gloriously giddy and alive. “I’d like to play a song I wrote just recently,” Zack said to the crowd. “And I’d also like to dedicate it to someone here.” Zack put a capo on the third fret of his guitar and stared towards the bar and continued, “It’s a little rocker called “You Baby You”.….and Pandora this one’s just for you.” “I can’t get you out of my mind I think about you all the time There’s no one else but you You’re my dream come true Everything about you All the little things you do Want to spend my life Want to spend it lovin’ you

You Baby You Baby You You Baby You Baby You You Baby You Baby You Lovin’ You Baby You

I like to listen to you talk I love the sexy way you walk There’s not another girl around Who makes my heart beat pound Everything about you All the little things you do Want to spend my life Want to spend it lovin’ you

You Baby You Baby You You Baby You Baby You You Baby You Baby You Lovin’ You Baby You

Now when I’m feelin’ down and blue All I do is think of you Then I get a smile on my mind Works every single time Everything about you All the little things you do Want to spend my life Want to spend it lovin’ you

You Baby You Baby You You Baby You Baby You You Baby You Baby You Lovin’ You Baby You….”

Zack came to the end of the song as the crowd applauded and he quickly stepped down off the stage. He headed straight to the bar and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his shirt pocket. Standing in front of Pandora he held it up. “Been reading this poem a lot. Got any more?” he said warmly and smiled. Pandora got up off the bar stool and wrapped her arms around him and replied, “Plenty more where those came from. And I’ve got a whole week to show you.” Zack got an even bigger smile on his face. “You’re here for a week? That’s great, that’s fantastic,” he gushed. “They liked my piece on Key West and they’re letting me do another one. About Capt. Tony’s,” she revealed. “Really? No kidding? How’d you pull that off?” asked Zack. “Told them this place had a great history and especially with music. About Jimmy Buffet getting his start here. And about you. I told them I’d heard one the best new singer songwriters in the world. It’s going to be a feature story for the arts section of the paper.” Down the bar, Gypsy Mama walked up with an empty tray and Zack called out, “Hey, Mama. I want you to meet someone.” Zack took Pandora by the hand and walked her down to Gypsy Mama. “Mama, this the girl I was telling you about,” and he looked at Pandora and made the introduction. “Pandora Palmer. This is Gypsy Mama. The finest cocktail waitress in the universe.” Pandora smiled and extended her hand. “Hi there, so nice to meet you.” Gypsy Mama shook her hand and smiled back. “Good to meet you, too. Zack’s been talkin’ you up a whole lot,” she replied and said conspiratorially, “Just between you and me, he’s got the hots for you real bad.” Zack moaned and Pandora laughed. “Really?” Gypsy Mama laid a few drinks on her tray and spoke as she walked away. “Oh yeah, baby. Got it for you bad.” Standing there behind the bar was Poet. He calmly looked at Zack and inquired, “You’re not going to introduce me, too?” Zack smiled and looked at Pandora and pointed to Poet and said, “Pandora, this is one hell of a bartender and a poet. And that’s his name, too. Poet.” Poet grinned and gazed at the beautiful young woman and said oh…so…coolly, “Hello pretty lady. Good to actually meet you. I do remember you now and I’m so damn glad you came back to our little bar. This cat’s been on a downer ever since you left.” Zack rolled his eyes and Pandora smiled sweetly and responded, “Very good to meet you, Poet. I’m glad to be back, too.” And there was one final introduction to be made. Fingers was standing directly behind Zack and Pandora and he chimed in, “If this is one that I think it is…the one I heard so much about…. the one who blew your mind…damn good to have you back in town, girl.” Zack winced and looked at Pandora and said, “This is Fingers. Best damn door man, bouncer and sound specialist there is.” “Hello, Fingers. I’m Pandora,” she said enthusiastically. “Baby, you are all and more than Zack said you were,” replied Fingers good naturedly and continued, “It is my pleasure, believe me, my pleasure.” Fingers then looked at Zack and smiled, “Feeling fine are you now, Zack? I’m so glad for you, man. A good woman is the finest thing in the world. That and playing your music up on a stage. Reminds me of that Beatle’s song “I’m Feelin’ Fine.” You know the one, Zack? That’s when they first put some distortion on their electric guitars.” Fingers looked at Pandora and quizzed her, “You know who the Beatles were, baby? They were a little before your time.” Pandora smiled coyly and replied, “Weren’t they a band or something?” If Fingers only knew the information and knowledge this young woman had acquired in her short, sweet life. Pandora could have gone on for hours about the Beatles, and not only them, but artists who spanned jazz, classical, hip hop and even country music. As a child, she’d listened to her parents Beatle albums and knew everything about the Fab Four. Everything.

The Beatles were one of the greatest success stories of the 1960’s. Four hugely talented young men formed a group that rapidly brought pop stardom and internationally acclaim. Wherever they went, thousands of fans flocked in adoration; at concerts the hysteria and screams were so loud, nobody could actually hear them playing. They were to produce a unique quality of music that would prove to be timeless and respected for generations to come. After mastering the three-minute, three-cord, sad-glad pop song, they then moved on to perform increasingly innovative and sophisticated pieces that continued to hold the world’s attention and admiration. After building up a cult following at the Cavern Club in Liverpool, they released “From Me To You,” their first number one, in April 1963. By the close of that year they had enjoyed eighteen weeks at number one and “Beatlemania” had entered the English language. Their first album Please Please Me had reached the top of the British charts in May of the same year and did not move until it was replaced by their second, With The Beatles, seven months later. With every new release Beatles’ music increased in range and complexity, Rubber Soul was a giant leap forward, Revolver was hailed as a masterpiece. Sgt. Pepper, widely acclaimed to be the greatest-ever rock album, was released in 1967 and saw the four scale further creative heights; their musical talents continued to develop and their fans followed them. Lennon and McCartney were beginning to be mentioned in the same breath as Schubert and Beethoven. Their last concert was held in August 1966 in Candlestick Park, San Francisco and by 1968; cracks were beginning to show in the harmony of the band. John and Yoko Ono were totally inseparable and each of the four began to work independently. Their last public performance was in January 1969 when they held a 40-minute set on the roof of the Apple building in Savile Row, London. The highlight of this was “Get Back” which was to be their sixteenth British number one. The seventeen and last was “The Ballad of John and Yoko” which featured Lennon and McCartney. By May 1970 when the album and movie Let It Be were released, the band was no longer together. McCartney was the first to leave but only by a whisker. There followed months of wrangling and resentment, particularly when the business affairs needed to be wound up. Importantly however, they were all to continue to produce outstanding and influential music long after they separated. During the decade the “Fab Four” had produced music that was unique and timeless. The quality of their work is still held with respect and awe today. They left a legacy which will still be treasured by generations to come and, unlike many other bands, produced a bubble that is unlikely to burst.

Chapter 7

“Love is strong as death…. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it.” Song of Solomon

The next seven days went by in a blur for Zack and Pandora. They had gotten to know each other so much better with shared stories of their past and the dreams they had for the future and, without saying it, they both knew they were destined to spend the rest of their lives together. Oh, and there was that other little thing. Sex. Zack knew this was the woman he’d dreamed of and he had no intention of pushing too hard with that aspect of their new relationship. For the moment, that is. He desperately desired to be intimate with Pandora and, so for now, he was more than content with their long, slow passionate kisses. And to hold her firm young body pressed against his was downright delicious. They were like human magnets and scarcely an hour would not go by but they’d find themselves in each other’s arms. Intercourse? Hard, hot sweaty young bodies going bump in the night? That wasn’t going to happen. Not for now anyway and Pandora made her position known on that sweet subject right up front. She held firmly to her conviction of ‘no sex until marriage.’

Growing up in a liberal and educated home where her parents were very opened minded, Pandora had read and explored the world’s great religions, philosophies and a myriad of metaphysical teachings. It was Pandora’s mother, Becca, who had introduced her to the writings of Philo of Alexandria, or Philo Judaeus (“Philo the Jew.”) Alexandria had for centuries been, and would for centuries remain, the center of a thriving Jewish community, for whom Greek had replaced Aramaic and Hebrew as the spoken and written language. It was here that the Greek translation of the Hebrew Bible, the Septuagint, had been made and here that Philo absorbed the thought of Aristotle, the Stoics, the neo- Pythagoreans, and above all Plato. And it was a certain set of writings of Philo that blended physis and Torah and that opened young Pandora’s eyes to a belief in God.

Some writings of Philo…

FROM On the Account of the World’s Creation Given by Moses

“There are some people who, having the world in admiration rather than the Maker of the world, pronounce it to be without beginning and everlasting, while with impious falsehood they postulate in God a vast inactivity; whereas we ought on the contrary be astonished at His powers as Maker and Father, and not to assign to the world a disproportionate majesty. Moses, both because he had attained the very summit of philosophy, and because he had been divinely instructed in the greater and most essential part of Nature’s lore, could not fail to recognize that the universal must consist of two parts, one part active Cause and the other passive object; that the active Cause is the perfectly pure and unsullied Mind of the universe, transcending virtue, transcending knowledge, transcending the good itself and the beautiful itself; while the passive part is in itself incapable of life and motion, but, when set in motion and shaped and quickened by Mind, changes into the most perfect masterpiece, namely, this world.

But, once in college, Pandora had become fascinated with Christianity. Not as a ‘religion,’ mind you, but a fascination with the teachings and person of Christ and the ancient Hebrew writings about the ‘Kingdom of Heaven.’ It was at a seminar at Vanderbilt University’s Theological Department, which she had covered for the school newspaper, which turned things around. The weekend event was called “Everything’s Broken” and it was put on by some young alternative Christian writers, poets and musicians. Instead of lengthy lectures these astute undergrad and grad students played and sang sometimes dark and disturbing songs, read contentious poetry and very informally discussed their understanding of Christianity. And they didn’t sugarcoat it, either. You’d have thought they were in the basement of a Greenwich Village bar or coffee house with their cutting-edge creativity and defiant ideas on ‘main-stream’ Christianity and what it really meant ‘to be a Christian.’ Pandora had brought a book with her, that she had purchased at the event, and asked Zack if she could share a passage with him. Although not as subversive as most of the ideas shared at the seminar the writer presented a picture of Christianity that she could relate too. Pandora had no intention of trying to convince Zack of anything, but she did want to be transparent and let him know ‘where she was coming from,’ so to speak. That night on the porch of Rachel’s B&B she read out loud from a tome that, for the subject matter, was improbably called “Velvet Elvis.” “The remaking of this world is why Jesus’ first messages began with “T’shuva, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.” The Hebrew word t’shuva mean to “to return.” Return to the people who we were originally created to be. The people God is remaking us into. God makes us in his image. We reflect the beauty and creativity and wonder of the God who made us. And Jesus calls us to return to our true selves. The pure, whole people God originally intended us to be, before we veered off course. Somewhere in you is the you whom you were made to be. We need you to be you. We don’t need a second anybody. We need the first you. The problem is that the image of God is deeply scarred in each of us, and we lose trust in God’s version of our story. It seems too good to be true. And we go searching for identity. We achieve and we push and we perform and we shop and we work out and we accomplish great things, longing to repair the image. Longing to find an identity that feels right. Longing to be comfortable in our own skin. But the thing we are searching for is not somewhere else. It is right here. And we can only find it when we give up the search, when we surrender, when we trust. Trust that God is already putting us back together. Trust that dying to the old, the new can give birth. Trust that Jesus can repair the scarred and broken image. It is trusting that I am loved. That I always have been. That I always will be. I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to prove anything or achieve anything or accomplish one more thing. That exactly as I am, I am totally accepted, forgiven, and there is nothing I could ever do to lose this acceptance. God knew exactly what he was doing when he made you. There are no accidents. We need you to embrace your true identity, who you are in Christ, letting this new awareness transform your life. This is what Jesus had in mind. This is what brings heaven to earth.”

Zack pondered the passage and nodded his head. “Sounds good to me,” he said and smiled. “I like to be me, too.” “So do I. I like you to be you…a lot,” she replied happily and leaned over and gave him a quick kiss and continued, “I got the book last year and really liked what the writer had to say. Very simple but profound.” “Don’t know a lot about Jesus. I told you my father’s Jewish and my mother…she was born an Irish catholic and I don’t know what she believed in. If anything,” Zack stated with a little attitude. Pandora knew his poignant story by now and she took him by the hand and said, “I’m sure she was a wonderful person and, if she’d lived, you would have found that out. We all go through crazy phases in our life, but I know she loved you. It’s almost as if I could feel her here right now.” Pandora got a few tears in her eyes and wrapped her arms around Zack and spoke again softly, “I’ll be your mother now. I’ll be your sister and your lover and your best friend, too.”

Chapter 8 “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps, it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him keep step to music which he hears, however measured or far away.” Henry David Thoreau

Much later that night, and the last night of Pandora’s visit, they walked through the now quiet and palm-tree lined streets of Key West and talked endlessly. It was almost dreamlike as the little gingerbread homes with tin- roofs reflected moon beams at them and they held hands like young lovers do. They were growing to know each other so well and they easily shared their most intimate thoughts, dreams and plans. And the immediate plan was for Pandora to return to Miami and write her feature story and to return, as quickly as possible, to Key West. Zack suddenly pointed to a house across the street and said excitedly, “I wanted to show this place. It’s where Earnest Hemingway lived.” Pandora got a big smile on her face and took Zack by the hand and they quickly crossed the street. As they approached the two-story house that was bathed in moonlight, several seven-toed polydactyl cats skittered across the grass and disappeared into some shrubbery. “Look!” she cried. “Those are the cats I’ve read about. They’re descended from Hemingway’s pet cat,” and she thought about it, “Snowball!” Pandora turned to Zack and gave him a little hug and kiss. “Thank you so much. I knew he lived here in Key West and really wanted to see his house,” she said earnestly. The young writer had read everything of Hemingway, and she was thrilled to be standing so close to where many of his seminal books had been written. In fact, during Hemingway and his wife Pauline’s stay at 907 Whitehead Street, he wrote or worked on Death in the Afternoon, For Whom the Bell Tolls, The Snows of Kilimanjaro, The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber and To Have and Have Not. What Pandora couldn’t see in the darkness was also the most famous cat drinking fountain in the world; Papa had it built for his pets. The top of the fountain was an old Spanish olive jar that was brought from Cuba. The trough at the base of the olive jar came from Papa's good friend Joe Russell's joint Sloppy Joe's, now known as Capt. Tony’s. It was one of the bar's urinals and Pauline added the decorative tile to disguise it. Also, there in the darkness was a brick walkway that ran under a Weeping Fig tree that was probably planted when the house was built. The bricks of the walkway were shipped to Key West from Baltimore to pave the City streets: Papa bought enough in 1935 to also have the wall that was built around the property - Papa wanted his family to have privacy from the crowds of tourists that were staring through the chain-link fence. Pauline’s rich uncle Gus Pfeiffer bought the house in 1931 as a wedding present to his niece and her new husband. Legend says the Hemingway’s installed a swimming pool for $20,000 in the late 1930s (equivalent to $275,000 today). It was such a high price that Hemingway is said to have put a penny in the concrete, saying, “Here, take the last penny I’ve got!” The penny is still there.

And speaking of good writers, Pandora had taken the opportunity to sit down on several occasions with Capt. Tony who gave her some very detailed history on the bar and himself. He explained how after the war he’d returned to New Jersey and made some good money gambling on horse races but, running afoul of some mobsters, he got beaten up and was left for dead at the Newark city dump. He’d hitchhiked to Key West with eighteen dollars in his pocket and began chartering fishing boats and ran guns and even CIA agents to Cuba and Haiti. Tony told her how he would come to buy the musty old bar on Greene Street that use to be called Sloppy Joe’s Saloon. And he recounted many colorful stories of the visiting bands and a young Jimmy Buffett who would play at night for tips and beer. Pandora now had a wealth of material to write her feature story for the arts section of the Miami Herald. Oddly enough, the only people to hold out on her were Poet, Gypsy Mama and Fingers. Not hold out on the warm camaraderie they showed her, but they seemed extremely reluctant to talk about their past. Trouble with the law? Pandora had considered. If so, she would be the last person to ever reveal their identities and whereabouts in a newspaper article. But she had enough facts for her story and, in particular, the facts about a brilliant up-and-coming new singer/songwriter at Capt. Tony’s. Zack was about to get the ‘write-up of his life.’

It was almost three thirty in the morning when the two young lovebirds rounded a corner and walked up Greene Street and were headed in the direction of Capt. Tony’s. Zack suddenly stopped and heard the sounds of music coming from inside the bar. “You hear that? Somebody’s playing in there,” he said surprised. It was well after business hours and, who could it be? He wondered. “Aren’t they closed?” asked Pandora. “Yeah, at least an hour ago,” he replied, and they walked up to the front door. From inside the bar came the sounds of a sizzling electric guitar and drums and a bass. And there were the amazing vocals of two men and a woman singing in perfect harmony, too. Zack tried opening the door but it was locked. Strange, he thought. Was it the visiting band that had performed just after him that night? Maybe they were still in there, he concluded. “Let’s stay for minute and listen,” said Zack and they sat down on an old wooden bench just outside the bar. And for the next thirty minutes they listened to some of the most remarkable rock music they’d ever heard. The dazzling electric guitar rang out prominently and whoever was playing it had some serious chops. And then there were the tight bass lines and hard hitting drums and the mind-blowing vocals from at least two different men and a woman. Zack had heard a little of the visiting band earlier in the evening and they were amateurs compared to these players. Who the hell was it? Zack kept wondering. Finally, the bar went silent for a while and then the front door opened and out stepped Capt. Tony followed by Fingers, Poet, Gypsy Mama, Johnny C and an older guy with white hair and snow white beard. Behind them followed two middle-aged dark-skinned women in colorful cotton island dresses. The very attractive ladies were obviously ‘Conch,’ as the locals called them, and had most probably emigrated from the Bahamas. Capt. Tony looked quite surprised when he saw Zack and Pandora and shook his head. “Shouldn’t you two be in bed by now?” he said exasperated. Zack and Pandora stood up and walked over to the late-night crew of seven. Zack just stared for a moment and then spoke, “It’s Pandora’s last night and she’s leaving in a couple of hours. We were just walking by and heard the music,” he explained. Zack appeared totally dumfounded and kept staring at his new friends. “Was that you guys playing?” came the question of the hour from Zack. Fingers stepped around Poet and spoke up, “Yeah, man. We like to jam sometimes late at night. No big deal. Just having a little fun,” he explained. “Having some fun? I guess so. That was some of the best music I’ve ever heard,” exclaimed Zack before continuing, “I had no idea you guys could play like that. And those vocals! Why aren’t you playing in the bar every night?” he questioned. It was Poet’s turn to speak for the group. “Hey man, we’re just some old timers. Sometimes we dig gettin’ our groove on, that’s all. Nobody wants to hear our shit.” “Are you kidding Poet? That’s was amazing,” responded Zack excitedly. Capt. Tony raised his hand and spoke with authority. “Okay, everybody. We got a bar to open tomorrow and it’s time for bed. Goodnight Zack. And you too, Pandora.” And with those words, Capt. Tony followed by Poet, Fingers, Gypsy Mama, Johnny C, the man with the white hair and the two women walked away. They all disappeared around a corner as Zack shook his head in bewilderment. “Unbelievable. Just unbelievable,” is all he could say.

Chapter 9

“The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It was almost time for his show the next evening when Zack, with his guitar in a gig bag, walked into Capt. Tony’s. A young couple sat over in the corner and talked quietly, and Poet was at the far end of the bar washing some glasses. The older man with the snow-white hair and beard from the night before sat at the bar and sipped on a coke. The old fellow was known as Uncle Aron and he spoke in a slow, southern drawl. “It’s the biggest sea bass I’ve ever caught, we’ll be eating that dang thing for the next couple weeks.” Poet nodded his head and remarked, “Save a couple filets for me Uncle Aron. I love to cook that sea bass nice and slow in butter with some chutney thrown in.” “Never tried it like that Poet,” replied Uncle Aron. “Sounds real good.” “Oh, yeah, man. Buttery and tender with lots of flavor.” Uncle Aron looked around and saw Zack at the front door and commented, “That boy is one helluva songwriter. Dang good singer, too.” Poet glanced up and stared over. “Yeah, he’s got it going on, Uncle Aron. Real nice kid, too.” Pandora had left early that morning and Zack looked downright dejected. He’d slept very little after his early morning duties at the B&B and there was a gaping hole now in his heart that he just couldn’t fill without her. At least, he knew there was a gig waiting for him and he had some friends there at Capt. Tony’s. And that meant a lot to him. A whole lot. He looked around for Gypsy Mama and Fingers who’d not come in yet, so he sat at the bar and pulled out a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. It was a new poem that Pandora had once again written out in long hand and given him just before driving away. He’d already read it numerous times and, thank God; it was more upbeat than the last one. At that moment, Poet walked down to his end of the bar and smiled knowingly. “You look like shit, man. Did your chick leave?” he inquired. “Early this morning,” replied Zack morosely. “I thought so. Hit and run, dude. You got hit and she ran,” were the acerbic words of wisdom from the seasoned old bartender. Zack looked at him and held up the piece of paper. “She left me a poem,” he said a little more optimistically. “Yeah? Let’s hear it, man,” asked Poet who sat down on a stool behind the bar. Zack looked down at the poem and read out loud. “Five years or more, have passed away, I think, since in the amorous month of May I dreamed this dream: O month of joy When everything, without alloy, Delights in life; when bush and brake Again their vernal raiment take Out of cold storage, where it lay Neglected many a dreary day, As woods and thickets don bright green, Casting off winter’s arid mein. The lovely earth once more grows vain, And, cheered by balmy dews and rain, Forget the indigent estate In which cold winter made her wait; For pride awakens new desire To deck herself in bright attire, And therefore does she fashion quaint Lovely habiliments, and paint Each with iridescent hue, Green herb, and flowers white, red, blue: Sporting robes of such brilliant sheen, Earth takes delight in being seen. The merry birds that silence kept While all the world through winter slept,

And wild winds roared, and skies were grey With rain, burst forth to welcome May With lusty notes, and let sweet song Trumpet their joy that winter’s wrong Has vanished now, when gladly reins Sweet springtime over earth’s domains. Now nightingales with earnest voice Constantly make delightful noise, While larks and parrots stay awake Rejoicing in the songs they make. Responsive to such sweetness, soon Young hearts throb to the amorous tune Enrapturing the lovely spring. Oh dull the soul that caroling Of birds cannot delight when they Sing piteously the songs of May!” Zack came to the end of the poem and looked at Poet. “What do you think?” he asked. “The Joys of Spring, Guillaume de Lorris,” stated Poet. “You know this poem?” asked Zack incredulously. “I lived in France for a little while. Read a lot of those old French poets,” replied Poet casually. Zack shook his head and took a good long look at the longhaired and bearded bartender. “You lived in France? How long ago?” he asked. “A lot of years ago. ‘Bout forty if I recall. Right before I came to Key West,” Poet said distractedly and stood up. He headed down to the other end of the bar as Zack thought about that morsel of personal information. But something just didn’t add up and he wanted to know more. “So, you leave France and move to Key West? That sounds like Gypsy Mama’s story, too. And you never left here, right? Poet nodded his head called out. “You got it, amigo. We like it here. Why leave?” was the puzzling response from Poet. Zack tried to get his head around that statement. Why would these people just abandon the rest of civilization and move to the remote island of Key West and never travel out again? And there’s that other thing they’d failed to mention. They were all killer musicians. “By the way, Poet. How come you never told me about your band?” Zack asked loudly. “I mean you guys are as good as anybody I’ve ever heard. Why keep that a secret?” A quiet voice behind Zack responded. “Because we like our little secrets,” said Fingers who stood gazing down at Zack. “What’s wrong with secrets, man? You got no secrets? Everybody got some kind of secrets in they’re life.” Zack spun around and stared at the likable doorman and spoke adamantly, “Sure man, I got secrets. But I don’t keep my talent a secret. You guys should be proud of your music. Not everybody can make the kind of music I heard last night.” Another voice was heard from the end of the bar and it came from Gypsy Mama. “Honey, some things are best left alone. You can’t judge everybody by your standards. Maybe we all tried to make it in the music business and failed. Or maybe we did some things and walked away from it. Who cares? It is what it is…and you play the hand you’re dealt,” Gypsy Mama said with some emotion in her voice. Zack hit a nerve and he knew it. “Sorry, Mama. I don’t mean to pry or anything. I just…love you guys and…. I don’t know…” he said with some emotion in his voice, as well. Fingers put his long boney hand on Zack’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “We know that man. And we love you, too. We’re all just a band of gypsies and we got to look out for each other. You dig? All for one and one for all, you hear what I’m sayin’? We lived the best part of our life and you still got a lot in front of you. Don’t you worry ‘bout us, man. We’re doing fine. But if we can help you or show you the way, we’re here for you. Night or day, we’re here for you.”

Two agonizing weeks went by and there was no sign of Pandora and Zack was ‘hurtin’ bad’ as they say in the South. And it just so happened that one fine good ol’ boy from the South had just walked into the bar. He was a tall, lanky guy with long hair and he walked slowly to a table and sat down. The man took a long look around the room and after a moment, he gazed up at the stage where Zack was tuning up his guitar. A handful of people sat at tables and talked as Zack stepped up to the microphone. “Good evening, everybody,” he said to the crowd. “My names Zack Zimmerman and I hope you enjoy some songs I’ve written over the last few years. And thanks for coming out to Capt. Tony’s tonight.” Zack began to play the first tune of the evening and the lanky guy at the table was listening. He was ‘all ears’ as they say, and that’s why he was, without a doubt, one of the most successful musicians, songwriters and music producers of the last twenty-five years. His name was T-Bone Burnet.

Joseph Henry Burnett (born January 14, 1948), widely known as T-Bone Burnett, is an American musician, songwriter, and soundtrack and record producer. Burnett was born in St. Louis, Missouri in 1948, and raised in Fort Worth, Texas. His first significant contribution to the music field was as the manic drummer for the Legendary Stardust Cowboy’s novelty hit, "Paralyzed." T-Bone first appeared on The Unwritten Works of Geoffrey, Etc. as part of the pseudonymous Whistler, Chaucer, Detroit and Greenhill, released in 1968 on Uni Records and on which he also produced and wrote 4 of the 11 tracks. In 1972, he moved to Los Angeles and recorded his second album, The B-52 Band and the Fabulous Skylarks. In 1975 and 1976, he toured with Bob Dylan’s ‘Rolling Thunder Revue’ and when the Revue ended, Burnett and two other members of Dylan's band, David Mansfield and Steven Soles and, formed The Alpha Band which released three albums. The Alpha Band and Spark In The Dark were both released in 1977, while The Statue Makers of Hollywood was released in 1978. Burnett has become best known as a music producer. He began producing albums for artists such as Counting Crows' August and Everything After, Los Lobos’ How Will The Wolf Survive?, Elvis Costello’s King Of America and Spike; the Wallflowers’ Bringing Down the Horse; Marshall Crenshaw’s Downtown; the BoDeans Love & Hope & Sex & Dreams; Gilliam Welch’s Revival and Hell Among the Yearlings; David Poe’s self-titled debut; the Roy Orbison tribute A Black & White Night Live; two albums for Bruce Cockburn; and Spinal Tap’s Break Like The Wind; In 2000, Burnett produced the soundtrack and wrote the score for the Coen Brothers film, O Brother, Where Art Thou? The award-winning soundtrack featured music from Emmylou Harris, Alison Krauss, Ralph Stanley, Gillian Welch, and others performing traditional American folk music, blues and bluegrass — reminiscent of Burnett's 1986 self-titled release. The album was a hit, garnering numerous industry awards from the Grammy’s, Academy of Country Music and the Country Music Association The album was as much a commercial success as a critical one and has sold over seven million copies according to the Recording Industry Association of America. In 2005, he composed the score for Wim Wender’s film Don’t Come Knocking. In that same year, he worked with actors Joaquin Phoenix and Resse Witherspoon and for their singing roles as Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash and in the film Walk the Line. Witherspoon won the Academy Award for Best Actress for her role in the film, giving special thanks to Burnett in her speech for "helping her realize her lifelong dream of being a country music singer." He also produced that film's soundtrack album and wrote its score. In 2009, Burnett collaborated on the music for the movie Crazy Heart, winning both a Golden Globe and an Academy Award for the song "The Weary Kind" that he composed with Ryan Bingham. T-Bone was also a producer of the film, along with Jeff Bridges and Robert Duvall.

Need we say more? The man had been wildly successful in his career and he was right there in the bar and listening to Zack. For the entire two sets, T-Bone stayed and listened to the young singer/songwriter and his songs. It was only when Zack finished the final set and walked from the stage toward the bar did T-Bone speak up. “Hey, man. Really enjoyed your music.” Zack looked at him and thought to himself that he looked familiar. He couldn’t place the guy but it didn’t really matter much as Zack was most affable and enjoyed talking with the bar patrons. Especially, to someone who had stayed for both his sets. Zack had seen the man sitting there by himself for the last two hours and that was enough to make any musician take note. “Thanks. I appreciate it,” replied Zack sincerely. “Care to sit down? Like to talk to you for a minute.” Zack smiled and pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. “My names Zack,” he said in the way of introductions and extended his hand. T-Bone shook it and responded, “Bone, that’s what they call me.” “Good to meet you, Bone,” replied Zack and he waved to Gypsy Mama who was wiping down a table in the corner of the room. “Hey Mama, if you’re coming back this way I’d sure like a beer.” Gypsy Mama called back to him, “You got it baby. I’ll be back in minute when I’m done.” T-Bone stared over at Gypsy Mama and remarked to Zack, “She sure looks familiar. It’s so damn dark in here, I can’t really make her out.” “Oh, that’s Gypsy Mama. We just call her Mama,” Zack informed him and then asked, “So what’s up, Bone? T-Bone turned back around and looked at Zack for a moment before responding. After a moment, he said, “I was on a trip to Miami for a meeting and read an article that mentioned you. The writer talked about you being a musical genius. Stayed over an extra day and thought I’d check you out. I’m a music producer.” Zack got a big goofy grin on his face and asked, “Oh my God. When did you read that article?” “Yesterday. It was in the Miami Herald.” “That’s my friend, Pandora. She wrote that,” stated Zack happily. If the article was just published then hopefully Pandora would be headed to Key West soon, he quickly reasoned. “Well that’s what I would call a real friend. Man, she wrote about you as if you were the new Bob Dylan or Lennon/McCartney or Paul Simon.” “Really? That’s a little scary. Having to live up to those guys,” said Zack truthfully. T-Bone took another moment before speaking again. And what he would say would change Zack’s life forever. In fact, it would change a lot of people’s lives forever. “You’re good. You’re really, really good. I’d like to get you a record deal and produce your first album.”

Chapter 10

“This above all: To thine own self be true.” William Shakespeare

For well over two hours, Zack and the big-time music producer had talked non-stop. T-Bone told him about his own history in the music business and Zack was more than impressed. Some of the albums this man had produced were also made by some of Zack’s favorite artists. And he wants to produce me? Zack kept thinking throughout the conversation. And it all came about because of the love of his life. If Pandora hadn’t written the story in the newspaper this guy would never have shown up and, where is that girl? Zack kept thinking to himself as he sipped on a beer at the bar. He not only wanted to thank her, but he wanted to be with her right now more than he ever wanted anything. Including a record deal. It was a little past closing time and Poet was straightening out some things behind the bar, Gypsy Mama was doing her final ‘close out’ and Fingers had just turned the lights off on the stage. Zack had hung around after his lengthy conversation with T-Bone and it was then he decided to make the big announcement. He spoke up loudly and said, “Hey everybody. I got something to tell you.” The three nighttime bar employees looked over at him and waited for more. “There was a guy here tonight who wants to produce an album on me,” stated Zack excitedly. Fingers stepped down from the stage and walked slowly over to the bar and looked at him. “No shit? Who was he?” “His name’s T-Bone Burnett,” answered Zack as Poet walked down and joined them at the end of the bar. “I’ve heard of him. Big time. The guys got some serious chops in the studio,” came the choice piece of information from Poet. Gypsy Mama also stopped her calculations and smiled broadly. “I’ll be damn. Our little Zack’s gonna be a star,” she exclaimed and walked over and put her arms around him and squeezed him tight. “Congratulations, baby. It was just a matter of time. We all know you’re bad to the bone. Pun intended.”

“Thanks Mama,” Zack replied happily and continued, “The guy came down from Miami because of an article Pandora wrote. I guess she talked me up pretty good.” Fingers sat down at the bar and nodded his head up and down. “What’d I say? Nothing like a fine woman. Especially one who can get you a gig. You better hold on to that one, Zack.” Gypsy Mama chimed in, “He’s right, baby. That is a good woman. You record your albums, and you play your gigs but make her the center of your universe. Be a planet and circle ’round her sun.” Poet was quietly taking all this in and then spoke fervently, “If there’s one piece of advice I can give you Zack is don’t let ‘em change you. They’ll do that if they can. Maybe not this producer but some of those talent-less record people will fuck with you, man. They ain’t got a clue. It’s all about the money for them. If they think you can make them more money singing disco songs they’ll try and talk you into it. Don’t listen to ‘em, man. You are who you are and you’re damn good, too.” “He’s right, Zack. You stick to your guns and do what you do best. And they’ll love you for it, man, your fans will love you, my friend,” came the salient admonition from Fingers. Poet turned away and then looked back at Zack and said, “Reminds me of one of the letters that Vincent Van Gogh wrote to his brother, Theo. It was at a hard time in his life and he was just starting to discover color. And, man, Van Gogh was all about color. His way of seeing color and then painting it. You got your own your style and you stay with it. It’s your own special thing and nobody else has that man.” Poet seemed more animated and pumped up than Zack had never seen him. It was almost as if the old bartender ‘had been there and done that’ and he was reliving some period in his life and Poet had once last thing to say to the young singer/songwriter, “I remember now, Van Gogh said in that letter, ‘While painting, I feel of late a certain power of colour awakening in me, stronger and different from I have felt till now.’ For Van Gogh it was color and for you, Zack, it’s your words and music and how you perform it. Be the Vincent Van Gogh of music, man. The world needs it.”

(That letter from Vincent)

(The Hague, early August 1883)

Dear Theo, As I look forward to your arrival, there is hardly a moment when my thoughts are not with you. These last days I have gone on to paint several studies, so that you may see them at the same time. And that change of work does me good, for though I cannot do literally as Weissenbruch does, and go stay in polders for a few weeks, yet I do something like it, and to look at the green fields has a calming effect. Besides, I decidedly hope in this way to make progress in terms of color. The last painted studies seem to me firmer and more solid in colour. So for instance a few I made recently, in the rain, showing a man on a wet, muddy road, express the sentiment better, I think. Well, we will see when you come. Most of them are impressions of landscape, I dare not say as well done as those that sometimes occur in your letters, because still I am often checked by technical difficulties--yet there is something in them, I think--for instance, a silhouette of the city in the evening, when the sun is setting, and a towpath with windmills. For the rest, it is miserable enough that I still feel very faint, when I am not hard at work, but I believe it is receding. I will decidedly try hard to lay up a reserve of strength, for I shall need it to carry on the painting of the figure with a firm hand. While painting, I feel of l ate a certain power of colour awakening in me, stronger and different from what I have felt till now. It may be the nervousness of these days, is linked up with a kind of revolution in my way of working, for which I have been seeking and of which I have been thinking for a long time already. I have often tried to work less drily, but it always turned into the same thing over again. But now that a kind of weakness prevents me from working in my usual way, this seems to help, rather than to hinder, and now that I let myself go a little, and look more through the eyelashes, instead of concentrating on the joints and analyzing the structure of things, it leads me more directly to seeing things more like adjacent contrasting patches of colour. I wonder what it will lead to, and how it will develop. I have sometimes wondered why I was not more of a colourist, because my temperament decidedly seems to indicate it--but up till now it developed very little. I repeat, I wonder how it will develop--but I see clearly that my last painted studies are different. If I remember rightly, you still have one from last year, a few tree trunks in the wood. I do not think it is really bad, but it is not what one sees in the studies of the colourists. Some colours there are correct, but though they are correct they do not have the effect they ought to have, and though the paint is here and there laid on thickly, even so the effect is too meagre. I take this one as an example, and now I think that the last ones which are less thickly laid on are nonetheless becoming more potent in colour, as the colours are more interwoven and the strokes of the brush cover one another, so that it is mellower and more for instance like the downiness of clouds or of the grass. At times I have been greatly worried that I made no progress with colour, but now I am hopeful again. We shall see how it will develop. Now you will understand that I am very anxious for your coming, for if you also saw that there is a change, I should not doubt that we are on the right track. I dare not quite trust my own eyes as regards my own work. Those two studies, for instance, which I made while it was raining--a muddy road with a little figure--they seem to me exactly the opposite of some other studies. When I look at them I rediscover the sentiment of that dreary rainy day, and in the figure, though it is nothing but a few patches of colour, it is a kind of life, that is not called forth by correctness of drawing, for there is no effect in drawing. What I mean to suggest is that in these studies I believe there is something of that mysteriousness one gets by looking at nature through the eyelashes, so that the outlines are simplified to blots of colour. Time must pass over it, but at present I see in several studies something different in colour and tone. Recently I often think of a story I read in an English magazine, a tale about a painter, in which there appears a person whose health suffered also in a time of trouble, and who went to a lonely place in the peat fields, and there, in that melancholy setting, found himself again, and began to paint nature as he felt and saw it. It was very well described in the story, evidently by a person who was well up in art, and it struck me when I read it, while now of late I sometimes think of it again. At any rate I hope we shall soon be able to talk it over and consult together. If you can, write soon, and of course the sooner you can send the money, the better if would be for me. With a handshake in thought, Yours, Vincent

Early the next morning found Zack cleaning out the empty pump pots of coffee and hot water when the front door of Rachael’s B&B opened. And there stood Zack’s new best friend and his biggest fan. Pandora called out, “Anyone home?” Zack spun around and ran out to the front sitting room and literally picked her up and gave her the best kiss of her life. So very slow and tender and moist and it went on forever it seemed. “Hey, baby. Where you been? I’ve missed you so much” he said and kissed her again. “Don’t you ever leave me alone that long again,” Zack lovingly admonished her. “I missed you, too. I came as soon as I could,” she replied and ran her hand through his long dark hair and hugged him tight. “I really did, I thought about you all the time,” she said softly. Zack took a moment and then asked offhandedly, “You didn’t happen to write that article you were working on…. did you?” Pandora smiled shyly, “Why?” she replied. “Because one the biggest record producers in the world read it and wants to record me!” he exclaimed loudly. Pandora looked shocked. “No! Really?” Zack gave her another slow kiss and said, “Thank you baby. Thank you so much.” “What happened?” she asked excitedly. “The guy came into the bar last night and said he’d read your article. His name’s T-Bone Burnett and he’s produced some of the biggest albums ever. I still can’t believe it, but he wants to get me a record deal. And produce my first album.” “I’m so happy for you. I really am,” she said emotionally and hugged him tight. “You must be the best writer in the world to get this man to come down to Key West. And he was on a trip to Miami and stayed over an extra day to hear me,” stated Zack. “Seriously, you must be the best damn writer in the world.” Pandora smiled and held him tighter. “I may have led the horse to water, but you made him drink. You’re the one he’s recording,” she replied happily. “I told you that you were a genius. Let’s take a walk and tell me all about it.”

Chapter 11

“I sometimes feel the thread of life is slender, And soon with me the labor will be wrought; Then grows my heart to other hearts more tender, The time is short.” Dinah M. Craik

Two hours later, Zack and Pandora walked hand in hand and life couldn’t have been sweeter. Well, maybe, one thing could have sweetened it and Zack knew exactly what that was. Life was moving fast now and Zack had something in mind that would put it into ‘overdrive.” For the both of them. Zack had also gotten to know the small berg of Key West very well in his relatively brief amount of time on the island. During their walk, he’d pointed out playwright Tennessee William’s home and in contrast to the large estate owned by Ernest Hemingway the Williams home at 1431 Duncan Street was a very modest bungalow. Tennessee Williams first became a regular visitor to Key West in 1941 and is said to have written the first draft of A Street Car Named Desire while staying in 1947 at the La Concha Hotel. He bought this permanent house in 1949 and listed Key West as his primary residence until his death in 1983. Zack and Pandora strolled up Petronia Street and were now about to enter ‘Bahama Village’ in the section of the city called Old Town. The primarily black district, named for its many original residents who were of Bahamian ancestry, covers a sixteen-block area that lies southwest of Whitehead Street and is bordered by Southhard, Fort and Louisa Streets. Passing by a colorful open-air flea market they came to a corner and Zack pointed just up ahead. “There it is. Blue Moon. I stumbled on this place the other day,” he said with immense pleasure. The old wood framed Bahamian styled house, now turned restaurant, looked somewhat dilapidated from the front but it was the ‘backyard’ that had all the action. In fact, this property in the 1930’s had once been the site of boxing matches refereed by none other than Ernest Hemingway. Not to mention, a bordello and watering hole for Cuban revolutionaries in the mid to late 1950’s.

Like the Bahamians, the Cuban presence in Key West had a long history. Key West is closer to Havana (106 miles, or 170 km) than it is to Miami (127 miles or 207 km, farther by boat). In 1890, Key West had a population of nearly 18,800 and was the biggest and richest city in Florida. Half the residents were said to be of Cuban origin, and Key West regularly had Cuban mayors, including Carlos Manuel de Céspedes, son of the father of the Cuban Republic, who was elected mayor in 1876. Cubans were actively involved in reportedly 200 factories in town, producing 100 million cigars annually. Jose Marti made several visits to seek recruits for Cuban independence starting in 1891 and founded the Cuban Revolutionary Party during his visits to Key West.

Zack and Pandora stood in front of an old wooden gate that led into the backyard of the funky old establishment. From inside came the sounds of Caribbean music as Zack pushed open the gate. “I’m taking you to lunch, sweetheart. You’re going to love this place,” Zack said gleefully. And for the next two hours they ate they’re fill at a small, colorfully hand painted table on the dirt floor of the restaurant known as Blue Moon. Zack ordered the house specialties, Jamaican Jerk Chicken ‘jerked’ in Caribbean spices and served with rice and beans. A vegetable plate of brown rice, black beans, grilled plantains, fresh vegetables and red onion marmalade. And a tin bucket full of iced Jamaican Red Stripe beer and, later, several fruit infused rum drinks. All the while, a dozen or so chickens and roosters freely roamed the grounds of the backyard while a trio of long-haired dread-lock musicians played cool Caribbean music in the corner. The sounds of a guitar, bass and steel drums filled the air and it was the perfect setting for what was about to come next. Hey, it was Key West, and anything can happen here, right? Zack was a little tipsy, but he’d thought about this moment for the last month. Stone cold sober or intoxicated he knew in his heart what he desperately wanted. And needed. Zack looked across the table at Pandora and took her by the hand. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you, baby. Day and night, I think about you. I know it’s crazy and we just met but I can’t get you out of my head. I’ve never met anyone like you and…I love you so much.” Pandora remained silent and looked him in the eyes as he continued, “You’re the best thing to ever happen to me. I can’t live without you, Pandora. I mean it. I really can’t live without you.” Pandora still said nothing as Zack thought about his next choice of words and they came hesitantly out of his mouth, “You don’t have to answer me right now. Seriously… next week, or next month or whenever you want to answer me… I just want to say something and…. I know it’s crazy and you’re going to think I’m crazy…and I hope you’ll just consider what I’m about to say…so take your time and think about it….no hurry… really…” Zack was squirming like a one of those Jamaican jerked chickens’ just before they were about to be ‘jerked.’ He knew he was about to say something that he probably shouldn’t say at this point in their relationship, but he did anyway. “I want to marry you. I want you to be my wife for the rest of my life.” And then he stopped talking. Silence. He’d gone and done it and said what was on his mind and in his heart. What’s a boy to do? Lay it on the line and leave the rest to chance. Or in this case, to Pandora. It must have been over a minute before Pandora responded. Zack had waited what seemed like an eternity for Pandora to say something. To say anything. With teary eyes, Pandora finally spoke. “I love you too, Zack. Yes, I want to be your wife.” Zack jumped up out of his chair, raised his arms in the air and screamed, “YES!” Pandora, with a sweet smile on her face, had one final thing to say. “The sooner the better for me.”

And nothing like the loony small town of Key West to oblige the whim’s and desires of almost anyone and anything. Day or night. And amazingly, the owner and proprietor of that charming little B&B known as Rachael’s called a friend that very afternoon. The Rev. Sharon Jo Chandler was an official and legally appointed ‘justice of the peace’ and she would be more than happy to do the honors. That’s right; Zack Zimmerman and Pandora Palmer were going to be ‘hitched’ at Capt. Tony’s later than night. Nothing like a marriage Key West style. Another call from Rachael to Capt. Tony had been made and everyone at the bar knew about the imminent wedding of Zack and Pandora. And they couldn’t have been happier for the young couple and preparations were in the making. Capt. Tony would have plenty of fine French champagne on hand, a home cooked broccoli casserole from Gypsy Mama, Caribbean BBQ shrimp with garlic and jerk seasonings from Fingers and a special poetry reading from Poet. Let the festivities begin.

Chapter 12

“When the one man loves the one woman and the one woman loves the one man, the very angels leave heaven and come and sit in that house and sing for joy.” Brahma

And it was just after ten o’clock when Zack came to the end of his set that night. He looked out into the dark bar where several dozen people sat in attendance and said, “Thank you very much. For those of you visiting, I hope you’ll stay and check out our next act,” and he smiled big and continued, “That would be me and the love of my life, Pandora Palmer…we’re about to get married here on the stage,” and the crowd broke out into applause. “Thank you. I’ve got one more song to sing and then we’ll get on with it,” Zack said and put a capo on the second fret of his guitar and looked back out into the shadowy bar. “My songs called, “Love’s A Mystery” and I wrote it after meeting the woman I’ve been looking for all my life.” Zack paused and spoke with some emotion creeping into his voice. “Pandora. This is for you, baby, and only for you. I love you,” and he began to fingerpick his guitar and sing the lyrics to a gentle and beautiful melody. “Why does the rain keep fallin’ down Fallin’ down on me Why is this love like the rain above I fall so helplessly Whatever did you do to me

How did I fall so fast How could I know Love could be so crazy I’d catch my breath I’d steady myself Whenever you looked at me Love’s a mystery

Why does the rain keep fallin’ down Fallin’ down on me Why is this love like the rain above I fall so helplessly Whatever did you do to me

How did you get to me How could you know I’d walked away from love I’d turned my back Have none of that But now you’ve come to me Love’s a mystery

Michelangelo Vincent Van Gogh They could never Paint the way I feel Feel for you

Why does the rain keep fallin’ down Fallin’ down on me Why is this love like the rain above I fall so helplessly Whatever did you do to me Oou...oou...oou…oou…. Love’s a mystery”

So, the simple little marriage ceremony of Zack Zimmerman and Pandora Palmer proceeded with the Rev. Sharon Jo Chandler doing the civil duties required by law. It was Capt. Tony standing in as ‘best man’ for Zack and Gypsy Mama as the bride’s maid for Pandora. Shortly after the ‘I do’s’ and first married kiss from Mr. & Mrs. Zimmerman, Poet stepped up to the stage. He smiled slyly and looked at the newly married couple and said, in his own inimitable way, “Congratulations. Now I expect you both to ‘get it on’ in bed tonight like a couple of wild warriors going into battle. Don’t hold back and I expect to hear some sweet screams and shouts in the air tonight.” Opening a book, Poet continued, “Pandora. I know you like the classical stuff. So, I found a poem from Asmenius I’d like to read. It was probably written around the year 400 and it’s called “In Praise of Gardens.” “Come, Muses, children of almighty Jove, let us proclaim the praise of fertile gardens. Gardens provide the body healthy foods, furnishing varied fruits to gardeners, fresh vegetables, and many kinds of herbs, Glistening grapes, and produce from the trees. Gardens abound in the infinite delights and joys accompanied by countless uses. Crystalline waters murmuring lap them, and branching rivulets irrigate their crops.

Flowers with many-colored buds shine brightly, adorning all the earth with jeweled glory. Soft-humming bees buzz gratefully around them, sipping at flowers moistened with fresh dew. Fruitful vines burden down fast-wedded elms, shading the reeds their tendrils intertwine.

Darkly shadowing trees provide asylum from blazing sunlight with their tangled hair. Melodious birds pour forth their garrulous chatter, soothing the ear with perpetual song. Gardens delight, divert, support, and nourish, alleviating melancholy spirits, reinvigorate limbs, enchant tired eyes, recompense toil with still intenser pleasure, and give their gardeners joys of every kind!”

Poet closed the book and said warmly, “That’s for you, my fine young gardeners.”

Zack and Pandora’s next two passionate nights and days were spent in the finest suite of Rachael’s B&B and spent, mostly in bed. And that happened to be an antique four poster bed where they made glorious love and laughed and talked and became closer than they’d ever been. It was on the third day that Zack got the phone call from Los Angeles. The renowned record producer, T-Bone Burnett, had moved very quickly and arranged for Zack to fly out to the West Coast and begin recording an album. And it was the legendary Hollywood recording studio, Conway, which was Zack’s destination. The Grammy award winning producer even had one major record label interested in signing Zack because he was producing the sessions. It was time for Zack to ‘move into the fast lane” and Pandora made it clear she would support him in every way possible. No matter what the cost. And there’s always a cost.

Chapter 13

“For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.” Ralph Waldo Emmerson

Leaving Miami International airport, and his treasured new wife, Zack sat in a widow seat of the big jet and pondered the recent turn of events in his life. It was absolutely everything he ever wanted. A woman he adored and was now married too and a shot at the big time. How did all this happen? He thought to himself. One day he’s living alone and playing for tips and beer money and the next he’s happily married and on his way to Hollywood.

Hollywood (the early history) In 1853, one adobe hut stood in Nopalera, named for the Mexican Nopal cactus indigenous to the area. By 1870, an agricultural community flourished in the area with thriving crops of many common and exotic varieties. The area was known to these residents as the Cahuenga Valley, after the pass in the Santa Monica Mountains immediately to the north. Soon thereafter, land speculation would lead to subdivision of the large plots and an influx of homeowners. In spite of the area's short history, it has been filled with events driven by optimistic progress. The name Hollywood was coined by H.J. Whitley the "Father of Hollywood." By 1900, the region had a post office, newspaper, hotel, and two markets. Los Angeles, with a population of 102,479 lay 10 miles east through the vineyards, barley fields, and citrus groves. A single- track streetcar line ran down the middle of Prospect Avenue from it, but service was infrequent and the trip took two hours. The old citrus fruit- packing house would be converted into a livery stable, improving transportation for the inhabitants of Hollywood. Construction of the famous Hollywood Hotel, the first major hotel in Hollywood, was opened in 1902, by H.J. Whitley, by then-President of the Los Pacific Boulevard and Development Company of which he was a major shareholder. Having finally acquired the Hurd ranch and subdivided it, Whitley built the hotel to attract land buyers, and was eager to sell these residential lots among the lemon ranches lining the foothills. Flanking the west side of Highland Avenue, the structure fronted on Prospect Avenue, which, still a dusty, unpaved road, was regularly graded and graveled. The Hotel was to become internationally known and was the center of the civic and social life and home of the stars for many years Whitley did much to promote the area. He paid out many thousands of dollars for electric lighting, including bringing electricity and building a bank, as well as a road into the Cahuenga Pass. Hollywood was incorporated as a municipality on November 14, 1903. The vote was 88 for incorporation and 77 against. On January 30, 1904, the voters in Hollywood decided, by a vote of 113 to 96, for the banishment of liquor in the city, except when it was being sold for medicinal purposes. Neither hotels nor restaurants were allowed to serve wine or liquor before or after meals. By 1910, because of an ongoing struggle to secure an adequate water supply, town officials voted for Hollywood to be annexed into the City of Los Angeles, as the water system of the growing city had opened the Los Angeles Aqueduct and was piping water down from the Owens River in the Owens Valley. Prolific director D.W. Griffith was the first one to make a motion picture in Hollywood. His 17-minute short film In Old California, which was released on March 10th, 1910 and was filmed entirely in the village of Hollywood. The first film by a Hollywood Studio, Nestor Motion Picture Company, was shot on October 26, 1911. The Whitley home was used as its set, and the movie was filmed in the middle of their groves on the corner of Whitley Ave and Hollywood Boulevard by directors Al Christie and David and William Horsley. It was soon after that, various producers and filmmakers moved bases from the east coast to escape punitive licensing from the Motion Picture Patents Company. The first studio in Hollywood was established by the New Jersey based, Centaur Co., which wanted to make westerns in California. They rented an unused roadhouse at 6121 Sunset Boulevard at the corner of Gower, and converted it into a movie studio in October 1911, calling it Nestor Studio after the name of the western branch of their company. The first feature film made specifically in a Hollywood studio, in 1914, was The Squaw Man, directed by Cecil B. DeMille and Oscar Apfel and was filmed at the Laskey-DeMille Barn, among other area locations. By 1911, Los Angeles was second only to New York in motion picture production, and by 1915, the majority of American films were being produced in the Los Angeles area. Four major film companies — Paramount, Warner Bros., RKO and Columbia — had studios in Hollywood, as did several minor companies and rental studios. Hollywood had begun its dramatic transformation from sleepy suburb to movie production capital. The residential and agrarian Hollywood Boulevard of 1910 was virtually unrecognizable by 1920 as the new commercial and retail sector replaced it. The sleepy town was no more, and, to the chagrin of many original residents, the boom town could not be stopped.

Looking down at the lights of the Los Angeles basin, Zack could hardly believe his eyes. For the past twenty-five minutes they’d flown over miles and miles of shimmering electrified illumination. From San Bernardino to the shores of Santa Monica, the lights of Los Angeles seemed to never end. And that was the gist of the opening line from a handwritten note given him by Poet. Just before leaving Key West the wizened old bartender had put the piece of paper in his shirt pocket with the instructions to read it when he was flying over Los Angeles. And that’s exactly what Zack would do.

Zack, City of night, city of lights…L.A. I never told you but I spent some time in that sultry insane asylum. One of the chief crazies, too!! Watch your back and watch your own head, my friend. They’ll feed you lies while they’re feeding you fillet mignon so don’t buy into the bullshit. No matter what happens keep your perspective and know that it’s all an illusion. Smoke and mirrors, amigo. Love what you do and settle for that alone, even if you’re wildly successful. Fame, fortune and all that shit is a pipe dream and don’t go smoking that shit and think it’s real…your art is real, your wife is real, your friends are real and the rest? an illusion… I pulled out an old book called “Conversations with Brando” and Marlon knew it all too well. As an actor, he saw it and did it all and here’s a few things he had to say about ‘the illusion’ when asked about the fleeting nature of being an idol….

“There’s a tendency for people to mythologize everybody, evil or good. While history is happening it’s being mythologized. There are people who believe that Nixon was innocent, that he’s a man of refinement, nobility, firmness of purpose, and he should be reinstated as President, he did no wrong. Black activist Bobby Seale, for some people, was a vicious, pernicious symbol of something that was destructive in our society that should be looked to with great caution and wariness, a man from whom no good could emanate. To other people, he was a poet, an aristocratic spirit. People believe what they believe to a large degree. People will like you that never met you, they think you’re absolutely wonderful; and then people will hate you, for reasons that have nothing to do with any real experience with you. People don’t want to lose their enemies. We have favorite enemies, people we love to hate and we hate to love. If they do something good, we don’t like it. I found myself doing that with Ronald Reagan. He is an anathema to me. If he does something that’s reasonable I find my mind trying to find some way to interpret it so that it’s not reasonable, so that somewhere it’s jingoist extremism. Most people want those fantasies of those who are worth of our hate-- we get rid of a lot of anger that way; and those who are worthy of our idolatry. Whether it’s Farrah Fawcett or somebody else, it doesn’t make a difference. They’re easily replaceable units, pick ‘em out like a card file. Johnny Ray enjoyed that kind of hysterical popularity, celebration, and then suddenly he wasn’t there anymore. The Beatles now are nobody in particular. Once they set screaming fans running after them, then ran in fear of their lives, they had special tunnels for them. They can walk almost anyplace now. Because the fantasy is gone. Elvis Presley--bloated, over-the-hill, adolescent entertainer suddenly drawing people in to Las Vegas--had nothing to do with excellence, just myth. It’s convenient for people to believe that something is wonderful, therefore they’re wonderful. Kafka and Kierkegaard are remarkable souls, they visited distant lands of the psyche that no other writer dared go before--to some people that’s it, not Elvis Presley, Franz and Kafka.”

Say hello to the inmates out there for me and ‘keep it between the lines’….

Poet

PS…. don’t forgot your pals here at Capt. Tony’s and send a postcard now and then.

Chapter 14 “The battle is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave.” Patrick Henry

Waiting curbside in his shiny black new Mercedes at L.A. International was none other than T-Bone Burnett. The successful music producer could have sent a limo or personal assistant but that wasn’t his style. The very gifted man was the real deal and he was looking forward to talking some more with Zack. They’d only had a couple of hours together back in Key West and he wanted to give Zack as much encouragement, and information, as possible. Zack was now in ‘the big leagues’ and T-Bone had some of L.A.’s finest session musicians lined up for the recording sessions. Not to mention, a record label that was very anxious to hear, and potentially sign, this new discovery of his. Walking through the sliding glass doors and out of the baggage was Zack. T-Bone caught sight of him and honked his horn and got out of the car. The young long-haired singer/songwriter had his gig bag slung over his shoulder and carried a small suitcase. The suitcase was actually Pandora’s and she had personally packed it full of jeans, t-shirts, under ware and a few toiletries. T-Bone stepped up and greeted the young musician. “Welcome to L.A., Zack.” Zack smiled and set his suitcase and gig bag down and shook the producer’s hand. “Thanks, Bone. Great to be here. Never been in L.A. before.” T-Bone took the suitcase and gig bag and put them in the backseat and pointed to the many cars that filed by the terminal in slow procession. “Los Angeles...they come by car, plane, train and buses. The dream machine, man. Not everybody but a whole lot of ’em want a piece of it. Keep your head on straight and it’ll all work out fine.” “Yeah, funny, you say that. My friend the bartender back at Capt. Tony’s said the same thing in a note he wrote me. I just read it on the plane, and he called it…a sultry insane asylum.” T-Bone laughed and nodded his head. “Your friend must have lived here. Probably a musician, too.” Little did T-Bone know how right he was.

On the ride over to the hotel, Zack and T-Bone talked eagerly about the upcoming recording sessions and Zack also informed him of the other good fortune in his life. His marriage to Pandora. And the very one who’d written the article T-Bone had read in the Miami Herald. “Just like you, I met her at Capt. Tony’s. That place has been good to me, to say the very least,” stated Zack happily. “Congratulations. She’s one hell of a writer, I know that. She got me down there with her article. Nothing like a fine woman. Especially, one who can get you a gig.” Zack stared at him and shook his head. “That’s exactly what Fingers said one night. He’s does the door and sound at Capt. Tony’s.” “Musician?” T-Bone asked. “Yeah,” replied Zack and thought about his friends back in Key West, Capt. Tony, Fingers, Poet and Gypsy Mama. He was going to miss them. A lot. Funny how tight they’d become in a short amount of time, he considered. And what a coincidence, T-Bone saying verbatim what Fingers had said, and the same admonition from both the producer and Poet. Had Poet and Fingers and even Gypsy Mama walked this same road he was now traveling on? He wondered. Who knew what lay in their distant past and Pandora was right when she said there was something else going on at Capt. Tony’s in Key West, Florida. T-Bone looked over at him, as if reading his mind, and said, “That’s a cool joint, Capt. Tony’s. Very magical. I’d heard of it but never been there. Maybe we should do a music video in the bar,” replied T-Bone. “Man would that be cool!” exclaimed Zack as he looked out at the buildings and bright lights they were now passing on the Sunset Strip. “Wow. Look at that,” Zack pointed out. It was the infamous Rainbow Bar & Grill where rock musicians from John Lennon to Axle Rose had eaten and drank and partied hard through the night. A few blocks down they passed Johnny Dep’s nightclub, The Viper Room, and a little further up the street, The House of Blues. “The Sunset Strip. Heard of it, have you?” asked T-Bone. “Oh yeah, man. Heard a lot about it,” replied Zack as he stared in wonder at the nighttime sights on The Strip. “Taking you to the hotel you’ll be staying at. The Chateau Marmont. It’s got quite a history.” Indeed, it did.

The Chateau Marmont is a hotel at 8221 Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood, California, built in 1927, and modeled loosely after the Chateau d’Amboise, in France's Loire Valley. Fred Horowitz, a local attorney, began construction on the hotel in 1927. His project turned into the Chateau Marmont, named for the street running across the back of the property. The Chateau Marmont opened in February 1929 as an apartment house, but high rents and the Depression kept renters away. In 1931 the building was changed to a hotel. The hotel was designed and constructed as earthquake proof, and has survived major earthquakes in 1933, 1953, 1971, 1987 and 1994, without sustaining any major structural damage. Nine cottages were built in the 1930s, next to the hotel, which were acquired by the hotel in the 1940s. Two of the four bungalows at the Chateau Marmont were also designed by Craig Ellwood, in 1956. It was in one of those garden bungalows that John Belushi died of a drug overdoze in 1982.

The list goes on and on of the notorious and fabled stories from The Chateau Marmont.

Jim Morrison used up what he called “the eighth of my nine lives” after he hurt his back while dangling from a drain pipe, trying to swing from the roof into the window of his hotel room.

James Dean hopped in through a window to audition with Natalie Wood and Sal Mineo for Rebel Without A Cause

Led Zepplin band members rode their motorcycles through the lobby one evening to cheering guests, causing modest damage.

When Montgomery Cliff was almost killed in a 1956 auto accident near her home, Elizabeth Taylor brought him to the Chateau Marmont, where she leased the penthouse as a place for him to recuperate.

Greta Garbo loved to stay in the Chateau Marmont for weeks during her infamous seclusion period and would not leave her room for days. Fashion photographer Helmut Newton died on January 23, 2004, after his car crashed into a wall on the driveway of the hotel.

Judy Garland sang by the lobby's grand piano with Kay Thompson during a party held by director George Cukor, where she exclaimed to Thompson, "Oh, Kay, let's just sing real loud!"

Red Hot Chili Peppes guitarist John Frusciante briefly resided in the hotel in 1996. During this period, Frusciante was dealing with a serious drug addiction that almost claimed his life. The New Times LA interviewed Frusciante at the hotel and published an article about the musician in which his physical appearance was described as "a skeleton covered in thin skin," whose flesh was noticeably scarred and bruised from injecting himself repeatedly with heroin and cocaine. Frusciante was kicked out of the hotel shortly after the interview.

Jean Harlow spent her honeymoon with cinematographer Hal Rosson in the hotel and was a regular guest.

Howard Hughes moved into the attic of the hotel and would spy on beautiful women in the pool area using prism binoculars.

Britney Spears was reportedly banned from the hotel after an incident in 2007 where she allegedly smeared her dinner on her face. Outraged diners demanded the management to kick her out for good; which they did. Her name is now added to the Marmont's "Black List.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald suffered a heart attack in Chateau Marmont.

Before Rock Hudson became famous, he met his first live-in lover Kenneth G Hodge, who was living in the penthouse managing the Chateau Marmont for his aunt Bernadette. Hodge and Hudson then moved together to Hollywood to launch his career.

Hunter S. Thompson was often a guest at the hotel.

In a video shown by The Insider and Entertainment Tonight on January 30, 2008, Heath Ledger is seen at a party where other people appear to be taking drugs. Eventually only promos were shown out of respect for his friends and family. Ledger had died a week earlier.

But it may have been said best by Harry Cohn

Harry Cohn, founder of Columbia Pictures, told William Holden and Glenn Ford, "If you are going to get in trouble, do it at the Chateau Marmont."

Chapter 15

“So long as one does not despair, so long as one doesn’t look upon life bitterly, things work out fairly well in the end.” George Moore

Zack got checked into the hotel that night and had talked to Pandora for two hours straight before getting a quiet, but restless, nights sleep. T-Bone had picked up him at ten o’clock in the morning and they had just passed the great wrought iron gates of Paramount Studios on Melrose Avenue. T-Bone looked at the young musician in the passenger seat and said wryly, “Another day at the office, huh?” “Oh, yeah man. I’m riding around with one of the biggest music producers in the world and about to record my songs with some famous session players,” Zack replied dryly. T-Bone knew this was the biggest day of Zack’s musical life and one of his jobs as a producer was to keep everything calm and cool. Especially, a nervous young singer/songwriter who was about to ‘wade into the deep water’ of professional recording. “Nothing to worry about, man, you’ll fit in like a duck to water. And by the way, I got Gary Mallaber on drums, Waddy Wachtel on electric guitar and Leland Sklar on bass for a rhythm section,” said T-Bone and continued, “Just do your thing and these guys will bring it all together, trust me.” At that moment, they turned a corner and pulled up to the security gate at Conway Recording Studio. Zack smiled and stared straight ahead at the ‘promise land.’

Conway Recording Studio

Conway has been nominated for awards of technical and creative excellence and the recordings made there are the stuff of legends. It started in 1972 as an eight track mastering studio, and was later purchased by Buddy and Susan Brundo in 1976. Since then, the studio complex has been rebuilt from the ground up by studio designer and architect Vincent Van Haaff. Conway's studio perimeter includes a tropical garden area, located in a 54,000-square-foot gated complex. This feature makes it harder for paparazzi to photograph and enter the studio and parking area, improving the privacy of higher end artists and music professionals. Conway uses Pro Tools HD systems, as well as Studer multitrack machines. Studio A console: Neve88R (84 inputs) + Neve 88 Series remote Mic Pre rack with Air and 1081 modules Studio B console: SSL XL 9080 K SuperAnalogue Studio C console: Neve 88R (72 inputs) + Neve 88 Series remote Mic Pre rack with custom Air and 1081 modules Some of the artists to record at Conway: Fleetwod Mac, U2, Carlos Santana, Neil Diamond, Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson, Van Morrison, James Taylor, Barbara Streisand, Phil Collins, Willie Nelson, Ray Charles, Diana Ross, Lionel Richie, Linda Ronstadt, KISS, Talking Heads Meatloaf, Dave Matthews Band, Mariah Carey, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Sheryl Crow, Metallica, Placido Domingo, Macy Gray, Ricky Martin, Josh Groban, Pink, Black Eyed Peas and the list goes on and on…….

Zack stepped out of the car in the private parking lot of Conway’s and, with a gig bag slung over his shoulder, took a long look around. The lush green foliage dotted by the multi-colored flowers and the stone walkways that led to the different studios gave the impression of a tropical island. In fact, it was very much like Key West. He immediately felt a bit relieved and was that one of T-Bone’s reasons for recording in this setting? He wondered. “Come on and let’s see if the guys are here,” said T-Bone and pointed up the walkway. Walking into the control room of Studio A, Zack almost gasped. It looked like the NASA Command Center in Houston. There in front of him in the dim light sat a massive recording console, with little colored lights that blinked, and it stretched out in front of a large glass window that looked into an airy and perfectly lit tracking room. The recording engineer sat behind the console (aka ‘board’) and three guys lounged on a leather couch and talked causally among themselves. “Hey, boys, this is Zack Zimmerman,” said T-Bone in the way of introductions. The musicians looked up and Gary spoke first. “Good to meet you, man.” “Same here,” said Leland. “Welcome to the jungle,” replied Waddy good-naturedly. They all knew that this was Zack’s first time to record in a setting like this and they’d all been there before. First timers were always interesting they knew from experience. Sometimes it went smoothly and then other times, it was a train wreck. Who knew in this case? “Good to meet you,” said Zack nervously. “Thanks for coming,” was about all he could think of to say. T-Bone walked over and sat in a high-tech swivel chair next to the engineer at the console. “Zack, this is Dave our engineer. He’s the button pusher and a recording genius.” Zack smiled and pointed to the astonishing console in front of him. “That’s quite a machine you got there.” “Yeah, it is. Neve 88R with 84 inputs, Neve 88 series remote mic pre rack with air and 1081 modules, Chandler 88 Limited TG2 “Abbey Road” EMI edition…also got a Studer A-827 24-track Analog, Timeline Lynx Synchronizer…that sort of thing,” stated Dave professionally. Zack just nodded his head. What could he say? It might as well have been Mandarin Chinese that the engineer was speaking. Dave had one last thing to say, too. “But it doesn’t matter if the music’s no good. Hopefully, you got some good material…and if you do…. I’ll get it down.” The seasoned engineer didn’t mince his words, thought Zack. If …he some good material. The gauntlet had just been thrown down and everybody in room knew it. T-Bone spoke up reassuringly and said, “That’s actually a good idea. Zack, why don’t you play something you’d like to record. Let the guys take a listen and they’ll get some ideas.” Zack nodded his head and pulled his old acoustic Martin D-28 out of the gig bag and sat in a chair at the end of the leather couch. And he was so damn nervous, too. His hands shook ever so slightly and a bead of sweat ran down from his forehead. And what if they don’t like my songs? He thought to himself. Sure, these cats were paid to record but this whole thing could be a ‘by the book’ session or, just maybe, something special. It all depended on what he did next, Zack knew. He took a moment to tune his guitar as the hot shot session players waited to hear something. Finally, Zack began to strum his guitar and sang, “Now’s the time to kiss me come on and kiss me Now’s the time to hold me come on and hold me Slow and easy we got nothing but time Fill your glass with my sweet red cherry wine

Now’s the time to tell me how much you love me Now’s the time to please me come on and please me Slow and easy we got nothing but time Fill your glass with my sweet red cherry wine

How long can a rose live off the vine How long can two hearts stand the test of time Love don’t come easy I know that for sure Now that I have it I want some more I got it bad for you baby and I got it for good

How long can a rose live off the vine How long can two hearts stand the test of time Love don’t come easy I know that for sure Now that I have it I want some more

Now’s the time to kiss me come on and kiss me Now’s the time to hold me come on and hold me Slow and easy we got nothing but time Come fill your glass with my sweet red cherry wine Come fill your glass with my sweet red cherry wine…”

Zack sat back in the chair and waited for some response. Total silence. There was nothing until Waddy nodded his head and said, “Cool. Very cool.” It was Gary’s turn next, “That’s a damn good song, man. What do you think, Lee? Leland stayed silent but the smile on his face said it all. He finally stood up and pointed to the tracking room. “Let’s lay that one down. I think we’ll nail it.”

Chapter 16

“Once in the hoary ages in the Ravine of Lungmen stood a Kiri tree, a veritable king of the forest. It reared its head to talk to the stars; its roots truck deep into the earth, mingling their bronzed coils with those of the silver dragon that slept beneath. And it came to pass that a mighty wizard made of this tree a wondrous harp, whose stubborn spirit shouhld be tamed but by the greatest musicians. For long the instrument was treasured by the Emperor of China, but all in vain were the efforts of these who tried to draw melody from its strings. In response to their utmost strivings there came from the harp but harsh notes of distain, ill-according with the songs they fein would sing. The harp refused to recognize a master. At last came Peiwoh, the prince of harpists. With tender hand he caressed the harp as one might seek to soothe an unruly horse, and softly touched the cords. He sang of nature and seasons, of high mountains and flowing waters, and all the memories of the tree awoke! Once more the sweet breath of spring played amidst its branches. The young cataracts, as they danced down the ravine, laughed to the budding flowers. Anon were heard the dreamy voices of summer with its myriad insects, the gently pattering of rain, the wail of the cuckoo. Hark! A tiger roars---the valley answers again. It is autumn; in the desert night, sharp like a sword gleams the moon upon the frosted grass. Now winter reigns, and through the snow-filled air swirl flocks of swans and rattling hailstones beat upon the boughs with fierce delight. Then Peiwoh changed the key and sang of love. The forest swayed like an ardent swain deep lost in thought. On high, like a haughty maiden, swept a cloud bright and fair; but passing, trailed long shadows on the ground, black like despair. Again the mode was changed; Peiwoh sang of war, of clashing steel and trampling steeds. And in the harp arose the tempest of Lungmen, the dragon rose the lightning, the thundering avalanche crashed through the hills. In ecstasy the Celestial monarch asked Peiwoh wherein lay the secret of his victory. “Sire,” he replied, “others have failed because they sang of themselves. I left the harp to choose its theme, and knew not truly whether the harp had been Peiwoh or Peiwoh were the harp.” Taoist tale of the Taming of the Harp

Sessions players. Backing band. Studio musicians. These are the men and women in the recording studio trenches. The one’s who take a song from scratch and work their magic. They’re modern-day alchemists’ who take a diamond in the rough and, in many cases, transform it into gold. As in a gold selling album or single. And these particular cats in Studio A with Zack were some major magicians. Robert "Waddy" Wachtel He has appeared on hundreds of albums over the years and has been a mainstay of the Los Angeles music scene. Among the artists and bands he has worked with are The Everly Brothers, Jackson Browne, Kim Carnes, Rosannae Cash, The Church, The Cowstills, Bob Dylan, Melissa Etheridge, Bryan Ferry, Andrew Gold, Don Henley, Carole King, Miranda Lambert, The Motels, Maria Muldaur, Randy Newman, Steve Perry, Iggy Pop, Bonnie Raitt, Keith Richards, Linda Ronstadt, Adam Sandler, Bob Seger, Carly Simon, The Rolling Stones, Tom Waits and Warren Zevon. The man was also the inspiration for the Academy Award winning short film “Session Man.” Leland "Lee" Bruce Sklar Among the artists and bands he as worked with are Hoyt Axton, Carole Bayer Sager, Laura Branigan, Stephen Bishop, Jackson Browne, Peabo Bryson/Roberta Flack, Jimmy Buffett, Glen Campbell, Kim Carnes, Steven Curtis Chapman, Ray Charles, Joe Cocker, Leonard Cohen, Phil Collins, Rita Coolidge, Crosby & Nash, Crosby, Still & Nash, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Neil Diamond, Dion, Thomas Dolby, Donovan, The Doors, Kinky Friedman, Art Garbfunkel, Vince Gill, Sammy Hagar, Merle Haggard, Hall & Oates, Don Henley, Faith Hill, Engelbert Humperdinck, Enrique Iglesias, Julio Iglesias, Carole King, Kris Kristofferson, Wynonna Judd, Lisa Loeb, Lyle Lovett, Steve Lukather, The Manhattan Transfer, Ricky Martin, Reba McEntire, Roger McGuinn, Better Midler, Randy Newman, Olivia Newton-John, The Oak Ridge Boys, Van Dyke Parks, Dolly Parton, Bernadette Peters, Bonnie Raitt, LeAnn Rimes, Lee Ritenour, Johnny Rivers, Linda Ronstadt, Diana Ross, David Sanborn, Neil Sedaka, Carly Simon, Ricky Skaggs, Michael W. Smith, The Spencer Davis Group, Rod Stewart, George Strait, Barbara Streisand, Donna Summer, James Taylor, Stephen Bishop, Terence Trent d’Arby, Tanya Tucker, Jennifer Warnes, Jimmy Webb. Paul Williams, Wilson Phillips, Lee Ann Womack, Trisha Yearwood, Jesse Collin Young, Warren Zevon and Cliff Richard. Gary Mallaber He was to become a member of The Steve Miller Band and his signature drum work was a major part of Miller’s huge success on tour and for his albums. Mallaber has recorded as a session player for Bruce Springsteen, Eddy Money, Los Lobos, The Beach Boys, Jackson Browne, Paul Williams, Bob Seger, Ray Manzarak, Joan Armatrading, Bonnie Raitt, Peter Frampton, Poco, America, Barbara Streisand, Jamie Walters, Ned Doheny,, Cher, John Klemmer, Tommy Tutone, Brewer & Shipley, Hughes/Thrall, Warren Zevon, Kim Carnes, Les Dudek, Danny O’Keefe, Rick Vito, John David Souther, Maria Muldar, Patty Scalfa, Johnny Rivers, Egland Dan & John Ford Coley, Gene Clark, Dan Bern, Peter Case, Gerry Goffin, Ben Sidran, Bruce Johnson, Dusty Springfield, Richard Kerr, Lani Hall, Tom Rush, Gerard McMann & Kid Lightning, Norton Buffalo and other artists he perform or recorded with: Joe Walsh, Barnstorm, Richie Havens, Brian Setzer, Joan Baez, Pablo Cruise, Dave Mason, Jacki Lomax, David Casidy, Peter Allen, Paul Pena, Roger Daulty, Kenny Loggins, Steve Perry, Kate & Anna, Lynda Carter, Leon Ware, Iggy Pop, Tom Snow, John Sebastian, Patty Smyth and The Gin Blossoms.

And for the next couple of days, Zack played his acoustic guitar and sang his songs and was accompanied by a very happy A-list team of session players. It was on the third day of recording when two men in fashionable Beverly Hills attire walked into the control room of Studio A. These two fellows were the heads of A&R at Columbia Records and they were followed by a longhaired and bearded man in a plaid shirt, jeans and work boots. The scruffy looking guy could have passed for the gardener there at Conway Studios. He was, Rick Ruben, the co-President of Columbia Records. They’d been invited by T-Bone to come and hear some ‘rough’ tracks and size up the young singer/songwriter, Zack Zimmerman. Columbia Records? This was the ‘original’ record company in the United States of America and a musical powerhouse down through the years.

Chapter 17

“Life must be measured by thought and action, not by time.” Sir John Lubbock

T-Bone swiveled around in his chair at the console and greeted the music execs. “Welcome, gentlemen.” He then stood up and walked over shook hands with the president of Columbia Records. “How you doin’ Rick? You look like you lost some weight.” Rick smiled and patted his stomach. “Damn right I have, Bone. The chicks love it, too.” That got a few laughs from Rick’s label associates and the president continued, “So you say you heard this kid in Florida?” “Yeah, a little club in Key West,” replied T-Bone. “I hope he’s good, man.” “Would I bring you all the way over here in your damn Rolls Royce if he wasn’t?” said T-Bone cheerfully. “He’s got to be way better than good even. Only have so much in the budget for new acts.” “Oh, man. You big time record execs. That’s all you ever think about. Budgets and number crunching and the bottom line,” replied T-Bone in mock exasperation. “I know you’ve been bank rolled this thing up to now, Bone. I hope we can pick up the ball on it. Let’s hear something.” “Ain’t worried about it, Rick. That’s why I called you first. You got the best ears in town,” said T-Bone sincerely. “No, I don’t,” stated Rick emphatically and continued, “I got the second-best ears in town.” Rick smiled and said, “You got the best ears in town.”

First or second, Rick Ruben had some ‘golden ears.’

Frederick Jay "Rick" Rubin (born March 10, 1963) is an American record producer and the co-president of Columbia Records. Rubin was the original DJ of the Beastie Boys, and, and co-founder of Def Jam Records with Russell Simmons. He then established American Recordings. With the Beastie Boys and Run-D.M.C., Rubin helped popularize a fusion of hip hop and heavy metal and music, and he has worked extensively with hard rock and heavy metal groups, notably Danzig, Slayer, Linkin Park, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Metallica, Slipknnot, System of a Down and Rage Against The Machine and the award-winning Columbian singer Shakira. In the 1990s, he produced the “American Recordings” album with Johnny Cash. The album was a critical and commercial success, and helped revive Cash's career following a fallow period. The formula was repeated for five more Cash albums: Unchained, Solitary Man, The Man Comes Around (the last album before Cash’s death), A Hundred Highways and Ain’t No Grave. The Man Comes Around earned a 2003 Grammy for Best Male Country Vocal Performance ("Give My Love to Rose") and a nomination for Best Country Collaboration with Vocals (“Bridge Over Troubled Water” with Fiona Apple.). Rubin introduced Cash to Nine Inch Nail’s “Hurt,” and the resulting cover version of it on The Man Comes Around would become the defining song of Cash's later years. Rubin produced a number of records with other older artists, which were released on labels other than American. These included Mick Jagger’s 1993 Wandering Spirit album, Lord’s of Acid’s 1994 Voodoo-U album, Tom Petty’s 1994 Wildflowers, AC/DC’s 1995 Ballbreaker, Donovan’s 1996 Sutras, and Metallica’s 2008 Death Magnetic. In 2005, Rubin executive- produced Shakira’s two-album project Fijacion Oral Vol. 1 and Oral Fixation Vol. 2. In May, 2007, Rubin was named co-head of Columbia Records. Rubin co-produced Linkin Park's 2007 album, Minutes to Midnight, with Linkin Park's Mike Shinoda. He also co-produced with Mike Shinoda again for Linkin Park's 2010 album, A Thousand Suns. In 2009, Rubin won the Grammy Award for Producer of the Year for his work with the Dixie Chicks, Michael Kranz, Red Hot Chili Peppers, U2 and Green Day. MTV called him "the most important producer of the last 20 years." In 2007, Rubin was listed among Time’s 100 Most Influential People in the World.

The high-powered Columbia execs took a seat on the leather couch and appeared very anxious to hear some music from the new young singer/songwriter, Zack Zimmerman. And so, they did. While the musicians took a break, T-Bone sat next to Dave at the console and played them several tracks from the recent recordings. Zack had been invited by T-Bone to stay for the ‘listening session’ but he opted to spend the break with his new musician friends out on the covered patio. He was also scared shitless about these important men listening to just a couple of songs and deciding the outcome of his recording for Columbia Records. Outside the studio, it was one of those unusual day for Los Angeles when it was raining. And it was pouring. The group of four musicians sat at a table and drank some cokes and coffee when Leland looked over to a garden studio bungalow and pointed. “Hey, there’s B.B. King.” And sure enough there was the legendary bluesman and he was huddled under an awning while the rain came down in torrents. Momentarily, a young black man walked out of the adjoining office off the patio and waved over at B.B. “I’ll get the car, Mr. King” he yelled and ran off toward the parking lot. Zack stared at the office door and walked over. Sticking his head inside he asked a pretty young woman who sat at a desk, “Do you have an umbrella?” The woman smiled and walked to a closet and produced one. “Here you go,” she said as Zack took it and said, “thanks,” and quickly walked away. Opening the umbrella, he headed across the garden grounds and toward the legend himself. The hefty old black musician looked up when Zack arrived and smiled. “That’s just what I needed,” he stated. “Hello, Mr. King,” said Zack cheerfully. “Can I walk you to your car?” he asked. “Well, sure, man,” responded B.B. and together they squeezed under the giant red umbrella and made their way through the rain to the waiting limo in the parking lot. When they arrived, B.B. looked at Zack and asked, “You work here?” “No. I’m recording an album here,” Zack humbly replied. “You don’t work here? Man, that’s was damn nice of you to get that umbrella,” he said jovially. What’s your name?” questioned B.B. “Zack Zimmerman.” And then like a royal King to his loyal knight, B.B. laid his big hand on Zack’s shoulder and intoned, “Well, Zack Zimmerman, I wish you the best in your career. Maybe someday we’ll play together.” And with those words the blues legend got into the long black limo and it pulled away. Zack looked positively elated. Unbelievable, he thought to himself. I just took a walk with the greatest blues player who ever lived. And…I kept him dry.

Chapter 18

“If we are ever to enjoy life, now is the time---not tomorrow, nor next year, not in some future life after we have died. The best preparation for a better life next year is a full complete, harmonious, joyous life this year. Our beliefs in a rich future life are of little importance unless we coin them into a rich present life. Today should always be our most wonderful day.” Thomas Dreier

Black and white and brown. Young or old. Conway Recording Studio was a haven for the super talented and now it was several execs from Columbia Records who had a decision to make. Was Zack Zimmerman worth the expense and time and energies of their celebrated record label? The ‘listening session’ had come to an end in Studio A and the three men consulted quietly on the leather couch. At that moment, Zack and the noted session players walked into the control room. T-Bone still sat next to Dave at the console and they were going over some notes when one of the young execs spoke up. “Zack?” “Yes?” answered the young singer/songwriter. The term ‘sweating bullets’? Well, that’s about what Zack was doing at that very moment. Although a novice in the recording studio, Zack knew the odds of any young musician getting a major label record deal. Slim to none. “We listened to several of your tracks,” the guy said and looked at his boss who then stood. Rick Rubin walked up to Zack and looked him squarely in the eyes and spoke passionately. “That’s some of the best music we’ve heard in a long time. If you’d like to sign with Columbia Records, we’d love to have you.”

Within minutes, Zack was in the musician’s lounge at Conway and making a phone call. He’d just tried Pandora’s cell phone and she didn’t answer, so he left her a message. He also had her number at the Miami Herald. “Could I speak to Pandora, please?” he said into the house phone. “Really? Do you know when she’ll be out of the meeting? … okay…would you have her call her husband at the recording studio, she’s got the number…thanks,” said Zack and put down the phone. God, if only Pandora could be here, thought Zack. He so wanted to share the good news with his new wife. Not to mention, he missed her madly and just wanted to hear the sound of her voice. Sitting alone in the quiet lounge he though back on the series of event that had led to this moment. And, without a doubt, he knew the part Pandora had played in his good fortune. She was the reason he was going to be recording for the legendary Columbia Records. No article. No T-Bone. No record deal. T-Bone had told Zack to take an hour out and make his phone calls and to relax. They still had hours of recording ahead of them, so Zack sat back on the sofa and tried. To relax, that is. It was still hard for him to get his head around being asked to sign with Columbia Records. And he couldn’t wait to call Capt. Tony’s later, when the night crew would be in, and give them the good word. And if it hadn’t been for Capt. Tony letting him play at his bar none of this would have happened, either. Nothing worthwhile really happens on its own, he now knew for certain. The thought then crossed his mind and he was reminded of that old catch phrase, and how true it was in his own life, “No man is an island.” Glancing over at the end table, Zack spotted a copy of Billboard Magazine’s supplement, Musicians Guide: To Touring & Promotion. On the cover, was a picture of some young musicians about his age and they were members of a very hot new band. Zack was familiar with the band and knew that they’d become a major worldwide rock act in the last few years. Opening the magazine, he found a related article on these guys who, a lot like him, had worked hard and suddenly found a golden opportunity. And, maybe, it just might be Zack Zimmerman’s story in the very near future.

Back in Miami, Pandora sat in her small cubicle at The Miami Herald and thought about her husband. She’d tried returning his call, but the receptionist had told her Zack was currently in a tracking session. Not wanting to disturb him, Pandora left a message. And what a day to leave her cell phone at home. There were several interviews in the city she had to get and that would keep her working late. A midnight phone call with her husband would be better than nothing, she knew. And how she missed him. Just to lie in his arms and feel his heart beating against hers. And the sound of his voice and the smell of his body she’d come to know so well. And the one thing she’d kept of his, was a shirt. And every night she’d smell that shirt and wear it to bed and fall to sleep in a fantasy. A fantasy inspired by the days and nights she’d spent with him and, especially, the long hours they’d spent in bed. The times of gentle love making and the times their bodies were so tightly intertwined, and he was so urgently thrusting in and out of her while she moaned and he climaxed and filled her full of his cum. Butterscotch. Sweet liquid butterscotch, Zack playfully called it. And she loved it. And she wanted as much as he could give her. And even more to the point, they decided he wouldn’t wear a condom and he knew she wasn’t on the pill. Like the old song goes, “Que Sera Sera, whatever will be will be...”

Chapter 19

“Our minds have unbelievable power over our bodies” Andre Maurois

The session had gone late and it was now one of those ‘L.A. nights in the city of lights’ that Poet had referenced in his note. I mean, a little celebration was in order, right? Zack had just been essentially signed to Columbia Records and all was right in the world. The young singer/songwriter and his producer had spent the last hour at a wicker table in the garden patio of the Chateau Marmont Hotel. Not one to drink a lot, Zack decided for one night to ‘let it all hang out.’ All around them were tiki torches and flickering candles and Zack was not only a little buzzed, he was on the road to getting downright drunk. T-Bone stood up from the table and looked down at the intoxicated but happy young singer/songwriter and smiled. “Enjoy yourself, Zack. You deserve it, man. We’ll talk tomorrow about the record deal and I’ll try and hook you up with somebody to help you with the details.” Zack wobbled up from his wicker chair and gave T-Bone a big hug. “Thank you. I mean it, man. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” T-Bone in his own demure way just shrugged and said, “No big deal. You got the talent and I’m just a guy to help you get it out there. See you, tomorrow.” As T-Bone turned to leave a tall, handsome young guy walked over from a nearby table and greeted the legendary producer. “Bone, how you doin?” It was the very successful recording artist and dazzling guitar player, John Meyer. “Hi, John. Good to see you,” replied T-Bone and pointed to Zack. “Want you to meet a really talented musician like yourself. I’m producing an album on him. Zack Zimmerman, this is John Meyer,” T-Bone said in the way of introductions. Zack looked at the guy and then did a double-take. It was the John Meyer. Zack loved this guy’s music and, damn, here he was standing right in front of him. “Man, I really dig your music,” Zack stated happily and shook his hand. “Thanks. You must pretty good yourself if you got Bone in the studio with you,” said John sincerely. “John, I was just leaving. Why don’t you two have a chat. I’m sure you could give Zack a few pointers on the record industry. He’s going to sign with Columbia,” said T-Bone and walked away down the sidewalk.

Two hours later Zack was sitting, and still drinking, with John and a party of eight other people in the garden patio. And five of those ‘other people’ were some very fashionable Hollywood hotties. The beautiful young women were dressed in the latest designer outfits and one wore a high-waisted black skirt along with a camisole with lace detailing and a tucked in cardigan that was entirely unbuttoned, except for the top button. She’d also been hitting on Zack for the last hour. Her name was Paris Hilton. That’s right, you know the one. “So, Zack. You’ve got to be really good if T-Bone Burnett is producing you,” Paris said soft and sexy like. Leaning in real close she added, “I’ll bet you’re good at other things, too.” Zack was shit faced. Drunk. Smashed. He’d had shot after shot of the best blue agave tequila and then there were the Jägermeister car bombs, too. Zack could only nod his head and the words slurred out of his mouth, “Yeah…got a good producer…he’s the best….” Paris put her hand gently on his leg and with a wicked little smile on her face said, “No, I mean you. Are you also good in bed, too? I’m sure you are.” Zack looked at the beautiful young woman and what did she just say? He thought. And is that her hand on my leg? And all the while his head was humming and the flickering candle lights like a kaleidoscope spun around and around and, “where the fuck am I?’ he muttered. “Oh, yeah. Hollywood. I’m in Hollywood, Cal…ah” “forn…icate… ya’…” Paris said loudly and laughed. She ran her hand higher up his thigh and whispered furtively, “I’ve got some really awesome ecstasy, too. We can trip the rest of the night away. What do you think?” “My Sweet Dilemma.” It was the title to a song Zack had written awhile back and now the song was playing out in real life. Isn’t this what all musicians dream of? Recording at a studio like Conway and getting a record deal with a major label and… the ladies…all the sexed-up ladies …fast and loose and…. the final verse of his song ran through Zack’s head,

“Well I’m lost on the road they call nowhere Better turn back now if only I dare It’s a dead end ‘round the bend This I know Well it’s adios goodbye Got to let you go…” Zack suddenly stood up from his chair and stumbled away. Not a word was spoken. The crowd of hipsters watched him as he cut through the verdant green garden and then down the long-arched colonnade and into the hotel. Zack wove a precarious path down the hotel hallway with its Prague- in-the-1920’s ambiance, antique chandelier, wavy-edged mirrors and low banquettes. As he passed the front desk the night clerk called out, “Mr. Zimmerman, you’ve had several calls from your wife.” Zack nodded his head and headed for the old vintage brass elevator. His words were garbled and incoherent, “I…got to...get…a cell…phone…” Momentarily, the door flew open and Zack stumbled into his hotel room. He lurched toward the end table and picked up the phone and dialed the number. It wasn’t 911 but it was the number to someone who had saved his life. His lost, lonely life and it was Pandora’s number. He slumped on the bed and waited and waited and, after a moment, he spoke into the phone. “Hey baby…I love you…. I love you so much…please come see me…please…come see me soon….”

Chapter 20

“You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.” Kahlil Gibran

And that’s just what Pandora did. And at the expense of Columbia Records, no less. It was a week later and the execs at the record company made the arraignments for Pandora to come for the weekend and visit her husband. They even sent a limousine and picked her up at the airport and they were pulling into the parking lot of Conway Studio. The limo driver jumped out of the driver’s side and walked quickly around the car and opened the back door, “We’re here, Mrs. Zimmerman,” he said and extended his hand and helped her out of the car. Pandora looked perfectly beautiful in a soft yellow South Beach sun dress as she took around. “Look at this. What a place,” she commented to the driver. “Yes, it is. I was told your husbands in Studio A. I bring people here all the time and I’d be happy to take you there,” he stated and led her down the walkway.

Inside the tracking room of Studio A the musicians were just starting to play the intro of a song. In fact, it was a song the young singer/songwriter had just written, and all based on the experience with Paris in the garden patio. Waddy set the dark mood with his crunchy and dirty electric guitar and Zack began to sing in a gritty, passionate voice. At that very moment, Pandora walked into the control room and listened through the big wall mounted speakers. “I mind my business don’t look twice I got a woman who treats me nice Then out of nowhere out of the blue This stranger come like she’ll come for you Come for you

Like the midnight wind Blowin’ into my heart The midnight wind Tearing my world all apart Nothing as cold and as dark As the midnight wind

The fire’s burnin’ it’s getting hot Time to run no time to stop Won’t see it coming you won’t have a clue This love is trouble and it’s lookin’ for you Lookin’ for you

Like the midnight wind Blowin’ into my heart The midnight wind Tearing my world all apart Nothing as cold and as dark As the midnight wind

You could lose your way There ain’t no map to get you back To where you ought to stay…stay…

I mind my business don’t look twice Got a woman who treats me nice Then out of nowhere out of the blue That stranger come like she’ll come for you Come for you

Just like the midnight wind Blowin’ into my heart The midnight wind Tearing my world all apart Nothing as cold and as dark As the midnight wind The midnight wind The midnight wind….”

As the song came to an end, T-Bone looked around saw Pandora standing there. He quickly got out of his chair at the console and smiled. “You must be Pandora. I’ve heard a lot about you. And I mean a lot. I’m Bone. ” Pandora was still a little taken aback by the song she’d just heard her husband singing. It was so different and so much darker than anything she’d heard of his. And the lyrics? Where did that come from? She wondered. Quickly changing gears, Pandora smiled at her husband’s producer. “It’s so good to meet you, too. Zack’s said so many nice things about you.” It was then; Zack walked into the control and shouted, “Pandora! You’re here.” With a big smile on his face, he took her in his arms and planted a big wet one on her lips. “I missed you baby, so much,” he said and held her tight for a moment. “Did you meet Bone?” he asked. “Yes, we just met.” “And this is Dave. He’s our engineer,” Zack said and pointed at the man. “Hello, Dave.” Pandora said and gave a little wave. Oh, yeah. There was another guy sitting over on the leather couch. It was Zack’s new buddy, John Mayer. He’d come to a few sessions earlier in the week and he, too, had become a fan of the up-and-coming recording artist. Today, he was there to overdub some guitar and harmony parts on Zack’s new song. Zack looked at him and made the introduction. “John, this is the love of my life. Pandora.” The superstar got up from the couch and looked at Pandora and said sincerely, “Zack doesn’t stop talking about you. Seriously. It’s really good to meet you.” Pandora immediately recognized him and was taken a little off guard. Her first hour in town and she was meeting a famous musician and she thought to herself, so this is Hollywood? A star on every corner, they say. “Hi, John. Nice to meet you, too.”

John Clayton Mayer (born October 16, 1977) is an American musician, singer-songwriter, recording artist, and music producer. Raised in Fairfield, Connecticut, he attended Berklee College of Music in Boston before moving to Atlanta, Georgia in 1997, where he refined his skills and gained a following. His first two studio albums, Room for Squares and Heavier Things, did well commercially, achieving multi-platinum status. In 2003, he won a ‘Best Male Pop Vocal Performance’ Grammy Award for “Your Body Is a Wonderland.” Mayer began his career performing mainly acoustic rock, but gradually began a transition towards the blues genre in 2005 by collaborating with renowned blues artists such as B.B. King, Buddy Guy and Eric Clapton and, by forming the John Mayer Trio. The blues influence can be heard on his album Continuum, released in September 2006. At the 49th Annual Grammy Awards in 2007 Mayer won ‘Best Pop Album’ for Continuum and ‘Best Male Pop Vocal Performance’ for “Waiting on the World to Change.“ He released his fourth studio album, Battle Studies, in November 2009.

Late that afternoon in Studio A, Zack and John sat on the leather couch and jammed together. They both played acoustic guitars and Zack was showing his new song “The Midnight Wind” to the accomplished musician. Shortly, John would be laying down some electric guitar parts and a vocal harmony in an overdub session. T-Bone, Dave and the three session players had taken a break and only Pandora joined them in the control room. “Yeah, man, now go to the D,” said Zack and smiled. John was impeccable with his tasty guitar licks and the song was rockin’ really good. Zack sang the chorus and John joined in with a harmony part, “Just like the midnight wind Blowing into my heart The Midnight wind Tearing my world all apart Nothing as cold and as dark As the Midnight wind The midnight wind The midnight wind…” Zack came to the end of the tune and exclaimed, “That’s sounds amazing, John,” and he looked over at Pandora, “What do think, baby?” “I love it. You two sound great together,” she responded happily. Pandora also had her phone out and made a request, “Would it be alright if I took a video of you guys practicing the song? Maybe I could put it on YouTube.” Zack looked at John who shrugged and replied, “That’s fine with me, Pandora. Knock yourself out.” Pandora waited patiently and after a few more rehearsals she began to video her husband and his new friend, John Mayer, jamming together on the leather couch in the control room of Studio A. And the world would soon be watching. By the millions.

Chapter 21

“I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.” Alfred Tennyson

‘YouTube by midnight.’ It’s become a common term among performing musicians today. With the advent of the latest technology of modern cell phones and the ability to record anything and anywhere, music fans routinely record performances and almost immediately upload them to YouTube. And that’s just what Pandora did that afternoon after recording the impromptu jam session of Zack and John. Within days the simple little video of Pandora’s had been viewed by millions and millions of internet users around the world. The video clip of young new singer/songwriter Zack Zimmerman, accompanied by superstar John Mayer, was now a bone-a-fide internet sensation. And this was not lost on the all-seeing eyes of the Columbia Record music execs. The recording sessions at Conway Studio were now put into overdrive and they hoped to have a full-blown album to release as soon as possible. The musical landscape had unexpectedly changed and the world-wide interest in Zack Zimmerman was growing daily. Radio stations, music magazines and internet bloggers were clamoring for more details about this new young artist. Zack was officially a ‘hot commodity.’ And all due, once again, to his beautiful and brainy wife, Pandora.

The short but exciting weekend in Hollywood had flown by like a whirlwind for the young journalist and she’d returned to Miami and was just beginning to put a piece together about the music industry. I mean, what else could she do but dig in and work? She’d just married a man who was not only a musician but someone who might soon become a successful recording artist. Having an album was no guarantee of success, she knew, but Zack’s talent combined with the savvy producing skills of T-Bone gave this effort a better than average chance of succeeding. And in some cases, success could lead to horrendous results she was beginning to learn. Pandora had looked hard at the different angles of a feature story about musicians, record labels and touring. But there was something that still gnawed at her and something she couldn’t get off her mind. It was the comment in Capt. Tony’s that afternoon …. they killed him…. She vividly remembered the moment when Capt. Tony was asked by Poet what he thought about the death of Michael Jackson. It was Capt. Tony’s response that kept reverberating in her head…they killed him. Officially, the coroner’s report indicated an overdose of a powerful sleeping narcotic and the attending physician would eventually be brought before the courts for his part in the tragic death. But whatever happened, the one glaring fact was this…that a drug had killed Michael Jackson. Drugs and dead rock stars. That was the angle she was now pursuing for her feature story. For days, she read as much as possible about the history of drug related overdoses and the famous musicians who abused those drugs. Her extensive research brought several other musicians into focus besides ‘the king of pop’ Michael Jackson. In 1970, there had been the drug associated overdoses of Janice Joplin and Jimi Hendrix and to be followed the next year by Jim Morrison of The Doors. In the late 70’s it was Elvis Presley and the drug overdose of punk star, Sid Vicious, which were also of interest. How did these immensely talented people find themselves spiraling down into a world of drug addled addiction and destruction? That was the burning question that Pandora hoped to address and explore in her story.

The first subject of her enquiry was the legendary female singer who exploded on the San Francisco music scene in the 1960’s. And shortly thereafter the world.

Janis Joplin (Born Jan. 19; Died Oct. 4, 1970) Singer Janis Joplin was perhaps the premier blues-influenced singer of the 60’s, and certainly one of the biggest female stars of her time. Even before her death, her tough blues-mama image only barely covered her vulnerability. The publicity concerning her sex life and problems with alcohol and drugs made her something of a legend. In recent years, periodic attempts to recast her life and work within the context of feminism have met with mixed results, and of her deceased contemporaries (Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, et al), she is perhaps the least well known to younger generations. Born into a middle-class family, Joplin was a loner by her early teens, developing a taste for blues and folk music; soon she retreated into poetry and painting. She ran away from home at age 17 and began singing in clubs in Houston and Austin, Texas, to earn money to finance a trip to California. By 1965, she was singing folk and blues in bars in San Francisco and Venice, California; had dropped out of several colleges; and was drawing unemployment checks. She returned to Austin in 1966 in a country and western band, but within a few months a friend of San Francisco impresario Chet Helms told about a new band, Big Brother and the Holding Company, which needed a singer in San Francisco. She returned to California and joined Big Brother. Joplin and Big Brother stopped the show at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival. Albert Grossman agreed to manage them, and Joplin was on her way to becoming a superstar. After a fairly successful LP in 1967, Columbia signed the unit; and Cheap Thrills with the hit single “Piece of My Heart,” became a gold #1 album. Within a year Joplin had come to overshadow her backing band, and she left Big Brother, taking only guitarist Sam Andrew with her to form the Kosmic Blues Band. Joplin toured constantly and made television appearances as a guest with Dick Cavett, Tom Jones, and Ed Sulllivan. Finally, the Kosmic Blues LP appeared, with gutsy blues-rock tracks like “Try (Just a Little Bit Harder).” During this time she became increasingly involved with alcohol and drugs, eventually succumbing to heroin addiction. Yet her life seemed to be taking a turn for the better with the recording of Pearl. She was engaged to be married and was pleased with the Full Tilt Boogie Band she’d formed for the Pearl album (Pearl was her nickname) On Oct. 4, 1970, her body was found in her room at Hollywood’s Landmark Hotel, the death was ruled an accidental overdose. The posthumous Pearl LP (#1, 1971) yielded her #1 hit version of former lover Kris Kristofferson’s “Me and Bobby McGee” and was released with one track, “Buried Alive in the Blues,” missing the vocals Joplin didn’t live to complete. Several more posthumous collections have been released, as well as the 1974 documentary Janis. The 1979 film The Rose, starring Bette Midler, was a thinly veiled account of Joplin’s career. She has been the subject of several biographies, including Love, Janis, penned by her therapist sister, Laura, and Alice Echol’s 1999 work, Scars of Sweet Paradise. Joplin’s former residence in San Francisco’s Haight district was converted into a drug rehab center in 1999.

Chapter 22

“No man is so foolish but he may sometimes give another good counsel, and no man so wise that he may not easily err if he takes no other counsel than his own. He that is taught only by himself has a fool for a master.” Hunter S. Thompson

Studio A at Conway was humming with Zack and the session players recording both day and night. Not to mention, the sudden YouTube video phenomenon that was still exploding on the internet. And that now included all the entertainment media. The unknown singer/songwriter and his internet video combined with the upcoming new recordings produced by T-Bone Burnett had all the signs of a ‘hot story.’ The public interest in this new young musical artist was growing by the hour. But this fact was totally lost on Zack. When he wasn’t recording, he was on the phone in the musicians’ lounge. Five or six times a day he would call his best friend and relay every detail of the sessions and anything else on his mind. Pandora, on the other end, would listen happily at her desk at the newspaper. “So, we changed the key to C and it really sounds good now. Lee and Gary worked out a groove that’s just killer,” Zack exclaimed. “That sounds wonderful, I can’t wait to hear it,” commented Pandora and continued, “I think I get out there this coming weekend, too.” “Really? Thank God. Maybe we can take a day off and see the sights. Anywhere you want to go in particular?” asked Zack. “Well, maybe The Getty Museum. I’ve heard a lot about it. And, how about your room?” She said and laughed. “I’d like to spend a lot of time in there.” “Now you’re talking. Those are kind of sights I want to see,” Zack said hungrily. “So, that YouTube video has really taken off, you know that, right?” Questioned Pandora. “That’s what the record label guys said. You know I don’t have the time for anything else but recording and especially going on-line. By the way, did you know that was going to happen? I would have never thought of doing that. You’re a genius, you know that,” Zack said proudly. There was one more thing she wanted to tell him. Something she’d just discovered but that would have to wait until her trip to Hollywood. And that couldn’t be soon enough. Like the old Mamas & Papas song put it, “California dreamin’ is becoming a reality…”

Living day and night in a recording studio can definitely put a musician out of touch with the modern-day world. Especially, inside the gated and secluded lush green grounds of Conway Studio. Zack may not have known the degree to which that video had helped jumpstart his career, but his producer did. T-Bone was doing his best to keep the private recording sessions on an even keel but there were a few interruptions from some very important people which just couldn’t be ignored. And one of those came about, oddly enough, because of Rachael O’Donahue, the owner of the quaint bed and breakfast in Key West. It turns out one of Rachael’s regular guests at the B&B was a fairly influential guy in the music related media. To say the very least. His name was Jann Wenner and he was the founder, publisher and editor in chief of Rolling Stone magazine.

Jann Wenner Wenner was born in New York City and grew up in a secular Jewish family. His parents divorced in 1958, and he and his sisters, Kate and Merlyn, were sent to boarding schools to live. He graduated from high school at Chadwick School in 1963 and went on to attend the University of California at Berkeley. Before dropping out of Berkeley in 1966, Wenner was active in the Free Speech Movement and produced the column "Something's Happening" in the student-run newspaper, The Daily Californian, with the help of his mentor, San Franciso Chronicle jazz critic Ralph J. Gleason, Wenner landed a job at Ramparts, a high-circulation muckraker, where Gleason was a contributing editor and Wenner worked on the magazine's spinoff newspaper. In 1967, Wenner and Gleason founded Rolling Stone in San Francisco. To get the magazine off the ground, Wenner borrowed $7500 from family members and from the family of his soon-to-be wife, Jane Schindelheim. The magazine was named for the 1948 Muddy Waters song of the same name. Rolling Stone magazine was initially identified with and reported on the hippie counterculture of the era. However, the magazine distanced itself from the underground newspapers of the time, such as Berkley Barb, embracing more traditional journalistic standards and avoiding the radical politics of the underground press. In the very first edition of the magazine, Wenner wrote that Rolling Stone "is not just about the music, but about the things and attitudes that music embraces." This has become the de facto motto of the magazine. In the 1970s, along with its coverage of the music scene, Rolling Stone began to make a mark for its political coverage, with the likes of gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson writing for the magazine's political section. Thompson would first publish his most famous work Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas within the pages of Rolling Stone, where he remained a contributing editor until his death in 2005. In the 1970s, Wenner and the magazine also helped launch the careers of many prominent authors, such as Cameron Crowe, Lester Bangs, Joe Klein, Joe Eszterhas, Patti Smith and P.J. O’Rourke It was at this point that the magazine ran some of its most famous stories, including that of the Patty Hearst abduction odyssey. One interviewer, speaking for large numbers of his peers, said that he bought his first copy of the magazine upon initial arrival on his college campus, which he described as a “rite of passage." Wenner also discovered photographer Annie Leibovitz when she was a 21-year-old San Francisco Art Institute student. Tom Wolfe recognized Wenner's influence in ensuring that his first novel, The Bonfire of the Vanities, was completed, stating "I was absolutely frozen with fright about getting it done and I decided to serialize it and the only editor crazy enough to do that was Jann." Wenner has been involved in the conducting and writing of many of the magazine's famous Rolling Stone Interviews. Some of his more recent interview subjects have included: Bill Clinton, John Kerry and Barack Obama for the magazine during their election campaigns and in November 2005 had a major interview with U2 rock star Bono, which focused on music and politics. Wenner's interview with Bono received a National Magazine Award nomination. He also briefly managed the magazine Look and in 1993, started the magazine Family Life. In 1985, he bought a share in Us Weekly, followed by a joint purchase of the magazine with The Walt Disney Company the following year. The magazine went weekly in 2000; after a rocky start, it now reaches over 11 million readers a week. In August 2006, Wenner bought out Disney's share and now owns 100% of the magazine. Working with a small group of distinguished record company heads and music industry professionals, Wenner co-founded the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Foundation in 1983. The American Society of Magazine Editors inducted Wenner into their Hall of Fame in 1997, making him the youngest editor ever inducted.

Apparently, Jann had been vacationing in Key West for many years and Rachael’s B&B was his absolute favorite place to stay. On his trip to the island over the past weekend, Rachael told him about her former employee and house guest and the events that had taken the young musician to Hollywood. It just so happened Wenner would be making a trip out to Los Angeles the next week and would look in on him at Conway. Not to mention, the publishing magnate stayed current on everything. Absolutely everything. After forty-five years of running a magazine empire most men would have ‘checked out of the scene’ or, at least, slowed down. But not this guy. Jann’s insatiable appetite for current news and ideas kept him up-to-date on almost any subject. The environment, politics, foreign wars, terrorism, entertainment, art, technology and that little ‘ol art-form that helped launch his magazine Rolling Stone…. rock n’ roll. Wenner was also aware of the current world-wide interest in Zack Zimmerman and he was very anxious to meet the musician and, hopefully, hear some of his music. A phone call by one of his personal assistants had been made to T-Bone and the invitation had been extended. And it was an open-ended invitation to drop by anytime and hear Zack and, maybe, help facilitate the singer/songwriter becoming a legitimate world-wide superstar. And that’s just the kind of thing that Jann Wenner could help do. And had done for the last four decades. It was early in the evening when Jann, unannounced, entered the control room of Studio A. Through the control room glass window he could see Zack and the session players just beginning to lay down a track. It was a tune Zack had recently written and all inspired by Poet’s reference to the letter Vincent Van Gogh wrote to his brother, Theo. Through the big wall mounted speakers came the hauntingly beautiful but melancholy words and music. “Here’s a touch of blue Something just for you Now a bit of red For all these thoughts goin’ round Round in my head Put on some black Something just like that Need me some white Get me get through All these endless nights And I….

Got to use some green So they’ll know what I mean Mama this life’s just no more fun I feel like Vincent Van Gogh With a gun

One stroke of the brush Such a gentle touch Like makin’ love But it’s all in mind I’d love to feel Your body warm Your body real But I’m always here Always alone

Got to use some green So they’ll know what I mean Mama this life’s just no more fun I feel like Vincent Van Gogh With a gun

Picture a painting in your mind What comes before what comes behind You are that painter You are the one Your life is the canvas until it’s done

Got to use some green So they’ll know what I mean Mama this life’s just no more fun I feel like Vincent Van Gogh Got to use some green So they’ll know what I mean Mama this life’s just no more fun I feel like Vincent Van Gogh With a gun With a gun With a gun..”

There was a palpable silence in the control room when the song came to an end. T-Bone and Dave stared into the tracking room and Jann knew he’d just heard something genius-like ‘going down live.’ After a moment, he spoke up. “What a song,” Jann said thoughtfully. T-Bone swiveled around and looked at the big-time editor and publisher and nodded his head. “You ain’t kiddin.’ He just ran that by us a little while ago. He keeps blowin’ us away with these songs of his,” T-Bone stated and stood up and shook hands with the man. “How are you, Jann. It’s been a while.” “Sure has, Bone. Good to see you. T-Bone turned and pushed the talk-back button on the console. All the musicians could now hear him in their headsets. “Hey Zack, come on in for a minute,” he said and turned back to Jann. “Glad you came by. Isn’t every day you show up for a recording session, I know that. Especially, for an unknown artist,” commented T-Bone. The door from the tracking room opened and in walked Zack. T-Bone made the introductions. “Zack, I want you to meet Jann Wenner. He runs a little magazine. You might have heard of it. Rolling Stone.” Zack’s eyes got wide and he smiled. “Rolling Stone? I’ve been reading it since I was a teenager.” Jann walked over and extended his hand. “Good to meet you, Zack. I’m Jann. And that was quite a song I just heard.” Zack shook his hand and responded gratefully, “Thanks a lot. It’s an idea I got from a friend of mine named Poet in Key West. He quoted a line from Vincent Van Gogh’s letter to his brother and it got me to thinking. Wrote it from a painter’s point of view, I guess you could say.” Jann nodded his head knowingly, “I’ve read some of those letters,” and he continued, “Would that be Poet the bartender at Capt. Tony’s?” Zack looked amazed. This guy knew his friend the bartender? How could that possibly be? He wondered. “You know Poet? Really?” Zack said incredulously. “We also have another mutual friend in Key West. Rachael.” Zack again looked shocked. “You know Rachael? Wow.” “I’ve known Rachael for years. I love to stay at her B&B when I visit the island. In fact, she’s the one who told me about you,” was the salient information from Jann. Zack shook his head and could only say, “Small world. What a coincidence.” Or was it? He considered. And a line from Bob Dylan’s song “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue” suddenly came into his head, “The highway is for gamblers Better use your sense Take what you have gathered from coincidence….”

Chapter 23

“I’m going your way, so let us go hand in hand. You help me and I’ll help you. We shall not be here very long, for soon death, the kind old nurse, will come back and rock us all to sleep. Let us help one another while we may.” William Morris

At that very hour in Miami, Pandora was in her own little world of newspaper journalism at The Miami Herald. It was her new piece about drugs and rock stars that had now consumed her. After writing her feature story on Capt. Tony’s, the managing editors at the paper were very impressed. They were also aware of her recent marriage to Zack and his newfound success as an up-and-coming recording artist. The combination of the two led to the current writing assignment and the editors gave her cart blanch as to its content. Not to mention, she could take as long as she wanted to research and write the piece. All they wanted, by the end of the year, was a sensational story on the music industry. And one that had serious kick. Her next bit of research led her to a contemporary of Janis Joplin’s. It was Jim Morrison of The Doors.

Jim Morrison (Born Dec. 8, 1943; died July 3, 1971)

Sex, death, reptiles, charisma, and a unique variant of the electric blues gave the Doors an aura of profundity that not only survived but has grown during the 40 years since Jim Morrision’s death. By themselves, Morrison’s lyrics read like adolescent posturings, but with his sexually charged delivery, Ray Manzarek’s dry organ, and Robby Krieger’s jazzy guitar, they became eerie, powerful, almost shamanistic invocations that hinted at a familiarity with darker forces, and, in Morrison’s case, an obsession with excess and death. At its best, Morrison and the Door’s music--- “Light My Fire,” “L.A. Woman”--- has come to evoke a norish view of 60’s California that contrasts sharply with the era’s prevailing folky, trippy style. Morrison and Manzarek, acquaintances from the UCLA Graduate School of Film, conceived the group at a 1965 meeting on a Southern California beach. After Morrison recited one of his poems, “Moonlight Drive,” Manzarek---who had studied classical piano and played in Rick and the Ravens, a UCLA blues band--suggested they collaborate on songs. Manzarek’s brothers, Rick and Jim, served as guitarists until Manzarek met John Densmore who brought in Robby Krieger; both had been members of the Psychedelic Rangers. Morrison christened the band the Doors from William Blake via Aldous Huxley’s book on mescaline, The Doors of Perception. Morrison and the Doors soon recorded a demo tape, and in the summer of 1966 they began working as the house band at the Whisky-a-Go- Go, a gig that ended four months later when they were fired for performing the explicitly Oedipal “The End,” one of Morrison’s many songs that included dramatic recitations. By then Jac Holzman of Elektra Records had been convinced by Arthur Lee of Love to sign the band. An edited version of “Light My Fire” from the Door’s debut album (#2, 1967) became a #1 hit in 1967, while “progressive” FM played (and analyzed) “The End.” Morrison’s image as the embodiment of dark psychological impulses was established quickly, even as he was being featured in such teen magazines as 16. Strange Days (#3, 1967) and Waiting for the Sun (#1, 1968) both included hit singles and became best-selling albums. Waiting for the Sun also marked the first appearance of Morrison’s mythic alter ego, the Lizard King, in a poem printed inside the record jacket entitled “The Celebration of the Lizard King.” Though part of the lyrics was used as lyrics for “Not To Touch the Earth,” a complete “Celebration” didn’t appear on record until Absolutely Live (#8, 1970). It was impossible to tell if Morrison’s Lizard King persona was a parody of a pop star or simply inspired exhibitionism, but it earned him considerable notoriety. In December 1967 he was arrested for pubic obscenity at a concert in New Haven, and in August 1968 he was arrested for disorderly conduct aboard an airplane en route to Phoenix. Not until his March 19 arrest in Miami for exhibiting “lewd and lascivious behavior by exposing his private parts and by simulating masturbation and oral copulation” onstage did Morrison’s behavior adversely affect the band. Court proceedings kept the singer in Miami most of the year although the prosecution could produce neither eyewitnesses nor photos of Morrison performing the acts. Charges were dropped, but public furor (which inspired a short-lived Rally for Decency movement), concert promoter’s fear of similar incidents, and Morrison’s own mixed feelings about celebrity resulted in erratic concert schedules thereafter. The Soft Parade (#6, 1979), far more elaborately produced than the Door’s other albums, met with a mixed reception from fans, but it too had a #3 hit single, “Touch Me.” Morrison began to devote more attention to poetry, collaborating on a screenplay with poet Michael McClure, and directing a film, A Feast of Friends. Simon & Schuster also published The Lords and the New Creatures in 1971. Soon after “L.A. Woman” (#9, 1971) was recorded, Morrison took an extended leave of absence from the group. Obviously physically and emotionally drained, he moved to Paris where he hoped to write and where he and his wife, Pamela Courson Morrison, lived in seclusion. He died of heart failure in his bathtub in 1971 at age 27. With no autopsy performed, most believe it was an overdose on heroin that took the singers life. Partly because his death was not made public until days after his burial in Paris’ Pere-Lachaise cemetery, some still refuse to believe Morrison is dead. His wife, one of the few people who saw Morrison’s corpse, died in Hollywood of a heroin overdose on April 25, 1974. The Morrison cult continues to grow, particularly among the young. In 1990 his graffit-covered headstone was stolen; Because of the destruction these visitors wreak on the cemetery during their pilgrimages, many Parisians petitioned to move Morrison’s grave when its 30 year lease expired in 2002; French officials, however, opted to leave Morrison’s remains in their resting place. In 2008, on what would have been his 65th birthday, thousands of mourners--many not even born before he died-- traveled from around the world to pay tribute. Ironically, the group’s best years began in 1980, nine years after Morrison’s death. With the release of the Danny Sugerman-Jerry Hopkins biography of Morrison, No One Here Gets Out Alive, sales of the Doors’ music and the already large Jim Morrison cult--spurred by his many admirers and imitators in new-wave bands--grew even more. Record sales for 1980 alone topped all previous figures; as one Rolling Stone magazine cover put it: “He’s Hot, He’s Sexy, He’s Dead.”

It was dusk in Key West and the night crew at Capt. Tony’s were all in place. Poet was working on the ice machine, that had gone on the blink during the day, and Gypsy Mama sat at the bar and doodled on a napkin. Fingers was turning on the dim blue stage lights when Johnny C ambled into the bar and sat on a bar stool next to Gypsy Mama. Nothing much changes on the island of Key West and nothing much changes at Capt. Tony’s. Especially, among old friends. “Good evenin’ you pretty thing,” said the weedy Englishman. “Hey there Johnny, what’s up?” replied Mama still doodling. “Another day in paradise, Mama. Another day,” Johnny said amiably. He looked down the bar at Poet and called out, “How about a gin and tonic, Poet.” From the other end of the bar came the irritated response from the bartender. “Wait a fucking minute, Johnny. My damn ice machine is giving me problems.” Fingers now joined Gypy Mama and Johnny C at the bar. “What’s shakin’ Johnny?” asked Fingers. “Not much, mate. Oh, I did hear from a friend about Zack’s video. They say it’s quite a sensation on YouTube,” stated Johnny. “You what?” asked Fingers. “You Tube. It’s an internet site where people watch fricking videos. You’ve seen a video haven’t you, Fingers,” said Johnny sardonically. “What kind of video you talkin’ about? A music video?” asked Fingers. “Not really. I think it’s a homemade number. People take videos with their cell phones these days, if you haven’t heard.” Fingers shook his head in disgust. “So, everybody’s a movie maker now. It’s like playing air guitar. They fake it.” “Is the video being seen by a lot of people, Johnny?” asked Gypsy Mama. “From what I’ve heard, it’s been seen by millions of people.” Gypsy Mama quit drawing and looked up. “Millions of people?” “It’s what they do now. The internet has changed a lot of things. Especially for unknown musicians. They can become a star overnight,” came the pertinent information from Johnny. “That’s if they have talent, I hope,” interjected Fingers and continued, “At least we know Zack has some talent.”

Just up the coast in Miami, Pandora sat reading at her office desk. For hours, she’d been combing through the mountain of research she’d compiled on deceased rock musicians. And the man she was currently reading about was just that very kind of guy. Talented and deceased. In fact, some say he was the best rock guitarist who ever lived. His name was Jimi Hendrix.

Jimi Hendrix (Born Nov. 27, 1942; Died Sept. 18, 1970)

Jimi Hendrix was one of rock’s few true originals. He was one of the most innovative and influential rock guitars of the late ‘60s and perhaps the most important electric guitarist after Charlie Christian. His influence figures prominently in the playing style of rockers ranging from Robin Trower to Living Colour’s Vernon Reid to Stevie Ray Vaughan. A left-hander who took a right-handed Fender Stratocaster and played it upside down. Hendrix pioneered the use of the instrument as an electronic sound source. Players before Hendrix had experimented with feedback and distortion, but he turned those effects and others into a controlled, fluid vocabulary every bit as personal as the blues with which he began. His expressively unconventional. Six string vocabulary has lived on in the work of such guitarists as Adrian Belew, Eddie Van Halen and Vernon Reid. But while he unleashed noise---and such classic hard-rock riffs as “Purple Haze,” “Foxy Lady,” and “Crosstown Traffic”---with uncanny mastery, Hendrix also created such tender ballads as “The Wind Cries Mary,” the oft-covered “Little Wing,” and “Angel,” and haunting blues recordings such as “Red House” and “Voodoo Chile.” Although Hendrix did not consider himself a good singer, his vocals were nearly as wide-ranging, intimate, and evocative as his guitar playing. Hendrix’s studio craft and his virtuosity with both conventional and unconventional guitar sounds have been widely imitated, and his image as the psychedelic voodoo child conjuring uncontrollable forces is a rock archetype. His songs have inspired several tribute albums, and have been recorded by a jazz group (1989’s Hendrix Project), the Kronos String Quartet, and avant-garde flutist Robert Dick. Hendrix’s musical vision had a profound effect on everyone from Sly Stone to George Clinton---and, through them, Prince---to Miles Davis. His theatrical performing style---full of unmistakably sexual undulations and such tricks as playing the guitar behind his back and picking with his teeth----has never quite been equaled. In the decades since Hendrix’s death, pop stars from Michael Jackson to Prince have evoked his look and style. As a teenager, Hendrix taught himself to play guitar by listening to records by blues guitarists Muddy Waters and B.B. King and rockers such as Chuck Berry and Eddie Cochran. He played in high school bands before enlisting in the U.S. Army in 1959. Discharged after parachuting injuries in 1961, Hendrix began working under the pseudonym Jimmy James as a pickup guitarist. By 1964, when he moved to New York, he had played behind Sam Cooke, B.B. King, Little Richard, Jackie Wilson, Ike and Tina Turner, and Wilson Pickett. In New York he played the club circuit with King Curtis, the Isley Brothers, John Paul Hammond, and Curtis Knight. In 1965, formed his own band, Jimmy James and the Blue Flames, to play Greenwich Village coffeehouses, Chas Chandler of the Animals took him to London in the autumn of 1966 and arranged for the creation of the Jimi Hendrix Experience, with Englishman Noel Redding on bass and Mitch Mitchell on drums. The Experience’s first single, “Hey Joe,” reached #6 on the U.K. chart early in 1967, followed shortly by “Purple Haze” and its double- platinum debut, Are You Experienced? (#5, 1967.) Hendrix fast became the rage of London’s pop society. Though word of the Hendrix phenomenon spread through the U.S., he was not seen in America (and no records released) until June 1967, when, at the Monterey Pop Festival. The performance, which Hendrix climaxed by burning his guitar, was filmed for Monterey Pop. Hendrix’s next albums were major hits Axis: Bold as Love (#3, 1968) and he quickly became a superstar. Stories such as one reporting that the Experience was dropped from the bill of a Monkees tour at the insistence of the Daughters of the American Revolution became part of the Hendrix myth, but he considered himself a musician more than a star. Soon after the start of his second American tour, early in 1968, he renounced the extravagances of his stage act and simply performed his music. A hostile reception let him to conclude that his best music came out in the informal settings of studios and clubs, and he began construction of Electric Lady, his own studio in New York. Hendrix was eager to experiment with musical ideas, and he jammed with John McLaughlin, Larry Coryell, and members of Traffic, among others. Miles Davis admired his inventiveness (and in fact, planned to record with him), and Bob Dylan--whose “All Along the Watchtower,” and “Drifter’s Escape” Hendrix recorded---later returned the tribute by performing “All Along the Watchtower” in the Hendrix mode. Hendrix appeared at the Woodstock Festival with a large informal ensemble called the Electric Sky Church, and later that year he put together the all-black Band of Gypsies---with Billy Cox and drummer Buddy Miles (Electric Flag), with whom he had played behind Wilson Pickett. The Band of Gypsy’ debut concert at New York’s Fillmore East, on New Year’s Eve 1969 provided the recordings for he groups only album during its existence, Band of Gypsys (#5, 1970). Hendrix walked-off stage in the middle of their Madison Square Garden gig, when he performed again some months later it was with Mitchell and Cox, the group that recorded The Cry of Love (#3, 1971), and Hendrix’s last, self-authorized album. With then he played the Isle of Wight Festival, his last concert, in August 1970. A month later he was dead. The cause of death was given in the coroner’s report as inhalation of vomit following barbiturate intoxication. Suicide was ruled out, but evidence pointed to an accident. In 1991 Hendrix’s ex-girlfriend Kathy Etchingham, along with Mitch Mitchell and his wife, Dee, began prodding Scotland Yard to reopen an investigation into their friend’s death. England’s attorney finally agreed to the request in 1993; in early 1994 Scotland Yard announced it had found no evidence to bother pursuing the case any further. Meanwhile Paul Allen (co-founder of Apple) funded a modest Jimi Hendrix museum, which eventually blossomed into the $100 million Experience Music Project. Eight years in the making, the high tech, interactive rock & roll museum---complete with a Jimi Hendrix Gallery--- opened at the Seattle Center in 2000.

Chapter 24

“Nay, do not grieve tho’ life be full of sadness, Dawn will not veil her splendor for your grief, Nor spring deny their bright, appointed beauty To lotus blossom and ashoka leaf. Nay, do not pine, tho’ life be dark with trouble, Time will not pause or tarry on his way; Today that seems so long, so strange, so bitter, Will soon be some forgotten yesterday. Nay, do not weep; new hopes, new dreams, new faces Will prove your heart a traitor to its sorrow, And make your eyes unfaithful to their tears.” Sarojini Naidu

The next several days came and went and it was late Saturday afternoon when Pandora walked into Studio A. In the tracking room, Zack and the session players were all seated in a circle and Zack, with his guitar, was showing them the changes to a new song. Dave was also in there and adjusting some cables while T-Bone sakt alone in the control room. “Hi, there,” said Pandora sweetly to the producer and asked, “Can I come in?” T-Bone swiveled around and smiled. “Pandora. Of course, you can come in. Welcome back.” He stood and walked over and gave her a little hug. “Thank you. It’s good to be back. How’s it going?” she asked excitedly. “Goin’ great.” T-Bone pulled out the engineer’s chair for her and she sat next to him at the console. It was probably the perfect time to have a little ‘heart to heart” talk with the wife of his recording artist, he figured. So, he did. “How you holdin’ up with all this craziness?” T-Bone asked sincerely. “I’m doing fine. It’s all so new to me. I guess you learn as you go, huh?” T-Bone crossed his arms and spoke quietly and with conviction. “Yeah, that’s about it. In my experience, an artist really needs someone to ground them. An anchor in their life, if you will. And I can see how much you two love each other. That’s obvious. And trust me, he’s going to need all the love and support you can give him. He’s walking into a wild world. It’ll come at him from all sides and he’ll need someone to keep his feet on the ground…. you,” stated the wise record producer. Pandora considered his words and nodded her head. “So, you think he’s going to be a star?” T-Bone took a moment before answering. He glanced into the tracking room and looked back at the young woman. “I knew right away when I first heard him, he was the real deal. And I’ve been around the real deal for some time now. From what we’ve recorded and all this internet business, I’d say, yes, he’s going to be a star. A very big star and…” he said and let that last statement hang before continuing, “and he’s going to need you there with him. All the way, as best you can.” Pandora looked out into the tracking room and gazed at her new husband. “I love him so much. And I really want the best for him. To be honest, I’m a little scared right now.” T-bone reached over and took her hand in his and spoke reassuringly, “I’m sure you are. But I can tell you’re a very strong woman. The two of you will make it through if you trust in each other and, most importantly, be brutally honest with each other. The hype and hysteria and all that crap can be very distracting. He needs to know he can always count on you to tell him the truth. No agenda’s, but total and complete honesty. In the end, he’ll love you for it and it’ll keep him sane and centered. And it’ll keep you both together.” Pandora smiled and reached over and gave him a little hug. “Thank you. You’re a lovely man. Thank you so much.”

“After midnight we’re gonna let it all hang out….” were the words to the J.J. Cale penned song made popular by Eric Clapton. And that’s what Zack was singing when he and Pandora appeared in the colonnade of the Chateau Marmont Hotel. They held hands and walked into the garden patio and took a seat at one of the half dozen wicker tables. It was, in fact, a little after midnight and the tiki torches were alight while the candles on the tables burned bright and a pretty cocktail waitress walked up to the table. “Can I get you something to drink?” Zack looked at Pandora and asked, “What you havin’ baby? Pandora smiled at the waitress and replied, “I think a club soda on ice, please.” “You don’t want a cocktail?” queried Zack. “No. That’s fine for me.” Zack made his request, “I’ll have a Corona with a lime, please.” The woman smiled and walked back towards the garden bar as Zack looked at Pandora and asked, “What’s the matter? Are you feeling alright?” “Well, my stomach’s been a little upset the last few days.” Zack took her by the hand and said, “I’m sorry baby. If you want to go up to the room we can.” “No. Let’s stay out here. It’s so beautiful. I’m fine.” At that moment, a group of four young women walked up the sidewalk and passed by the table. And one of them spoke to Zack in passing. It was Paris Hilton. “Hi, Zack. How are you?” Zack looked over and gave her a quick smile and replied, “Fine, Paris.” As they walked away Pandora asked, “Was that who I think it was?” “Yeah. I met her with John a couple of weeks ago.” And that was all he had to say about it. Pandora waited for more and when it didn’t come she simply said, “Oh.” Zack looked at her and decided the whole truth would be best.

“I got really drunk the night that I called you. The night Columbia said they wanted to sign me. She was with John and some other people and she started hittin’ on me. Well, I guess she did. I was so out of it and she was talking about going up to the room or something like that.” Pandora just listened. And? “When I realized what she had in mind, I got up and left the table. That’s when I called you,” said Zack honestly. Pandora thought about it for a moment and leaned over and kissed him. “Thank you for telling me. I love you Zack. And I trust you. I always will.” “I love you too, baby.” Pandora suddenly got a quizzical look on her face and asked, “Was that song you recorded, “The Midnight Wind,” written about her?” Zack nodded his head. “Yep.” Pandora smiled. “Well, at least you got a song out of it.” Zack let out a laugh and kissed her. “That’s what we do. Us songwriter’s,” he said and looked her in the eyes. “You’re my best source of songs. You know that, don’t you? Pandora smiled and thought about her next words. She’d been thinking about those words for a week now. What would he say? And how would he react? Especially, now that his career was just taking off. “It’s been two month since we got married,” she stated. Zack nodded his head and waited for more. “A lot can happen in that time, you know?” said Pandora softly. Zack stayed silent but he knew. Or thought he knew what might be coming next. And then the words from Pandora, “We’re going to have a baby, Zack.” Reminiscent of the cry he let out when Pandora said she would marry him; Zack jumped up from the table and screamed, “YES!” Who knew the young singer/songwriter was such a family man? Most other young musicians would have gone into a deep, dark funk at that moment. The big ball and chain they were always dreading. The room with no exit. Their adolescent freedom gone in the blink of an eye. But not this musician. Not Zack. When he met Pandora, he knew immediately who he wanted the mother of his child to be. “Oh, baby. I’m so glad, really I am.” Zack kneeled on one knee and kissed her stomach. Then he kissed her slowly on the lips. “I love you Pandora. Thank you. Thank you for being the mother of our baby.” Zack thought about the last statement and laughed, “Well I guess that’s kind of obvious, huh?” Pandora laughed and now she knew. She knew absolutely, positively and ‘no doubt about it’ certain that this was the man she’d hoped and prayed for. Truly, he was the man of her dreams.

Chapter 25

“Never esteem anything as of advantage to thee that shall make thee break thy word or lose thy self-respect.” Marcus Aurelius

So, the beautiful young mother-to-be went back to Miami and the handsome young father-to-be stayed in the studio. Zack and the team had amassed a formidable collection of recordings and they were now within earshot of a completed album. There were just a couple of songs that Zack wanted to record and one he did regularly in his show and it was…. Two days of heaven on earth…. (for our boy Zack or any young singer/songwriter)

They’d worked out an arrangement for the song and the session players were preparing to record it. Zack had his acoustic guitar and was ready to sing, Waddy was waiting with his Strat strapped on, Gary was behind the drums and Lee cradled his signature bass. They were ready to rock. At that moment, two guys walked into the control room. A couple of Irish lads. And they were pretty good at that rock thing, too. It was Bono and the Edge from U2.

U2 are a rock band from Dublin, Ireland. The group consists of Bono (vocals and guitar), The Edge (guitar, keyboards and vocals), Adam Clayton (bass guitar), and Larry Mullen, Jr. (drums and percussion). The band formed at Mount Temple Comprehensive School in 1976 when the members were teenagers with limited musical proficiency. Within four years, they signed to Island Records and released their debut album, Boy. By the mid-1980s, they had become a top international act. They were more successful as a live act than they were at selling records, until their 1987 album The Joshua Tree, which, according to Rolling Stone, elevated the band's stature "from heroes to superstars". Their 1991 album Achtung Baby and the accompanying Zoo TV Tour were a musical and thematic reinvention for the band. Reacting to their own sense of musical stagnation and a late-1980s critical backlash, U2 incorporated dance music and alternative influences into their sound and performances, abandoning their earnest image for a more ironic, self- deprecating tone. Similar experimentation continued for the remainder of the 1990s. Since 2000, U2 have pursued a more conventional sound, while maintaining influences from their earlier musical explorations. U2 have released 12 studio albums and are among the most critically and commercially successful groups in popular music. They have won 22 Grammy Awards, more than any other band, and they have sold more than 150 million records. In 2005, the band was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in their first year of eligibility.”

Gary counted off the time….1,2,3,4.…and the downbeat…. “When you wake up in the mornin’ See an eagle flying ‘round your door Take your ticket for tomorrow Grab your broken heart don’t look back no more His lyin’ lips never took you higher His burnin’ touch never touched your soul Empty days just walkin’ the wire Your far too gone to pretend Start all over again

Take the hand of an innocent man Give me one day on the witness stand Love you so strong it’s a sweet surrender In the hands of an innocent man Take the hand of an innocent man

You need a lover to depend on You need a lover who won’t let you down Illegal passion is a poison And you’ve had enough to turn your head around His lyin’ lips never took you higher ‘ His burnin’ touch never touched your soul Empty days just walkin’ the wire You’re far too gone to pretend Start all over again

Take the hand of an innocent man Give me one day on the witness stand Love you strong it’s a sweet surrender In the hands of an innocent man Take the hand of an innocent man

I love you I love you I love you I love…you I think about you baby night and day I want you I want you I want you I want you In the worst….kind of way

When you wake up in the mornin’ See me hangin’ ‘round your front door Take your ticket for tomorrow Grab your broken heart don’t look back no more His lyin’ lips never took you higher His burnin’ touch never touched your soul Empty days just walkin’ the wire You’re far too gone to pretend Start all over again

Take the hand of an innocent man Give me one day on the witness stand Love you strong it’s a sweet surrender In the hands of an innocent man Take the hand of an innocent man Take the hand of an innocent man….”

They smoked it. The session players looked at each other and Waddy spoke up, “Killer, man. That was just killer.” Zack had a big grin on his face and he echoed the sentiment. “Man, that was rockin’. You cats are awesome.” It was then the door to the tracking room opened and in walked T- Bone with the two Irishmen. Zack did an absolute double-take when he saw Bono and the Edge. “Got a couple of friends who wanted to say hello,” T-Bone stated. Bono walked over to Zack and said very sincerely, “Fine song, man. Really fine. I’m Bono and this is Edge.” Zack shook his head in bewilderment. “Thanks. I can’t believe you guys are here. I’ve listened to your music since I was a kid.” Bono got a wry grin on his face and replied, “So, are you telling me I’m a really old guy?” Zack quickly responded, “I don’t mean that man. No, I mean….” Edge jumped in, “Don’t listen to him. He’s old and he knows it.” That got a few laughs from the session players and Leland added his own comment, “Who says old is bad? The vintage stuff is always the best stuff.” Bono smiled and looked back at Zack, “We saw your internet video. Very cool,” and he glanced over at T-Bone. “Don’t want to get in the way, but, since we’re here….if you could use a few overdubs on that song we just heard, I’d love to sing a harmony and Edge could maybe lay down an extra guitar part.” Zack’s eyes got wide and he exclaimed, “No shit? You guys would play on my song? I‘d love that.” T-Bone response to the offer was simple and to the point. “Have at boys. Welcome to the party.”

There was only one song left to record the next day and the album would be complete. It was a plaintive and metaphorical tune Zack wrote while living in the tourist town of Key West. And that was the title, “Tourist Town.” Like a tourist, we’re just ‘passing through,’ a visitor here on the planet. The world was a tourist town and that was Zack’s thinking when he wrote it. He’d done a solo guitar and vocal work-up of the song a week ago and T-Bone had been listening to the recording for musical ideas. He’d also taken the liberty of playing the song for a friend of his. And the guy liked it and was coming by the studio any minute. “So, have you given some thought to the tune, Bone?” asked Zack. The two of them were alone in the control room and Zack sat on the leather couch with his guitar leaning up against the wall. “Yeah, quite a bit,” replied T-Bone in his swivel chair at the console. He was busy making notes on the previous day’s recordings for the eventual mixing session. “Let’s hear it,” said Zack. T-Bone glanced over his shoulder and said coyly, “Hope you don’t mind but I played it for a friend of mine. He’s going to drop by, and he might have an idea or two. Who knows, he might want to sing it with you. Maybe as a duet.” This got Zack quite curious. And he waited for T-Bone to reveal the identity of this ‘friend’ but T-Bone went back to making notes. I mean, he’d just had two of the most famous and gifted musicians in rock history join in on his song yesterday. Bono and the Edge. Who could possibly fall by today? Zack wondered. It was almost like a dream having the finest session players in the world on his songs and the guys from U2 and John Meyer and, who the hell could it be? He contemplated. As a young teenager, Zack had listened to music of every style. Rock, pop, folk, hip hop and country. When he began to play the guitar and write his first simple songs there was one artist, a prolific singer/songwriter, who had influenced him the most. He’d listen to his dad’s albums of this guy for hours on end. He couldn’t get enough of them. The unforgettable and brilliant melodies and the genius of his words. In Zack’s opinion, he was the greatest songwriter of the last century and…damn… he just walked in the door.

Bob Dylan (Born: May 24, 1941) For over forty years, Bob Dylan has remained the most influential American musician rock has ever produced and unquestionably the most important of the ‘60s. Inscrutable and unpredictable, Dylan has been both deified and denounced for every shift of interest, while whole schools of musicians took up his ideas. His lyrics---the first in rock to be seriously regarded as literature---became so well known that politicians from Jimmy Carter to Vaclav Havel have cited them as an influence. By personalizing folk songs, Dylan reinvented the singer/songwriter genre; by performing his illusive, poetic songs in his nasal, spontaneous vocal style with an electric band, he enlarged pop’s range and vocabulary while creating a widely-imitated sound. By recording with Nashville veterans, he reconnected rock and country, hinting at the country rock of the ‘70s. In the ‘80s and ‘90s, although he has at times seemed to flounder, he still has the ability to challenge, infuriate, and surprise listeners. Robert Zimmerman’s family moved to Hibbing, Minnesota, from Duluth when he was six. After taking up guitar and harmonica, he formed the Golden Cords while he was a freshman in high school. He enrolled at the arts college of the University of Minnesota in 1959; during his three semesters there, he began to perform solo at coffeehouses as Boy Dylan (after Dylan Thomas; he legally changed his name in August 1962.) Dylan moved to New York City in January 1961, saying he wanted to meet Woody Guthrie, who was by then hospitalized with Huntington’s chorea. Dylan visited his idol frequently. That April he played New York’s Gerdes’ Folk City as the opener for bluesman John Lee Hooker., with a set of ballads and his own lyrics set to traditional tunes. A New York Times review by Robert Shelton alerted A&R man John Hammond, who signed Dylan to Columbia and produced his first album. Although Bob Dylan included only two originals (“Talking New York” and “Song to Woody”), Dylan stirred up the Greenwich Village folk scene with his caustic humor and gift for writing deeply resonate topical songs. The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan included the soon-to-be folk standard “Blowin’ in the Wind” (a hit for Peter, Paul & Mary). “A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna-Fall,” and “Masters of War,” protest songs on a par with Guthrie’s and Pete Seeger’s. Joan Baez, already an established “protest singer,” recorded Dylan’s songs and brought him on tour. By 1964, Dylan was playing 200 concerts a year. The Times They Are a-Changin’ mixed protest songs (“With God on Our Side”) and more personal lyrics (“One Too Many Mornings”). He met the Beatles at Kennedy Airport and reportedly introduced them to marijuana. With Bringing It All Back Home, released early in 1965, Dylan surprised listeners for the first of many times by turning his back on folk purism; for half the album he was backed by a rock & roll band. The music Dylan made in 1965 and 1966 revolutionized rock. The intensity of his performances and his live-in-the-studio album ----Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde on Blonde---were a revelation. His lyrics were analyzed, debated, and quoted like no pop before them. With rage and slangy playfulness, Dylan chewed up and spat out literary and folk traditions in a wild, inspired doggerel. He didn’t explain; he gave off-the- wall interviews and press conferences in which he’d spin contradictory fables about his background and intentions. D.A. Pennebaker’s documentary of Dylan’s British tour, Don’t Look Back, shows some of the hysteria that came to surround him and the cool detachment with which he could always regard his celebrity. From the ‘60s through today Bob Dylan’s reach and impact is wide and rich and without musical peer. In 1989 Dylan was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. In 1990 Dylan was named a Commandeur dans l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, France’s highest cultural honor. Dylan also received the Kennedy Center Lifetime Achievement Award from Bill Clinton at the White House and at the 1991 Grammy ceremony, where he was given a Lifetime Achievement Award.

Bob held an old guitar case in one hand and strolled over to the console. T- Bond got up as did Zack and the producer greeted the legend. “Hey Bob, how are you?” “Doin’ good, Bone. How’s it with yourself?” “I’m fine, man. Just fine. Bob, this is Zack Zimmerman,” T-Bone said in the way of introductions. Zack looked stupefied. He gapped at the famous musician and finally said,” Bob Dylan. I don’t believe it. Bob damn Dylan!” Bob smiled wryly and replied, “I don’t know about the middle name but yeah that’s me.” He set his guitar case down and extended his hand. “Good to meet you, Zack.” Zack shook his hand and gushed, “The pleasure is mine. All mine, believe me.” T-Bone pointed to the couch and said, “Have a seat, Bob. We were just talking about the final song Zack’s going to record. I think you heard it, “Tourist Town.” Bob ambled over to the couch and sat down. He nodded his head and responded, “Yeah, that’s a good one. I like that song a lot.” Zack was still a little overwhelmed and pretty much speechless. Did Bob Dylan just say he liked one of my songs? He considered. Unbelievable. Totally unbelievable. “If Zack’s cool with it, I was thinking about a duet. Alternating lines, that sort of thing,” stated T-Bone. Bob looked at Zack and said humbly, “Don’t want to impose on your recordings, man.” Zack almost shouted, “Are you kidding? Me singing my song with Bob Dylan? I would be so honored …I really….” and suddenly his voice revealed some hidden wellspring of emotion…. and he had to sit down. He put his head in his hands to conceal a few tears that appeared in his eyes. Maybe, it was time to finally let it out. At least a little. The past few months had hit him like the proverbial runaway freight train. And God knows he was trying to take it all in stride but how can you go from an unknown nobody to having Bob Dylan want to sing with you? “I would be so honored, really I would…” is all Zack could muster. Bob stared at him and he knew. He knew what the young singer/songwriter was going through. He’d been there. And many times, over. Bob put his hand on his shoulder and spoke quietly, “Hang in there, man. You’re real good and it’ll all work out. Just stay true to yourself. And as God is my witness, I’m telling you it’ll all work out in the end.” Bob reached down and opened his guitar case and pulled out a vintage acoustic guitar. He looked over at Zack and said, “Let’s run that song down a few times.” It was music to his Zack’s ears and he quickly grabbed his guitar and began to play his song. The song that he and Bob damn Dylan were going to sing together. “Well I live in this place lets you push the edge Take no prisoners or jump from the ledge It’s all here…in this tourist town Well the good and the bad They all come around Cry of their heart We all know that sound Yes we do In this tourist town

And the clock on the wall Keeps tickin’ away The piper is pipin’ Soon they will pay The rich and the poor The saint and the sinner The lover the hater The loser the winner

Well it’s a flip of the coin If you’re lost or you’re found One minute you’re up The next you’re down All here in this tourist town You can dance on the tables Or cry in your beer No one will care Not around here This is A tourist town

And the clock on the wall Keeps tickin’ away The piper is pipin’ Soon they will pay The rich and the poor The saint and the sinner The lover the hater The loser the winner

As we walk through this world We all play our parts The stage was set for humanity Strangers alike We’re just ships in the night But there’s no place I’d rather be Oh there’s no place I’d rather be

Well I live in this place lets you push the edge Take no prisoners or jump from the ledge It’s all here in this tourist town It’s all here…in this tourist town…”

Chapter 26

“To me the highest thing, after God, is my honor.” Ludwig van Beethoven

And that runaway train just kept on a runnin.’ It was three weeks later that T- Bone had a ‘final mix’ of “The Midnight Wind” that Zack and the boys, along with John Meyer, had recorded. Columbia Records had rushed to release it as the first single prior to the soon-to-be released album. The song quickly exploded at radio and had already gotten over a million downloads at music web sites like iTunes. Zack was ‘on a roll’ and…on the road. It just so happened that those two fine Irishmen and their band U2 had invited Zack to do a short acoustic set, prior to their act, on the bands North American tour. And there he was. Zack was strumming his old Martin guitar and singing his songs on gigantic stages to sellout crowds at the biggest venues in America. For months, Zack traveled from city to city as his song “The Midnight Wind’ climbed to the top of the charts. Number one with a bullet. And while Zack’s song stayed at number one for weeks on end, it was month number six for Pandora. Zack called her incessantly from the road and today was no exception. From his hotel room in Phoenix, he spoke with his wife by phone. “You did?” he exclaimed. “And you could feel it, huh? “It wasn’t a big kick. But baby kicked,” she said and laughed. “Oh, my God. That is so cool. Is it hard to go to sleep? I mean, you don’t want to lie on your tummy, right?” “Don’t worry, honey. Baby and I sleep just fine,” Pandora said reassuringly. The whole recording and now touring business were all new to Zack but this pregnancy thing was totally dumbfounding. Like any new father, Zack was feeling a little helpless and forlorn and knew there was little he could do to help things along. Little? How about nothing. It was mama who was now in the driver’s seat. “Okay. Just be careful,” replied Zack. Pandora laughed and reassured him once again. “Everything’s fine. Believe me, we’re doin’ great. And how about you? Are you worn out?” Zack was definitely getting a little burned out, but he loved it. What better way to get burned out than opening a show for U2, he knew. “Yeah, I’m good. The crowds seem to like it a lot, too. It’s funny but when we first started the shows there wasn’t a lot of response. But now when I open with “The Midnight Wind” they go nuts. Everyone seems to know it.” “Everybody’s talking about it here at the paper. I’m so proud of you,” she said very sincerely. “Thanks. And I’m so proud of you, too. You’re doing something way more important than me. You’re having our baby and I love you so much for that.”

And if the success of Zack’s new single and appearances at the U2 concerts wasn’t enough sensationalism…. he soon ended up on the cover of Rolling Stone. You got it; there he was on the cover and, inside the publication, a feature story about his rags to riches overnight success. Apparently, the publisher and editor in chief of the magazine had deemed Zack worthy of this almost unheard-of honor. Jann Wenner was up to his old star making tricks again. Normally, it takes an artist much longer to achieve phenomenal success and eventually wind up with their mug on that distinguished glossy cover. In Zack’s case, it was just another golden ‘brick in the wall’ that was catapulting him to international stardom.

All the while, Pandora was diligently working on her music piece of The Miami Herald. And just like those artists that she’d been researching for those many months; Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin, there was the excessive success of the wicked and volatile young punk star, Sid Vicious.

Sid Vicious (born John Simon Ritchie May 10, 1957 died; February 2, 1979) was an English musician best known as the bassist of the influential punk rock group Sex Pistols. In 2006 he was inducted posthumously into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a member of the Sex Pistols. Sid Vicious was born John Simon Ritchie in London to John and Anne Ritchie (née McDonald). His father was a guardsman at Buckingham Palace and a semi-professional trombone player on the London Jazz scene. Shortly after John's birth, his father left the family. John and his mother moved to the island of Ibiza. She married Christopher Beverley in 1965 before setting up a family home back in Kent. John had taken his stepfather's surname and became John Beverley. Vicious began his musical career in 1976 as a member of The Flowers of Romance along with former co-founding member of The Clash, Keith Levene. He appeared with Siouxsie and the Banshees, playing drums at their notorious first gig at the 100 Club Punk Festival in London's Oxford Street. According to members of The Damned, Vicious, along with Dave Vanian, was considered for the position of lead singer for The Damned but failed to show up for the audition. Before joining the Sex Pistols, Vicious had associations with the Bromley Contingent, the fashion avant garde that followed the Sex Pistols. According to various publications (such as the biography England's Dreaming by John Savage) and films (namely The Filth and the Fury) Ritchie was asked to join the group after Glen Matlock’s departure in February 1977 due to his being present at every gig. Manager MalcolmMcLaren once claimed "if Johnny Rotten is the voice of punk, then Vicious is the attitude." McLaren also said in person and in a documentary that if he'd met Vicious before he had hired Rotten to be the singer, Vicious would have been the Sex Pistols front man, because he had the most charisma of anyone on that stage. Alan Jones described Vicious as "[having] the iconic punk look… Sid, on image alone, is what all punk rests on." Vicious played his first gig with the Pistols on April 3, 1977 at The Screen On The Green in London. His debut was filmed by Don Letts and appears in Punk Rock Movie. In November 1977, Ritchie met American groupie Nancy Spungen. Both the group and Ritchie visibly deteriorated during their 1978 American tour. The Pistols broke up in San Francisco after their concert at the Winterland Ballroom on January 14th, 1978. With Spungen acting as his "manager", Ritchie embarked on a solo career during which he performed with musicians including Mick Jones of The Clash original Sex Pistols bassist Glen Matlock, Rat Scabies of The Damned and the New York Dolls’ Arthur Kane, Jerry Nolan, and Johnny Thunder. Ritchie performed the majority of his performances at Max’s Kansas City (after being sold by Mickey Ruskin) and drew large crowds. His final performances as a solo musician took place at Max's.

It was ‘month eight’ for Pandora when Zack called her that night from New York City. He’d performed on the The Late Show with David Letterman and had just returned to his hotel room. And he was exhausted. Bone tired. But being the loving husband, and soon to be new father, he put on the brave face and said pleasantly into the phone, “Hi baby. How are you? How you feelin?” “I’m fine. Getting kind of chubby. You like chubby girls, don’t you?” Pandora asked sweetly. “I love chubby girls. Love ’em. Especially, when they’re having my baby. I love you, Pandora,” Zack said emotionally. There was a moment of silence and Pandora knew there was something else her husband wanted to say. Call it a woman’s intuition. A wife’s psychic connection with her husband. She sensed it and sure enough, it came. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to our life. You, me and baby.” Pandora listened silently and waited for more. She could tell her husband was deeply conflicted and needed to open up and share his thoughts and feelings with her. “Now that the albums out and the tour is almost over, I want to take a break. And I mean a long break. You know I’ll be there next week. And when I get there, I don’t want to go anywhere or do anything for at least a year. Maybe two. I really want to be a good father. And I want to help you and do the things people do when they have children. I want us to be a real family. A loving family…” and he choked up, “…let’s be a family, okay baby?” Pandora had only one thing to add, “I love you, Zack.”

Chapter 27

“Behind him lay the Grey Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores; Before him only shoreless seas, The good mate said: “Now must we pray, For lo! The very stars are gone. Brave adm’r’l, speak; what shall I say? “Why, say: ‘Said on! Sail on! And on! “My men grow mutinous day by day; My grow ghastly, wan and weak;” The stout mate thought of home; a spray Os salt washed his swarthy cheek, “What shall I say, brae adm’r’l, say If we sight naught but seas at dawn?” “Why, you shall say at break of day: ‘Sail on! Sail on! and on! They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: “Why, now not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave adm’r’l; speak and say— He said: “Sail on! Sail on! and on!” They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: “This mad sea shows his teeth tonight. He curls his lip, he lie in wait, With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brae Adm’r’l, say but one good word: What shall we do when hope is gon?” The words leapt like a leaping sword: “Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! And on!” Then, pale and worn, he paced his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck A light! A light! At last a light! It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson: “On! Sail on!” Joaquin Miller

Those words of Zack’s, “I don’t want to do anything or go anywhere for at least a year. Maybe two.” That comment would be like a knife to the heart of any major record label executive. A rising new star is expected to tour more and more and make new records and to just stop? Inconceivable. But then Zack was his own man and even Dylan told him to “stay true to yourself.” Not only did Zack voice his thoughts to Pandora but the word soon got out to his record label. And they were stunned. In the fickle world of music, the staying power of a hot new artist or band is dubious at best. In the old days, a label would hold on for years and wait for some acts to ‘break through’. And in many cases, the wait proved well worthwhile. Millions of albums sold, and their investment was returned many times over. But in current climate of single song digital sales and slumping album sales the record labels wanted immediate results. If not, most likely the act got dropped. But to get the media attention and incredible sales like Zack Zimmerman was getting and to just leave it all? Who knew if he could regain the interest and support of the fans in a year, much less two years? The hammer had to fall. Somebody would have to talk some sense into the young singer/songwriter. Or maybe there was another way. A way that had gotten results in the past and maybe now was the time to try that other way. In this case, it was not the actual record execs at Columbia but their biggest stockholders who hatched the plan. The plan to kill Zack Zimmerman.

The ladies of Caesars Palace wore their sheer see-through sexy black undergarments and danced suspended in cages above an open-air bar where the intoxicated gamblers, just below, were drinking hard and playing blackjack. That is, when they weren’t leering up at the slinky dancers who would grind and gyrate in time to the heavy bass line that drove the pounding electronic club music. Just across the cavernous interior of the casino were the large and looming video screens that showed live basketball games and a few dog races. A gigantic, digitized wall with odds on those games and all upcoming games blinked incessantly in red and blue. At a table, just across from the bar sat three men. We’ve seen them before. They were all in their mid to late thirties and they all wore Armani. Top to bottom they looked like any other upscale young professional man with good taste and money. And that last word was the key word with these wise guys. Money. Peter Antonetti sipped on a martini and pointed across the vast casino to the one of the looming video screens that showed a basketball game. “I’d take 3 to 1 on that game. The Lakers been lookin’ kind of sloppy lately. What do you think, Sammy?” The impeccably dressed big guy nodded his head in agreement. “You’re right Pete, they been off their game for the last couple of weeks.” Peter shifted his gaze and looked up above the bar at one particular blonde dancer in a cage and commented, “How long you think she’ll be good for? Maybe another couple of years? Got a tight little body now but it’ll go. It always does. They come and they go, huh?” Sammy leered up at the scantily clad woman who was thrusting her pelvis back and forth in wild abandon. “They sure do. But I’d get all over that one tonight,” he replied and laughed. Peter got a thoughtful look on his face and said, “We did real good with the Michael Jackson business. Even Mr. Capesi said so. The catalogue sales have gone through the roof. The monies coming back in spades. If he’d lived another twenty-five years, he’d never have made us even close to what we’re getting now.” Sammy took a slug from a bottled Heineken beer and agreed wholeheartedly, “No question about it. Jackson is where he belongs. In the grave.” “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to what Mr. Capesi said about the new artists. You get them in their prime. I looked hard into the work they did on some of those artists in the sixties and seventies. Even that guy Buddy Holly in the fifties that he mentioned. There’s no doubt they sold millions more after they died. And they’re still selling,” he stated coolly and looked at his partner in crime. After some thought he spoke again, “From what I hear we got a real problem with this new guy. Word has it he’s going to give up the music business for quite a while. In my opinion, he’ll just fade away.” Peter pointed to the blonde up above the bar. “They come and they go, right? These musicians are a dime a dozen. Somebody will come along and take this guy’s place in a heartbeat.” Sammy was listening attentively when Peter stood up from the table. He looked down and gave the fateful order. “Let’s make him dead. See who’s available and I want the best. Since we’re picking up where Mr. Capesi and the others left off, then I want it to go perfectly. I don’t care how he dies but I want it done like they use to do it. Like a work of art. No questions asked. Let’s make a legend of Zack Zimmerman.”

For the moment, the streets of Key West were relatively quiet. It was that hour at dusk when most tourists were back in their hotels or B&B’s and getting ready for dinner and a night on the town. Greene Street was equally deserted. Inside Capt. Tony’s the bar was empty of customers and the crew were all convened and waiting on the night and whatever it might bring. What it brought, at that moment, was Capt. Tony walking through the front door. And he had a troubled look on his face and called out to Poet, Fingers and Gypsy Mama. “Let’s take a seat over here everybody. I need to talk to you.” There was no mistaking the urgency in his voice and they all promptly walked over to the table and sat down. Capt. Tony stood above them looking haggard and even more frail than usual. His normal free and easy manner had been replaced with some burden that was evident in his face and the way his shoulders hunched over, as if pulled down by abnormal gravity. “I heard some things. Didn’t want to say anything until I checked into it,” he stated in a winded voice. “What kind of things?” asked Poet. Capt. Tony looked at his employees and gave them the dire news. “They’re gonna kill him.” “Kill who?” Fingers questioned. “They’re gonna…. kill Zack,” came the ominous report. The three of them, Poet, Fingers and Gypsy Mama, said nothing. It took a moment before the words settled in and then Fingers brought his fist crashing down on the table. “No! Not again. Why Zack?” he cried. Capt. Tony shook his head. “I don’t know. They heard Zack was going to take a break from touring and recording. And they’re not gonna wait for him to come back. He’s hot right now and they know it. This one album of his could sell fifty times what it’s doing if he becomes a legend. You know that, Fingers.” “Alive one day and a dead legend the next,” Poet said with bitter irony and continued, “Another young star bites the dust. What makes them so much better when they’re dead than when they were alive? What’s wrong with people? It’s just fucking crazy.” Gypsy Mama still sat silent and she clutched the edge of the table with both of her hands. Tears began to fall from her eyes and she spoke haltingly, “Please do something, Tony. Please…please do something.”

Chapter 28

“Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake.” Victor Hugo

Flying at night over the engineering marvel that was the Hoover Dam, Capt. Tony stared down at the eerie amber lights below. The Hoover dam, they don’t build them like that anymore, he considered. The flight attendants voice came over the intercom, “We’ll be landing shortly,” and momentarily the shimmering bright lights of Las Vegas came into view. The alluring luminosity stretched out as far as the eye could see and beckoned all to come to its enticing forbidden fruits in the dry desert night air. A short cab ride from McLaren International airport put Capt. Tony at the entrance to Caesar’s Palace. He exited the vehicle and entered the glamorous casino and made his way slowly towards the open-air bar where the three men waited for him. After all these years, the dark and dangerous secrets of Capt. Tony’s past were about to be exposed in the cold, hard light of day. Or in the case, under the bright, glitzy casino lights inside Caesar’s Palace. The ‘young guns’ Peter Antonetti and Sammy Giardina, along with old mafia boss Luciano ‘Lucky’ Capesi, sat at a table when Capt. Tony arrived. The sexy, lurid ladies in their cages above the bar danced to the electronic club music as Luciano rose from his chair and shook Capt. Tony’s hand. “Hello, Tony. It’s been awhile.” “Sure has, Lucky. Good to see you,” replied Captain Tony as the two young men stood and Luciano made the introductions. “Tony, I’d like you to meet Peter and Sammy here.” The stylish wise guys shook Tony’s hand and Peter pointed to a chair. “Please have a seat Mr. Tarrincino. Glad you could join us. Mr. Capesi speaks very highly of you.” Capt. Tony sat down in one of the cushy leather chairs and stared around the vast casino. “What a place. Sure has changed from the old days, huh, Lucky?” The old mobster took a hit from his big cigar and agreed. “Damn right it has, Tony. It’s a whole new world now.” “I remember when Sinatra, Dino and Sammy played this joint. Now that was a show, you remember, Lucky?” stated Capt. Tony nostalgically. “Hell, yeah, it was a show,” exclaimed Luciano and he looked over at Peter. “Me and Tony go back a long way. Jersey was where we first met. He pissed off some of the family back then, but it all got worked out. Mainly, cause he’s so damn good at what he does. But we could only get him off that damn island of his every so often. Like I was telling ‘ya, Tony here was our ‘go to’ guy. We even called him ‘the music man’ from the Broadway play, right Tony?” “Yeah, that was me alright,” replied Tony with a faint smile. “Most of our associates from those days have passed on but they’d tell you the same thing. Tony was the best. In fact, it was the only thing he’d do for us. Music stars. Tony was like some kind of surgeon with his work. Clean and neat and nobody ever suspected a thing. Didn’t matter where in the world the hit would take place. Tony could make it look like a drug overdose or whatever was called for and that’d be the end of it. Peter, who’d remained silent and respectful up to this point, looked at Tony and asked, “So why would you want to come back into the business now, Mr. Tarrincino?” Capt. Tony took a moment before answering. He leaned in close and spoke quietly and with conviction. “When I heard some things lately I thought maybe I’d come out and ask a favor. This musician you’re gonna take care of. I know him. He showed up one day at my bar and I let him sing some songs. The kid was real good and I let him sing every night for a while. Before you know it, a big shot music producer takes him out to Los Angeles. Overnight he becomes a star and I understand your concerns about his leaving the music business so soon,” Tony said knowingly and continued, “but I was hoping I could get you to reconsider this whole thing. The kid has a new wife and a baby on the way. You think you could pass on this one?” Peter glanced at his associate who shook his head ‘no’ and he looked back at Capt. Tony. “I’m afraid not. We may not get a chance like this for a long time. He’s skyrocketed to the top and, you know better than anyone, he’s the perfect candidate to become a legend. I’m sorry Mr. Tarrincino but it’s just a smart business decision. I’m sure you understand.” Capt. Tony sat back in his chair and nodded his head. “I figured that’d be your answer. I understand completely,” he said and looked at his old friend Luciano. “My other request is this. Let me take care of it. I’ll make it painless and that’s the least I can do for the kid. Somebody else might fuck it up, too. You know I’m the best and I’ll do it perfect like all the old jobs I did for the family. What’d say, Lucky?” The old mafia boss took a moment and thought about it. He inhaled some smoke from his Cuban cigar and blew it out slowly. He then spoke the final words of the meeting. And everyone at the table knew that Luciano Capesi still had ‘the final word’ in the family. “It’s yours Tony. Make him dead for us.”

Chapter 29

“When the day returns, call us up with morning faces and with morning hearts, eager to labor, happy if happiness be our portion, and if the day be marked for sorrow, strong to endure.” Robert Lewis Stevenson

It was a baby girl. Rebecca Jane Zimmerman was her name, and the doting parents were ecstatic and floating around ‘newborn baby’ heaven. Mama Pandora heroically gave birth with no complications and Zack had been there for the delivery, too. Like most first-time fathers, he wobbled at bit at first, but made it through the miracle and high drama of childbearing. In the baby’s third month the happy little family made a trip down to Key West. And anxiously awaiting them at Capt. Tony’s were Poet, Fingers and Gypsy Mama. Small pink balloons were hung from the ceiling and Gypsy Mama had bought baby gifts on behalf of the employees. The proud parents walked into the bar a little after seven in the evening. Pandora cradled the infant and Zack had his gig bag strapped over his shoulder and called out joyfully to everyone. “Hey everybody! Guess who’s back in town.” It was Gypsy Mama who first greeted them with a big smile. “How ya’ll doin?” “We’re doing fine,” Pandora responded happily. “Can I hold that beautiful, baby?” Gypsy Mama asked. “I’d love for you to hold her,” Pandora replied and gently handed off the baby to Gypsy Mama. Fingers followed by Poet quickly joined them at the door. “Well, if isn’t the Zimmerman’s. And is that a baby I see there? Man, it seems like you two just met. You cats don’t mess around,” Fingers said jovially and smiled. “Welcome home.” It was Poet’s turn. “Now that’s what I call gettin’ it on. A couple nights here in Key West and you got down to business. And lookin’ at the little sweetheart I’d say you got good sperm, Zack. Must be exceptional stuff.” This got some laughs from everybody and what else would you expect from Poet? “Thanks Poet. I don’t think anybody’s ever told me that,” replied Zack and grinned, “That may be one of the best compliments I’ve ever had.” Up on the stage the dim blue lights had been turned on and a large cardboard sign was taped to the back wall. WELCOME BACK ZACK & PANDORA & BABY!!…it read in big bold beautiful hand drawn letters. The handiwork of local artist, Gypsy Mama. “So, you gonna play us something, Zack”? Asked Fingers. Zack smiled and exclaimed, “You damn right I am. Man, it’s good to be here.” While Gypsy Mama cradled the baby, Pandora took a seat at a table and Poet returned to his position behind the bar. Fingers walked with Zack up to the stage and pointed, “Got that mic at a good level and I’ll put your guitar cord into this amp over here.” Zack pulled his guitar out of the gig bag and looked around the dark bar. It all came back in a flash. It was this crazy little joint where it had all started, he knew. Everything he’d ever dreamed of. His beautiful wife, and now their baby, and that big-time roller coaster ride he’d been on in the music biz. He was close to getting emotional at that moment when Fingers called out, “You’re good to go, Zack.” Stepping slowly up to the microphone Zack spoke quietly and from the heart. “I love you guys. I really do. Thank you so much for everything. I was thinking about what I wanted to play for you. It’s not my song but it sort of says it all. I’m sure you know the tune, “Shelter from The Storm” by Dylan. And when I’m singing about the girl, I mean the love of my life, Pandora… but I also mean it for all of you. Gypsy Mama, Poet, Fingers, Capt. Tony…all of you gave me shelter from the storm.” “Twas in another lifetime one of toil and blood When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud I came in from the wilderness a creature boy deformed Come in she said I’ll give you shelter from the storm

And if I pass this way again you can rest assured I’ll always do my best for her on this I give my word In a world of steel and death and men fighting to be warm Come in she I’ll give you shelter from the storm

Not a word was spoke between us there was little risk involved Everything up to that point had been left unresolved Try imagining a place where it’s always safe and warm Come in she said I’ll give you shelter from the storm

I was burned out from exhaustion buried in the hail Poisoned in the bushes and blown out on the trail Hunted like a crocodile ravaged in the corn Come in she said I’ll give you shelter from the storm

Suddenly I turned around and she was standing there With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns Come in she said I’ll give you shelter from the storm

Now there’s a wall between us something has been lost I took too much for granted I got my signals crossed Just to think it all began on a non-eventful morn Come in she said I’ll give you shelter from the storm

Well the deputy walks on hard nails and the preacher rides a mount But nothing really matters much it’s doom alone that counts And the one-eyed undertaker he blows a futile horn Come in she said I’ll give you shelter from the storm

I’ve heard new born babies wailing like a morning dove And old men with broken teeth stranded without love Do I understand your question man Is it helpless and forlorn Come in she said I’ll give you shelter from the storm

In a little hilltop village they gambled for my clothes I bargained for salvation and she give me a lethal dose I offered up my innocence and got repaid with scorn Come in she said I’ll give you shelter from the storm

I’m living in a foreign country but I’m bound to cross the line Beauty walks a razors edge someday I’ll make it mine If I could only turn back the clock to when her and God were born Come in she said I’ll give you shelter from the storm”

Zack came to the end of the song and as everyone applauded, and Poet yelled out. “Yeah, man! That’s the way to do Dylan. Bravo Zack!” At that moment, Capt. Tony walked into the bar. With a grim look on his face he stared up at the stage. And there was his young friend Zack. Capt. Tony liked the kid. From the moment, he met him he liked him a lot. And now there was this job he was contracted to do. After all these years, why had the cruel hand of fate put him in this position again? He pondered. Fingers spotted him and said, “Hey Tony, look who’s back.” Zack stared out into the dark bar and called out excitedly. “Capt. Tony! Is that you? How are you? You just missed it. I was playing a song for you and the guys.” Capt. Tony forced a small smile onto his face and walked slowly down to the table where Pandora sat. He gazed down at her and said, “Hello, sweetheart. You’re looking beautiful.” Pandora quickly rose and put her arms around him and smiled. “Thank you. It’s so good to be back. Want to meet our baby?” Gypsy Mama, who still held the baby, stood and showed off Rebecca to Capt. Tony. The old man got a wistful smile on his face and said, “She’s a doll. Congratulations, Pandora.” Zack stepped off the stage and joined them at the table. He reached over and he gave Capt. Tony a big hug. “It’s really good to see you, Capt. Tony. How you been?” The old bar owner looked at him for a moment and shrugged, “I’m doin’ alright. How’s it with the big star? Zack answered happily, “Everything’s great. It was pretty grueling there for a while. Had a blast but I’m going to take a break. Hopefully I’ll be seeing a lot of you.” Capt. Tony just stared at him. Finally, he spoke, “None of my business but shouldn’t you be hittin’ it even harder now? Stay on a roll and all that.” Zack took a seat next to his wife and put his arm around her shoulder. “Yeah, I know that’s what they expect me to do. Just want to be with my family for now. I’ve made some good money so we’re doing fine as far as that goes. The label and everybody has tried to talk me out of it but I’ve made my decision,” he said and looked at his wife and continued, “Pandora is totally behind it, too. Just going be the three of us and I’ll get back out there down the line.” Capt. Tony nodded his and relied somberly, “Guess ya’ got to do what ya’ got to do.” Fingers approached the table and said with a smile, “What’s this I hear about a fishing trip, Tony?” Capt. Tony looked at Zack and extended the offer. “Oh, yeah. I got Uncle Aron’s boat for the weekend. I was thinkin’ you and me could go out tomorrow, just the two of us. I know you like that tequila so I’ll get a bottle and some beer and we can catch a few. What’d say Zack?” Zack looked at his wife. “Is that alright with you honey? Pandora replied happily, “Of course. That sounds like fun. Becca and I’ll be fine. I know Rachael wants to spend some time with the baby,” she said and gave him a little kiss on the cheek. “You and Capt. Tony can bring us home some dinner.” Zack smiled big and looked at his former employer and good friend. “Let’s do it. I’d love to get a little fishing in while I’m here.”

Chapter 30

“Never give up! If adversity presses, Providence wisely has mingled the cup. And the best counsel, in all your distress, Is the stout watchword of “Never give up.” Martin F. Tupper

It was around noon the next day when Capt. Tony picked up Zack and they headed off for a day of deep-sea fishing. While they were gone, Pandora and the baby spent the entire day with Rachael and the two women talked and talked and, before you knew it, it was dusk. And that was about the time Zack and Capt. Tony would be returning from their Gulf Coast fishing trip. The plan was for Zack to meet back up with Pandora at the bar. Rachael was more than happy to baby-sit the infant and, hopefully, the young couple could get in a little ‘alone time’ together. Well, maybe not totally alone, as Zack planned on playing a short set at Capt. Tony’s that night. Later, the two planned on retracing their steps through the streets of Key West; those enchanting streets they’d walked early on in their relationship. The sun had just set on the island and Gypsy Mama was putting in an order with Poet at the bar. Fingers was up on the stage and turning on the lights when a police officer appeared in the front door. He strode quickly towards Poet who greeted him with a smile. “Hey, Larry. Don’t usually see you ‘til you get off. The Key West cop stood across the bar from Poet and spoke urgently. “Got some bad news, Poet. Coast Guard got an SOS from a boat in the Gulf. I don’t have all the details, but Capt. Tony’s name was mentioned. Wanted to come right over and let you know.” Poet stopped his dish washing and stared back. “What happened, Larry?” The officer shook his head and replied, “All I know is that they got a radio transmission, and somebody fell over-board. Sorry, but that’s all we know right now.” Gypsy Mama stood still like a statue. And when she finally spoke it was almost inaudible. “When…. will you know something?” “Soon we hope. Like I said that’s all we know now right now. You guys hang in there and I’ll call as soon as we get more information. The police officer turned and walked away leaving Poet and Gypsy Mama to sort out the sketchy information. Poet looked at his old friend and took her hand in his. And he tried his best to speak reassuringly. “Let’s just wait and see, okay? We don’t know enough yet.” Gypsy Mama said nothing. What could she say? Only time, and the coast guard, would tell. Someone had fallen overboard in the warm waters off the coast of Key West. And those warm gulf waters were also teeming with sharks.

Authors: Clark, Eugenie; von Schmidt, Katherine Source: Bulletin of Marine Science, Volume 15, Number 1, pp. 13-83 Publisher: University of Miami – Rosenstiel School of Marine and Atmospheric Science Source: Bulletin of Marine Science, Volume 15 Publisher: University of Miami – Rosenstiel School of Marine and Atmospheric Science Abstract: 762 sharks and 842 embryos of 16 species of sharks from the central west coast of Florida were examined. Included in order of abundance in our catches are: Carcharhinus leucas (135 specimens), C. milberti (109), Negaprion brevirostris (76), Carcharhinus limbatus (64), Sphyrna tiburo (63), Carcharhinus acronotus (61), Galeocerdo cuvieri (60), Ginglymostoma cirratum (58), Carcharhinus obscurus (49), Scoliodon terraellovae (22), Sphyrna mokarran (21), Carcharhinus maculipinnis (20), Mustelus norrisi (17), Sphyrna lewini (5), Aprionodon isodon (1), and Carcharias taurus (1). Measurements, seasonal distribution, embryonic development, maturity, and reproductive habits are discussed. ∙ The International Shark Attack File statistical analysis shows the following:

∙ Since 1900, shark bites have increased in proportion to the population increase in Florida. ∙ Between 1911 and 2009, more than half of Florida shark bites occurred during the months of July, August, September, and October. More than 85% of Florida shark bites occurred during the months March through October. ∙ Most shark bites happen between 11am and 8pm. ∙ The feet, legs, and hands of surfers are the most common target of sharks in Florida, followed by swimmers and waders, and finally divers. Swimmers were the most common victim before the 1960’s. Surfing became popular beginning in the 1960’s and the exponential increase in the presence of surfers in the water contributed to a major increase in shark bites. ∙ The most bites are inflicted by Spinner, Blacktip, Hammerhead, and Bull sharks.

It was almost midnight and Pandora was seated at a table with Gypsy Mama. The employees had closed the bar early after a call from the Key West police department. And the news was grim. Someone, and they didn’t know who yet, had fallen overboard and apparently drowned and possibly been eaten by a shark. The police could confirm that the tragedy had happened on the boat Capt. Tony had borrowed for the weekend. And that’s all they had now. Poet and Fingers sat on bar stools and said nothing. The quiet, doleful sounds of a woman crying were heard at a nearby table. “Please dear God, please don’t let anything happen to him,” came the desolate words from Zack’s wife. “I’m scared Mama. I can’t lose him now. I can’t…” was all Pandora could say as the tears fell from her eyes. “Be strong, baby. Be strong. That’s what Zack would want. I’m sure he’s alright. Don’t you worry, he’ll be fine,” came the hesitant words of encouragement from Gypsy Mama. And all they could do was wait. Inevitably, they would get the full story and know who the victim was. And it was a little after three o’clock in the morning when they got their answer. Capt. Tony walked into the bar.

Chapter 31

“Let us bear with magnanimity whatever it is needful for us to bear.” Seneca

The news media descended on Key West in mass. Camera crews from CNN, CBS, NBC, ABC, FOX, not to mention, the dozens of newspaper journalists who were swarming the island. The rising young star with the recent number one hit song and who had graced the cover of Rolling Stone magazine was dead. Live satellite feeds were going out across the world by the hour. One TV news correspondent stood talking into a microphone just outside the front door of Capt. Tony’s. “From all accounts the musician Zack Zimmerman is presumed dead. According to our information, it was the owner of a bar called, Capt. Tony’s, here in Key West, Florida who relayed the tragic news to authorities. And it was this same bar owner, Mr. Anthony Tarrincino, who had taken Zack Zimmerman on a fishing trip. According to Mr. Tarrincino it was sometime late Saturday afternoon that the young musician fell overboard. According to reliable sources, Mr. Terrintino also told the Coast Guard that Zimmerman had been drinking heavily.” The correspondent paused and looked at his notes before continuing. “The boat being driven by Mr. Tarrincino was traveling fast through choppy waters when the musician fell. By the time Mr. Terrincino was able to circle back around the young singer was nowhere to be found. It also believed that Zimmerman may have been attacked by a shark. Mr. Tarrincino recovered a bloody pair of shorts from the water and that’s all that’s been found of the young singer. The Coast Guard searched the waters where the tragedy occurred both yesterday and today…” Once again, the TV news reported glanced down at his notes and stared back at the camera. “…they could not find a body, and from recent reports, the search was called off several hours ago. Undoubtedly, this will come as major shock to millions of Zimmerman’s fans around the world. And the almost overnight success of Zack Zimmerman has also sent shock waves through the international music community. They know all too well that this tragedy is eerily reminiscent of former music stars that died in their prime. Jim Morrision, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and others. We’ll have more from Key West, Florida as this tragic story develops.”

Four months had passed since the tragedy and Pandora was doing her best to rebuild her shattered life. The media spotlight had dimmed somewhat, although, Zack’s posthumous song “Hand of an Innocent Man” had soared to the top of the charts. The album itself had already sold multiple millions of copies after his death and Zack had truly become a legend. And no doubt, would be idolized and remembered for many, many years to come. Pandora had also returned to her job at The Miami Herald. Late that afternoon she sat at her desk and listened through earbuds to a song by Joni Mitchell. She absolutely adored the music of the brilliant Canadian singer/songwriter. Life had become uncertain at best and she was, now more than ever, deeply moved by the timeless words and achingly beautiful melody of a song like “Both Sides Now.” “Bows and flows of angel hair And ice cream castles in the air And feathered canyons everywhere I’ve looked at clouds that way But now they only block the sun They rain and snow on everyone So many things I would have done But clouds got in my way

I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now From up and down and still somehow It’s cloud illusions I recall I really don’t know clouds at all

Moons and junes and farris wheels The dizzy dancing way you feel As every fairy tale come real I’ve looked love that way

But now it’s just another show You leave ‘em laughing when you go And if you care don’t let them know Don’t give yourself away

I looked at love from both sides now From give and take but still somehow It’s love illusions that I recall I really don’t know love at all

Tears and fears and feeling proud To say I love you right out loud Dreams and schemes and circus crowds I’ve looked at life that way

But now old friends are acting strange They shake their heads And say I’ve changed Well something’s lost but something’s gained In living every day

I’ve looked at life from both sides now From win and lose And still somehow It’s life’s illusions I recall I really don’t know life at all It’s life’s illusions I recall I really don’t life at all….

Pandora, just that afternoon, had also finished researching the final superstar to be included in her article on drugs and dead rock stars. The legendary man had stood at the top of the mountain of success for so many years and, once again, drugs had helped bring him tumbling down and were a primary cause of his death.

Elvis Presley (Born: Jan. 8, 1935 Died: Aug. 16, 1977) Simply put, Elvis Presley was the first real rock & roll star. A white Southerner singing blues laced with country, and country tinged with gospel, he brought together American music from both sides of the color line and performed it with a natural hip-swiveling sexuality that made him a teen idol and a role model for generations of cool rebels. He was repeatedly dismissed as vulgar, incompetent, and a bad influence, but the force of his music and his image was no mere merchandising feat. Presley signaled to mainstream culture that it was time to let go. Today, Presley’s image and influence remain undiminished. While certainly other artists preceded him and he by no means ‘invented’ rock and roll, he is indisputably its king. As a recording artist, Presley’s accomplishments are unparalleled. He is believed to have sold over 1 billion records worldwide, about 40 percent of those outside the U.S. The RIAA has awarded Presley the largest number of gold, platinum and multi-platinum certifications of any in history. His chart performance as tracked by Billboard, is also unmatched, with 149 charting pop singles; 114 Top 40, 40 Top 10, and 18 #1s. Presley became a star national star in 1956. He and his manager Col. Tom Parker traveled to Nashville, where Presley cut his first records for RCA (including “I Got A Woman”, “Heartbreak Hotel” and “I Was the One”), and on January 28, 1956, the singer made his national television debut on the Dorsey Brothers’ Stage Show, followed by six consecutive appearances. In March, Parker signed Presley to a managerial contract for which he would receive 25 per cent of Presley’s earnings. The contract would last through Presley’s lifetime and beyond. Presley performed on the Milton Berle, Steve Allen, and Ed Sullivan television shows. In August, he began filming his first movie, Love Me Tender, which was released three months later and recouped its $1 million cost in three days. Elvis’ hit singles that year were all certified gold; they included “Heartbreak Hotel” (#1), “I Was the One” (#20), “I Want You, I Need You” (#1), “Hound Dog” (#1), “My Baby Left Me” (#31), “Don’t Be Cruel” (#1), “Love Me Tender” (#1), “Anyway You Want Me” (#20), “Love Me” (#2), and “When My Blue Moon Turns to Gold” (#19). By early 1957 he was the idol of millions of teens and the perfect target for the wrath of critics, teachers, clergy, and even other entertainers, all of whom saw his style as too suggestive; he was nicknamed Elvis the Pelvis by one writer. Presley repeatedly claimed not to understand what all the criticism was about. On January 6, when Presley made his last of three appearances on Ed Sullivan’s show, he was shown only from the waist up. His subsequent years of success, his induction into the army and his comebacks have been chronicled endlessly. Presley’s last live performance was on June 25, 1977, in Indianapolis. He was reportedly horrified at the impending publication of Elvis: What Happened?, the tell-all written by three of his ex-bodyguards and Memphis Mafiosi that was the first printed account of his drug abuse and obsession with firearms, to name just two headline-grabbing revelations. The book came out on August 12. On August 16, 1977---the day before his next scheduled concert---Presley was found dead in his bathroom at Graceland.

It had taken numerous phone calls from Capt. Tony and Pandora was finally returning to Key West for a short visit. In the aftermath of the tragedy there had been no time for a gathering of friends. Perhaps, this opportunity to visit together would be something of a loving memorial service. And just the way Zack would have wanted it. Inside that crazy little joint known as Capt. Tony’s. Pandora would be showing up at the bar late that night after leaving the baby with Rachael at the B&B. Capt. Tony had also given instructions to his employees to close the place earlier than usual. The stage was now set, hopefully, for some closure on the whole heartrending ordeal.

Chapter 32

“Expect the best! It lies not in the past. God keeps the good wine till the last. Beyond are nobler work and sweeter rest. Expect the best!” William Pierson Merrill

Poet was behind the bar and reading a book by flashlight, Gypsy Mama sat on a bar stool and doodled on a napkin and Fingers was up on the stage and turning off the lights from the earlier band. Capt. Tony sat by himself at a table when Pandora walked in. Gypsy Mama jumped up from her stool and smiled. “Hello, baby. It’s so good to see you,” she said and wrapped her arms around Pandora. They held each other in a loving embrace for a moment and Poet spoke up, “Welcome home, Pandora. We missed you.” Fingers stepped off the stage and headed straight to Pandora and gave her a big hug. “We been thinkin’ about you and the baby all the time. All the time,” he said jovially. “Thank you. How’s everybody here?” asked Pandora sincerely. “We’re all okay. Just missing you,” replied Gypsy Mama. Pandora looked over to a dark corner of the bar and saw Capt. Tony. He stood up and waved her over. “Come here sweetheart. Let’s have a talk.” Pandora walked over and Capt. Tony pulled out a chair for her and she sat down. There was an awkward moment of silence and then Capt. Tony spoke quietly and emotionally, “I’m so sorry...” and Pandora interrupted him. “I know that Capt. Tony. You don’t have to tell me, I know there was nothing you could do,” Pandora said, and she began to choke up. A few tears appeared in her eyes when Capt. Tony put his wrinkled old hand on hers. “It’s not what you think. I’m sorry for something else,” he apologized again. “There’s some things I’m going to tell you. Some things that will have to go to your grave with you.” Pandora looked at him oddly and sat back in the chair. And waited. She waited and wondered what the eccentric old man had to say. But instinctively she knew she was in for a shock. Whatever it was, she felt it coming. Like a tropical hurricane coming. And Capt. Tony didn’t disappoint her. “Let me start by telling you a little of my story. I’ve led a very unusual life outside of Key West and going back a long time.” Capt. Tony paused to gather his thoughts and continued, “I was employed by the mafia. The mob, or whatever you want to call them. My job was to execute people and make it look like an accident. And these people who employed me always expected it to be done perfectly. No questions asked later. If questions were asked and the truth came out then they wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. Or kill the people who I was supposed to of killed. Does that make any sense to you?” Pandora sat totally silent and was trying her best to figure out where this was all leading. Why is he telling me this? She kept wondering. “I guess so,” she answered timidly. “So, the people I was hired to kill…. I didn’t kill them. I made it look like I killed them. You could call it a cover-up. And only me, the intended victim and a couple of other people knew the truth. In some cases, I had a couple cops and coroners on my payroll. Even had a woman named Kathryn Stuberg do some work for me. She was a famous wax figure maker out of Hollywood. You’d never know the difference to see a wax figure of hers in a coffin or the real person. She was a genius, like Divinci or somebody.” At this point, Pandora had to speak up. “What are you trying to tell, Capt. Tony? I’m not following you…” and now it was Capt. Tony’s turn to interrupt. “The thing is. Like that movie, The Godfather, I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. The intended victim could live but only on my terms. And those terms meant having to go away and never come back again. Ever,” he said and stressed that last word. Capt. Tony let that sink in and continued, “I guess like the FBI witness protection program. New identities and all that. Either that or I would kill them. It was their choice. And no one refused my offer. And the other thing is…they were all musicians…” Pandora was starting to sweat. Her forehead, even in the muggy warm Key West night, was beginning to bead up with moisture. And Capt. Tony continued with his bazaar and troubling talk. “Everything had to be perfect with this kind of thing. And that’s why I’m telling you I’m sorry. You couldn’t know….” It was then three men walked into the bar. It was two of the regulars, Uncle Aron and Johnny C and a younger man with short blond hair and a scruffy blond beard. They all stood in the doorway when Pandora glanced over. It was so dark in the bar and she couldn’t help but stare. It was then her heart began to pound and she suddenly felt faint and she kept staring at the young man in the doorway. He looked so familiar and, it couldn’t be, she thought….and that’s when Capt. Tony spoke one more time. “Go say hello to your husband.” Pandora let out a gut-wrenching scream and jumped up from the table. At the same time the young man ran towards her and he yelled out, “Pandora! It’s me baby.” Zack Zimmerman had come back from the dead.

Chapter 33

“You can’t depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus” Mark Twain

And for the next hour, Pandora and Zack cried and laughed and laughed and cried some more. They sat at a small table in the corner of the bar and Zack had his arm wrapped around her shoulder and held her tight. And he was never going to let go. Not even if Capt. Tony gave him one of those ‘offers he couldn’t refuse.’ Wasn’t going to happen. It was close to four in the morning and while Zack and Pandora had been ‘reuniting,’ Fingers had been assembling some musical equipment up on the stage. An electric guitar, a bass and a set of drums were all in place when Capt. Tony walked over to the young couple. “Why don’t you two come join us over here at the table? You got the rest of your lives to spend together,” he said good naturedly. Seated at that table were Poet, Gypsy Mama, Johnny C and Fingers while Uncle Aron, up on the stage, was adjusting the symbols on his drum kit. Capt. Tony with Zack and Pandora walked over and they all sat down. Capt. Tony looked around the table and spoke pleasantly, “So, I thought a little music was in order and Zack it’s your turn to be entertained. We all love your own music, you know that, but I thought you and Pandora might like to relax. So for now, let’s just celebrate that you two are back together again.” “Sounds good to me,” was about all Zack could say. God only knows, he’d been on the wildest ride of his life and why not some entertainment? He thought. Bring on the clowns. And those clowns just happen to be sitting there at the table with him. And what clowns they were. The shows they’d put on, earlier in their lives, were the stuff of legends. Capt. Tony looked at Fingers and asked, “Want to tell him?” Fingers had a big smile on his face. He looked at Zack and Pandora and stood up from the table. Gazing down at his young friends he said, “Remember what I told you one time about secrets, Zack? We all got our secrets, man. Let me reintroduce myself to you,” and he extended his hand to shake. “My name is Jimi Hendrix.” Zack got wide eyed and he exclaimed. “NO! No, man, you’re not really….” and Jimi smiled even bigger and asked, “You gonna shake my hand or what?” Instead of shaking his hand, Zack bounded out of the chair and threw his arms around him and said happily, “I love you Fingers…I mean, Jimi.” Capt. Tony got up from the table and stood behind Johnny C. He patted him on the shoulder and said to Zack and Pandora, “Like you to meet our English friend once more. Sid Vicious from the Sex Pistols.” Zack had to sit down again. His head was spinning, and it was all too much for the young singer/songwriter. Sid said dryly, “Good to me you mate.” Capt. Tony then looked down at his nighttime bartender. Were mere words enough? It was the wild, manic and wondrous man himself. And, without a doubt, an exceptional poet of both of words and music. “You might have heard of this crazy cat, too,” stated Capt. Tony. Poet sat calmly with a sly grin on his face. He seemed to be really enjoying himself, too. And why not? He loved a good drama and, no doubt, this was an exceptionally good drama. “Say hello to Jim Morrison,” said Capt. Tony. Zack let out a cry, “OH MY GOD!” And the final introduction came next. Capt. Tony gazed down affectionately on Gypsy Mama who also seemed to be getting a kick out of the unreal proceedings. Capt. Tony looked at Zack and Pandora and said, “This here is my own personal favorite singer of the group. Like you to meet…. Janis Joplin.” Zack gasped and then reached over and wrapped his arms around her and asked, “You’re Janis Joplin? Seriously. Are you really?” Gypsy Mama replied, “Does it really matter? I’m still your Gypsy Mama, Zack. Ain’t that enough?” Zack hugged her even tighter and had only one thing to say. “Mama, that’s way more than enough.”

Fifteen minutes later, Uncle Aron hit the downbeat and the band was rockin.’ Big time rockin.’ It all began with Janis wailing “Piece of My Heart,” followed by Jimi shredding it on “Foxy Lady,” and all the while, Sid played bass and jumped around like a vintage punk rocker. The final song in the short set found Jim at the microphone as he belted out the classic Doors song, “L.A. Woman.” There was another round to come but, for the moment, the four legends stepped off the stage and joined Zack, Pandora and Capt. Tony at the table. Uncle Aron was stepping away from the drum kit when Capt. Tony called out to him. “Hey, Uncle Aron. Play us something on that guitar.” The while haired and bearded older man nodded and picked up the guitar. Capt. Tony looked at Zack and Pandora and informed them, “Uncle Aron only learned to play the drums here on the island. He’s gotten damn good, too. But he’s really a guitar player.” Uncle Aron stepped up to the microphone and spoke in his southern drawl. “Well, thank you very much. Appreciate you wantin’ to hear me sing a song. I’m also sending this one out to Pandora and Zack and God bless ya’ both….” The old guy cocked his knees in tight, shook his hips, strummed the guitar and sang, “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog Cryin’ all the time You ain’t nothing’ but a hound Crying all the time Well you ain’t never caught a rabbit And you ain’t no friend of mine…..” Pandora lit up and said to Capt. Tony, “Oh, I know this song. Elvis Presley. I researched all his albums for an article...” and then she got a puzzled look on her face. The man’s voice was absolutely identical to Elvis’. Pandora just stared for a moment at the singer and then turned to Capt. Tony and asked in disbelief, “Is…that who I think it is?” The crusty old bar owner smiled ever so slightly and answered, “You bet ‘cha sweetheart.” It was then Jim Morrison leaned into Zack Zimmerman. All he said was, “Welcome to the classic rock club.”

Chapter 33

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” Martin Luther King Jr.

The human snow globe. Amazingly, the inflated clear rubbery plastic orb contained a real live man inside with colored Christmas lights hung around his neck and singing some zany re-worked Irving Berlin Christmas song along with genuine fake Hollywood snow at his feet. This dubious but brilliant performance/art piece was being performed in the cold December night air on the lawn in front of the austere stone edifice known as Bennett Hall. The former Methodist Missionary college campus now turned conference center and retreat was a ‘hot spot’ for weddings, human rights conferences and an assortment of religious related functions. From the open doorway of the elegant gothic stone structure some hundred or so wedding planers watched on with bemused but confused looks on their faces as they sipped on sugary-sweet fruit drinks and munched their deep-fried Southern appetizers. They’d come for an end of the year mixer and were getting a little something extra in the way of entertainment. Wisconsin native, PT Barnum, was the handsome twenty-six-year-old performer and the inspiration for this piece of wacked-out kitsch cool he called “The 12 Minutes of X-mas.” Sporting a thick blond beard and long blond hair that fell around his shoulders, he sang into a hand-held cordless microphone that was amplified outside the globe by one small speaker. His vocals and the music were being run, some fifteen feet away, through a lap- top computer by his trusty assistant and lovely young wife, Dora. “I’m dreaming of a white X-mas….” sang PT with a slight German accent. “Just like the one’s I used to know...” came the wonderfully sung words to the Hawaiian inspired music track he’d found for this bizarre but brilliant little number. With a commanding presence and emotive professional delivery, you’d have thought PT was playing Carnegie Hall except for an occasional dip to pick up some fake snow which he’d then throw up against the oval walls of the clear plastic orb that was lit by two cheap flood lights at its base. Who says Nashville, Tennessee is only the home to country music?

Meanwhile, down on the Gulf Coast of Florida a singer/songwriter who vaguely resembled the young Sting from his early days (circa 1986), was out of money, out of options and currently out of luck. Twenty-four-year-old Michael ‘Mick’ Mahoney drove his old friend’s car down the street on Pine Island and passed by a retinue of sheriff’s cars when one of them soon followed in pursuit. Mick’s former bad-ass bass player, Raymond Ragnolia, had wanted to go find a guitar that had been stolen from him by some local drug dealer and they’d just managed to pass the punk’s house when a drug bust was in session. Wrong place, wrong time, was the old adage for this piece of dumb- shit unluckiness that was now occurring. After months of moving from state to state and from one friend’s couch to another, Mick was once again confronted with some kind of crappy karma that had put him in this banged up old car with an alcoholic who didn’t have the good sense to just stay at home and leave things be. The sheriff pulled them over and walked up to the car with that ‘don’t fuck with me’ kind of look that all small-town Florida sheriffs seem to possess. These guys were born with it and groomed from day one to put it into practice. “Let’s see a license and some registration” barked the Barney Fife look alike. Mick pulled his wallet out slowly and handed the license over as Raymond watched on from the passenger seat in his drunken stupor. After looking over the license the sheriff stared back into the car and asked suspiciously, “What were you doing back there? Looking for drugs?” Mick glared at Raymond who stayed mute. Why don’t you say something? He thought. This is your small town and your car, and you asked me to drive your pitiful self to the liquor store and then over to a known drug dealer. Of all the times to go silent. Raymond never stopped talking and he could ramble on for hours with his vodka induced recollections and retellings of some unforgettable gig he’d played before he went missing in action. Apparently, Mick’s old friend had recently lost a small fortune he’d accumulated from his uncanny ability to pick the winner of almost any football game, pro or college. Raymond could look at the Las Vegas ‘spread’ of a game and like some clairvoyant or medieval mentalist he would know the almost certain outcome of the game. It was a gift he’d developed as a runaway teenager and while working at a Palm Beach mafia owned dog racing track and restaurant. Even at a early age, the Italian wise-guys would marvel at the kids’ remarkable aptitude for picking a winning dog. Raymond’s genius at gambling, not to mention playing music, was in sharp contrast, though, to his vulnerability for good looking women. He adored them. It was a buxom and beautiful cocktail waitress named Eva who, only four months before, had ensconced with his sizable bank account and left him penniless and heartbroken. And if that wasn’t enough to send Raymond into a tail spin it was the weather. A recent Category 3 hurricane had pretty much leveled his cozy little Gulf Coast beach house. And to compound matters even further, Raymond had managed to lose his gig at a popular boating restaurant and bar called Barnacle Phil’s on the nearby island of North Captiva. It was in the second month of his pathetic drinking binge that Raymond went way over the edge. He got the axe. And we’re not talking about a guitar, either. He was flat out fired and told never to return. Raymond was quite simply a very ill-fated and good-hearted pushover and, for the time being, an out-of-control and very depressed drunk. “Don’t be lying to me now. Were you looking for some drugs?” inquired the sheriff again. Mick shook his head ’no’ and stared hard at Raymond. Speak! Say something, you mutant, foul-mouthed washed-up piece of lovable garbage, thought Mick. As if reading his mind, Raymond finally peered up sheepishly at the sheriff and asked, “How ya’ doin’ Bobby?” The sheriff suddenly changed his act in mid-stream and drawled back. “Doin’ fine, Ray. How’s Eva?” “She left me,” slurred Ray. “No shit? Damn sorry to hear it, Ray.” Absolutely unbelievable, thought Mick. These guys knew each other and this whole damn thing was a preposterous little game and why the hell didn’t they just get the pleasantries out of the way to begin with? Time to leave Pine Island, thought Mick. Flee the madness as soon as possible. Three weeks in Raymond’s ramshackle hurricane damaged house that was crawling with gigantic Great Dane dogs and empty booze bottles and, yeah, it was definitely time to get the hell off the Gulf Coast. And like a bolt from the blue, like a beam of white light from a crack in Heaven’s door it came to him. Mick knew who to call. And where to go. Nashville, Tennessee never looked so good.

Chapter 34

“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him keep step to music which he hears, however measured or far away.” Henry David Thoreau

They call it Music Row. Located just to the southwest of downtown Nashville, it’s the home to hundreds of businesses related to country music.

Historical sites such as RCA’s famed Studio B, where famous musicians like Elvis Presley, Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings and Dolly Parton have recorded, are situated on Music Row. Country music entertainers Roy Acuff and Chet Atkins are memorialized with streets named in their honor in the area. Everything from record labels, publishing houses, recording studios, public relations firms, video production houses and radio networks are centered around 16th and 17th Avenues South (called Music Square East and Music Square West, respectively, within the Music Row area), along with several side streets. This is command central, ya‘ll. The mother lode, the heart and soul and absolute epicenter of all things country music.

Improbably, a small Eastern Orthodox Christian café and bookstore exists on the same hallowed turf that’s been the home to countless cheatin’ heart songs and the like. Spitin’ distance, you might say, from where Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Johnny Cash, Marty Robbins, Tammy Wynette, Willie Nelson, George Strait, Garth Brooks and other country music legends have roamed the streets and made their blue-collar music for the world to hear. ‘Father Partnerious’ known affectionately as ‘Father Partner’ (as in “hey there, partner”) and his wife, ‘Presbvytera Marian’, are the proprietors and pillars of this unlikely establishment on the fringe of Music Row. Like many of the buildings in the area the old house had been converted into a business. No guitars or longnecks at St. Basil Café and Books, just the ambiance of Eastern Orthodox Christianity. With calming ancient Russian and Greek hymns and chants coming from the stereo, walls of wooden saintly icons and a menu of sandwiches, hummus plates and espresso, this place is an anomaly on Music Row…to say the very least. Along with the ambience and food there also happen to be hundreds of books on the shelves that present the mystical treasures of the ancient Eastern Orthodox Church which has a history reaching back to the time of the Apostles. Like an ever-growing number of people from various backgrounds in North America these two baby boomers became interested in the Eastern Orthodox Church. After cutting their metaphysical teeth in the late 1960’s on Khalil Gibran, the Bhagavad-Gita and Buddha, they discovered this ancient faith and the rich traditions of the Eastern Orthodox Church. These two unlikely ‘truth’ seeking Americans had come to the Orthodox faith some fifteen years ago. Both successful in their respective career fields they had been drawn to this ancient practice of Orthodox Christianity through their incessant inquiry and reading of the Bible and the ‘Fathers’ of early Christianity. These ancient writings of the ‘Fathers’ came from the first three hundred years of Christianity and these men were considered to be the direct descendants of the first apostles of Christ. Attracted by the Church’s mystical vision of God and His Kingdom, the beauty of its worship, and the continuity with the past the two of them plunged into the ancient waters of Orthodox tradition. And they didn’t just get their feet wet, they got drenched. ‘Father Partnerious’ was the priestly name given Stephen Adams by the Orthodox Church. A former professor of English at UC Berkeley, Stephen did the required years of Orthodox studies and proved his commitment through rigorous spiritual disciplines to then become an Orthodox priest. It took Marian Adams, an investment banker, a little longer to come around, though. Marian’s ties to ‘old Southern money’ and the edicts of the gentrified South presented a few more problems. Icons incense and mysticism from the days of the apostles of Christ didn’t come easy. I mean, how could a former Baptist and good Southern girl believe in the existence of saints much less commune with them in prayer? Not to mention the rigorous demands of a priest’s wife. In fact, if Marian hadn’t come around then Stephen couldn’t have become a priest. The husband and wife are ‘one’ according to the teaching of Christ and the Church and together they make up a ministry. If he’d not been married, he could have proceeded on to be a priest but once married the Orthodox Church demands that husband and wife both be in on the deal. So, unlike Roman Catholic priests, the Orthodox priests can be married and have children. Which she and Father Partner have three. One was a college educated daughter, Mary, who’d recently married a young Greek Orthodox American lawyer and two boys named Robby and Ryan who were still in college. And Ryan is a ballet dancer, no less. I mean, that alone can raise a few eyebrows in the macho Deep South. Football, basketball and baseball are fine little hobbies for most Southern boys but ballet dancing? Marian and Father Partner didn’t really care where his interests lay but they have asked him the big question. And more than once. Not that they would condemn him, but they’ve always been curious. Was he gay? “Not at all,” says Ryan, “just like to dance.” Especially dancing with all the good-looking girls who study dance at the little liberal arts college he attends just up the road. Dance on then, is the way Marian and Father Partner felt about it. Dance on, sonny boy.

Chapter 35

“Of all paths a man could strike into, there is, at any given moment, a ‘best path’ for every man; a thing which, here and now, it were of all things wisest for him to do; which could he but be led or driven to do, he were then doing ‘like a man,’ as we phrase it. His success, in such case, were complete, his felicity a maximum. This path, to find this path, and walk in it, is the one thing needful for him.” Thomas Carlyle

The phone call came as Father Partner and Marian were about to close up the café and bookstore for the day. “St. Basil Café & Books,” answered the soft-spoken priest into the phone. “Mick... How are you? It’s been quite a while.” The priest paused to put a picture of the caller into his head. Momentarily, he replied. “Oh, really. When did you get in town?...I see. Are you at the Greyhound station right now?...Well, we were just closing so I could pick you up in just a little while.” The conversation continued as Marian busied herself with a few final details that she always did just before leaving. She’d douse the frankincense and myrrh incense in the porous tin incense container and then put the lid on the imported powdered Russian spice tea that was a big favorite with the regulars. It was the little things she like doing the best. Simplicity was at the essence of Eastern Orthodoxy and tastes, smells, music and beautiful spiritual art were her touchstone to the divine.

Mick waited inside the Greyhound bus terminal in downtown Nashville with a small piece of luggage and a guitar case at his feet. The usual crowd of Greyhound bus terminal patrons were sitting or milling around on the scuffed and worn linoleum floors and waiting for the next bus that would take them to those greener pastures that were always ‘someplace else.’ And so, it was that ‘someplace else’ seemed to be the perpetual prayer and mantra that lay unspoken in the air at every Greyhound bus terminal in North America. African Americans from the Mississippi delta, Georgia, Alabama and those who’d lost their homes in New Orleans were all huddled together at one end of the overcrowded terminal. And then there were the illegal Mexican immigrants and poor whites who were constantly headed for that distant land of promise that was ‘someplace else.’ With little or no education and many with circumstances that could reduce a hardened Greyhound security guard to tears, these were the ones who did the hard work. The back-breaking labor-intensive work that educated white people had long given up. Packed together into poorly ventilated buses that smelled of used baby dippers, slightly soiled adult undergarments and Big Mac’s, these bus trips were just a way of life for the hapless indigent laborer in the United States of America. Mick stood silently and pondered the plight of his fellow travelers as he gazed out the large glass windows of the bus station. And thank God for small miracles. It was Father Partner pulling up to the curb in his old green Volvo. Mick smiled for the first time in days as he picked up his meager belongings and exited the dreary bus terminal. The driver’s side window of Father Partner’s car rolled down as Mick approached and he received the soft-spoken blessing and admonition from the priest. “God bless you, Mick. Do not fear the conflict, do not flee it. Where there is no struggle there is not virtue. Where love and faith are not tempted, it is not possible to be sure if they are really present. They are tried and revealed in adversity, in difficult and grievous circumstances…. ….and, by the way, welcome back to Nashville.”

Waiting inside the St. Basil Café and Books for the return of Father Partner and his friend was PT Barnum. The snow globe performance artist of the act known as ‘The 12 Minutes of X-mas’ browsed the bookshelves when the brass bell hanging from the door knob announced the arrival of someone. The old wooden door swung open and in walked Father Partner and Mick. “Hey there, Father,” PT blurted out and smiled broadly. “Thanks for coming over, PT. This is Mick Mahoney,” said the priest in the way of introductions. “Mick use to come to the café when he was visiting Nashville a few years ago. You were doing some performing, right?” Mick nodded as the priest continued. “He just got in from Florida and could use a little help. That’s why I called you, PT.” “We can all use a little help from time to time, huh, Father?” came the good-natured retort from the performance artist. “How can I be of assistance?” “I was telling Mick about you and your wife’s situation at the Scarlet- Benson Center. That you both live and work there. Maybe you could fill him in on the place,” said Father Partner as he walked over to the espresso machine and began grinding up some beans. “I don’t know if there are any rooms available but I’m sure Mick would be willing to do some work in exchange for one.” PT considered the request and took a long look at Mick. First impressions could be very deceptive PT had always found, but in this case, he sensed something quite good about the complete stranger. Not to mention, he was particularly sensitive to fellow musicians in need. PT pointed at the guitar case, “Guitar player, huh?” “Yes, I am,” replied Mick as he set his guitar case and small bag down. “Been playing for quite a while. Unfortunately, I burned my hand pretty bad a few months ago and I haven’t been able to play lately. Which means I’m also out of money. It’s healing up good so I hope I can start gigin’ as soon as possible.” In fact, Mick had been cooking some thick strips of bacon in a large cast iron frying pan when the pan accidentally slipped from his left hand. The boiling grease splattered all over his right hand and began to fry both skin and bone like they were some fresh French fries. It was just prior to the Pine Island nightmare that Mick had been up in Boulder, Colorado and was cooking breakfast for some fellow hungry musicians when …SPLAT…came the burning, bubbling oil down on his guitar strumming and finger-picking hand. The pain was excruciating and the quickly applied ice cubes did little to sooth the throbbing sensations that came in waves. A six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, downed one after the other, helped out at the time but guitar playing was out of the question for the immediate future. And so, it was after numerous shots of espresso and a little more information from Mick that PT came up with the plan. And that plan would change everything. For everybody. “Let’s take a walk next door to the conference center, Mick. I’ll introduce you to the main man, said PT confidently. And in this case, the ‘main man’ was a woman.

Chapter 36

“I sometimes feel the thread of life is slender, And soon with me the labor will be wrought; Then grows my heart to other hearts more tender, The time is short.” Dinah M. Craik

The Very Reverend Inelle C. Chatsworth is without question the ’main man’ and enlightened leader at the Scarlet-Benson Conference Center and Retreat. This short and demure middle-aged woman is anything but short and demure in character, though. Sitting behind a big mahogany desk she eyed Mick with a penetrating gaze that could unnerve the strongest of men. PT Barnum had set up the spur-of-the-moment meeting and just as quickly disappeared. He knew who wore the pants around this place and was smart enough to lay low when it came to any decisions being made by the Reverend Inelle C. Chatsworth. “So, you’re looking for a place to stay?” came the straight to the point question from Inelle. Mick tried his best to stay calm when he suddenly remembered reading somewhere that Elvis Presley always addressed any woman as ‘Ma’am. It was a Southern thing and Elvis supposedly did it to his dying day. “Yes, Ma’am, I am. I just got back to Nashville and you sure have a beautiful place here.” Inelle nodded and looked out the windows of her large ornately furnished office. She spoke as if to a child. “You know anything about the Scarlet-Benson Center?” Mick considered telling a quick lie about how he’d heard so many good things about the place, but he decided not press his luck.” I’m sorry to say, I don’t, Ma’am. I would certainly be happy to do any kind of work you might need in exchange for a room, though.” It was then that Inelle made a strange throaty noise that sounded like she was clearing her throat or maybe it was a loud hiccup or an accidental burp. It sounded something like… BRAAAUK…and Mick had never heard a sound like it before. He tried not to act surprised as he sat there and assumed the worst. Would her condition worsen? Just his luck to have the conference center’s top administrator and head honcho innkeeper fall over with a seizure or choke to death. He also feared it might be the ominous sound of ‘no rooms here at the inn’ that preceded Joseph and Mary landing up in that cold, damp donkey stable in Bethlehem. Inelle looked back at him with that intense gaze and said with some force, “The Scarlet-Benson Center is a place of hospitality, education for Christian ministries of justice and equality, reconciliation and renewal, cooperation and interaction within the ecumenical and global context. Rooted in mission, the Center has a strong commitment to the eradication of racism, empowerment of women, education of laity, and spiritual formation.” Mick nodded his head in agreement and could only come up with the words, “I’m all for that, ma’am. Yes, I am.” He was also starting to get those sweaty palms he always got when faced with imminent danger. He’d known quite a bit of danger in his many travels and danger is danger no matter what form it takes. The current danger lay in the fact that he was down to his last thirty bucks and he desperately needed a place to stay. In this case, the danger was only in his mind. The Very Reverend Inelle C. Chatsworth sat back in her big leather swivel chair and smiled sweetly, “Welcome to Scarlet-Benson.”

Inelle C. Chatsworth’s tenure as the current head of Scarlet-Benson Center was preceded by a remarkable past of activism in the feminist movement. Some say she began her activism as a personal assistant to Gloria Steinem about the time Ms. Steinem was given a political assignment to cover George McGovern’s presidential campaign. It was that assignment which led Ms. Steinem to a position at a very prominent New York based magazine. The inside word has it that Inelle’s brilliant ideas helped Ms. Steinem to write an article about the way in which woman are forced to choose between a career and marriage. That seminal article even preceded the rise of Betty Friedan’s very important book “The Feminine Mystique” by one year. While Ms. Steinem was soon appointed a leader of the feminine movement, Inelle continued to work in the trenches for the rights of woman everywhere. Some say that the famous quote “A woman needs a man like a fish need a bicycle” is attributed to Inelle C. Chatsworth. On the other hand, Inelle has never taken credit for that or any other notable thing done in the name of feminism. Most likely it comes from her religious background and to quote the Bible “do not let the left hand know what the right is doing.” A Good Samaritan does not seek her or his own praise, and glory to God, Inelle did it her way and she’s still doing it today at Scarlet-Benson Center.

The Scarlet-Benson Center was organized in 1988 as a non-profit conference, retreat and educational center, committed to empowerment through cross-cultural understanding, education, creativity and spiritual renewal. The Center’s name honors Dr. Nathan Scarlet and Miss Belle Harris Benson, founders of the original Scarlet Bible and Training School. Initially founded in Kansas City, Missouri, the school was established for the purpose of training young women missionaries. It moved to Nashville, Tennessee in 1924, where it became Scarlet College for Christian Workers. Scarlet Hall, Bennett Hall, the Tower and the Chapel, known collectively as the Belle Benson Memorial, were built between 1924-1927 with funds raised by the Woman’s Missionary Societies and the Methodist Episcopal Church South. The Dining Hall, built at the same time, was paid for from local funds. Mr. Henry Hibbs, a Nashville architect, won national awards for his work on these buildings, which are a modified Collegiate Gothic style. The buildings were constructed from colored Crab Orchard (Tennessee rubble) stone, which was quarried in East Tennessee, and the casement windows of the original structures were imported from England. However beautiful, the Center is more than just buildings, and it was there at Scarlet that students were educated about different cultures, languages and traditions. Staff and fellow students were often from other countries and the skills and knowledge acquired on the campus equipped men and women to function in the midst of wars, famine, and severe poverty as they served in countries needing assistance, as well as in domestic situations. This began the legacy upon which the Center’s current mission was founded; promoting and advocating social justice, multi-cultural understanding and diversity awareness. Over the years this continued to be evident, keeping in stride with the changes in the country and the world, Scarlet College hosted Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who spoke in Wrightman Chapel during the civil rights movement. In addition, instruction on peaceful demonstration was held on the campus, and students from nearby schools came to Susie Grey Hall for meals, where they were able to eat side by side, regardless of skin color. In 1981, Scarlet College became Scarlet Graduate School, providing educational degrees in Church Music and Christian Education. In 1988, when the college closed, the Women’s Division of the United Methodist Church purchased the buildings and grounds, and the 10 acres became Scarlet-Benson Center, under the direction of the SBC Board. For many years Scarlet has opened its doors, welcomed and embraced people without discrimination based on racial, social, or faith issues. Today Scarlet-Benson Center remains dedicated to the legacy of Scarlet College and Scarlet Graduate School and the missionaries, educators and musicians who were trained here, by providing a haven for those seeking to gather in an environment that is nurturing and conducive to open dialogue.

And so, it was there in that nurturing and diversity awareness environment that Mick got himself a job in exchange for lodging. That very night Mick was sleeping in a warm bed and without the gigantic Great Dane dogs and alcoholic middle of the night interruptions from his old friend Ray Ragnolia down in Pine Island, Florida. The Lord does work in mysterious ways, indeed.

Chapter 37

“The most wonderful of things in life, I believe, is the discovery of another human being with whom one’s relationship has a glowing depth, beauty, and joy as the years increase. This inner progressiveness of love between human beings is a most marvelous thing, it cannot be found by looking for it or by passionately wishing for it. It is a sort of Divine accident.” Sir Hugh Walpole

The next morning found Mick, PT and his wife Dora having coffee in the little lounge on the 2nd floor of Tragg Hall. Dora and PT’s little daughter, Becca, was sprawled out on the floor and scribbling on a coloring book with some crayons. Except for PT, Dora and their child, this dormitory style hall with twenty-five rooms was empty of occupants. It was the two other former dormitories that currently housed visitors from around the country while staying at the Scarlet-Benson Center for a conference or retreat. “So here’s the drill,” said PT to Mick who was all ears. “I make coffee in the lobby every morning at six am for the guests. I put in around thirty hours a week doing that and a few other odd jobs. We actually work here as volunteers and don’t get paid. But we love it. This place is really special.” PT glanced at his wife before continuing and explained, “Dora got some money from a relative who died, so we got it pretty good as far as that goes. But we do treat it like a real job. Dora used to volunteer here when she went to school at Vanderbilt and we decided to move up from Florida about eight months ago. You can follow me around and I’ll show you how it’s all done. Pretty simple stuff and there’s a good chance we’ll be taking a trip soon so you can pick up the ball on things.” Mick nodded his head and looked at PT’s lovely wife Dora and asked, “So what do you do here, Dora?” The beautiful twenty-five-year-old brunette smiled and explained, “Well, I run the art gallery and do some marketing for the center. I write all the pamphlets and brochures and help with the fundraising. I also have a part time job at a weekly newspaper called Nashville Scene and write an occasional feature story.” The pretty young woman put her arm around her husband and smiled sweetly, “And I’m also the roadie for the snow globe man.”

The young couple had met several years prior while PT was living in Florida. At the time, Dora was working her first job as a journalist and while researching an article she found ‘the love of her life.’ PT was equally overwhelmed with Dora and they were soon married. Three years in Florida and now they were in Nashville, Tennessee. It seems the Scarlet-Benson Center had some inexplicable way of drawing interesting and complex people to its doors. And that same unfathomable force had now drawn Mick Mahoney to its hallowed grounds, as well. How long he would be at the center he didn’t know, but Mick did know that he was immensely grateful and would do whatever it took to pay back the favor. Or favors, to be more exact. Father Partner, Rev. Inelle C. Chatsworth and PT would all get their just dues if Mick had anything to do with it. And so, the young musician, in chronological order, began to repay the much-appreciated favors. It started with a dish washing job at St. Basil Café and Books where Father Partner needed some help a couple of days during the week. Mick jumped in and was soon washing the coffee mugs and spice teacups, bowls, plates, pots and pans and cooking utensils that were used in this mysterious and exotic little café. In addition to those chores, Mick was soon running the delicious meals and drinks to the waiting customers who sat at tables in the three rooms that made up the café and bookstore. It was easy work and Mick very soon began to appreciate the unique setting that he’d found himself in. Prior to his previous trip to Nashville, he knew absolutely nothing about the Eastern Orthodox religion. Whether it was fate or the hand of God or something else he knew there was a reason he had wandered into St. Basil Café & Books the first time around. He was now convinced it was the groundwork for some meaningful time he would spend with sagacious spiritual teacher and confidant, Father Partner. Mick knew there was much to learn and much to consider and he had nowhere else to go….so learn and consider he would. It all started with the beautiful hand painted religious icons that covered the walls and the smell of incense together with the stereo speakers in each room that softly played the haunting chants of the Eastern Orthodox. It was the icons, though, that Mick came to love the most.

Icon (from Greek εκών, eikon, "image") is an image, picture, or representation; In Eastern Christianity and other icon-painting Christian traditions, the icon is generally a flat panel painting depicting a holy being or object such as Jesus, Mary, saints, angels, or the cross. Icons may also be cast in metal, carved in stone, embroidered on cloth, done in mosaic work, printed on paper or metal. The Orthodox believe that the immaterial God took flesh in the form of Jesus Christ, making it possible to depict in human form the Son of God. It is on this basis that the old prescriptions against images were changed for the early Christians. Also, the concept of archetype was redefined by the early church Fathers in order to better understand that when a person shows veneration toward an image, the intention is rather to honor the person depicted, not the substance of the icon. As St. Basio the Great said, "The honor shown the image passes over to the archetype." He also illustrated the concept by saying, "If I point to a statue of Caesar and ask you 'Who is that?' your answer would properly be, 'It is Caesar.' When you say such you do not mean that the stone itself is Caesar, but rather, the name and honor you ascribe to the statue passes over to the original, the archetype, Caesar himself." So it is with an Icon.

Father Partner told Mick that he considered the icons on the walls a very powerful element in making the café and book store something of a ‘mission field.’ That along with the warm and friendly environment that he and Marian tried their best to provide to the customers. The priest knew well the old Orthodox saying that ‘the best icon of God is the human person’ so at St. Basil Café and Books there was none of the strong-arm proselytizing that went with many evangelical Christian missionary efforts. If anyone was curious about the ancient Orthodox faith they had to ask. Father Partner and Marian never said a word about their beliefs but they would be more than happy to answer any questions from the curious and mostly non-Orthodox customers. And they strongly believed the answers to those questions just might change a customer’s life forever.

Chapter 38

So long as one does not despair, so long as one doesn’t look upon life bitterly, things work out fairly well in the end. George Moore

Mick was one of those people who had questions. Some really big questions about life and death and life after death and maybe, he thought, those ancient Orthodox teachings might have some of the answers. So, while waiting for those ‘big questions’ to be answered he also picked up some extra work from the Reverend Inelle C. Chatsworth in the way of marketing. It was some ideas Mick had about bringing in more business from the near-by music community that impressed Inelle. This hook-up seemed obvious to Mick but for some reason the introductions as never been made. Maybe it was the multi-cultural and ‘diversity’ thing at the Scarlet-Benson Center that kept the country music people at arm’s length. It’s true that the early country music pioneers may have been a bit prejudiced in their attitudes toward blacks and other minorities, but the times had changed and most of Music Row was quite open, and at the very least, tolerant of minorities. Mick was convinced that the very affordable prices for rooms and the beautiful setting of Scarlet-Benson Center would be of interest to many of the music companies who had lodging needs for visiting songwriters, musicians, vendors and other music related business associates. Finally, it came PT’s turn to get some pay back. It started with Mick assisting with some more Snow Globe shows that PT was performing during the Christmas season. And there were shows almost every night leading up to Christmas Eve. Small coffee houses, nightclubs and even a show at an unlikely government building one cold grey, rainy Thursday afternoon. On the drive over to the gig, PT explained to Mick how this performance came to be. “I met this woman at one of my shows a few weeks ago. She’s putting on a Christmas luncheon for some of her co-workers. I think she told me they were prosecuting attorneys for the state or something.” She told him wrong.

PT and Mick entered the high security government building at high noon. Gun metal grey was the color of about everything in sight. PT was dressed in his cherry red pants and red sweater and carried the large folded and deflated plastic orb while Mick lugged a large black canvas bag with the small air inflation device and some other paraphernalia needed to put on the show. They were eyed suspiciously by several men in black suits who spoke in hushed voices by the elevator. “Where you going?” said one of the men to the Snow Globe Man and his Snow Globe roadie. “Uh, I think it’s on the sixth floor. I’m performing for a luncheon up there” replied PT nervously. The two men eyed the weird, folded plastic globe and the big black canvas bag and looked at each other. Terrorists? One of the men whispered something to the other and they nodded. “Yeah, we heard you were coming. You can go on up,” is all that was said. Once PT and Mick got off the elevator it only got worse. “Oh, my God” said Mick quietly after he looked around. “This place is in lock down, dude.” A rather small drab meeting room with electronic security doors and florescent lighting had been converted into a sit-down luncheon. No stage, no lights, no sound system, no nothing except for a small guitar amp that sat next to an America flag housed in a pedestal in the corner of the room. Some two dozen men and women sat at the fold up tables and ate fried chicken, barbeque beef sandwiches and baked beans off plastic plates. And these people were not having fun. In fact, they looked like they hadn’t had fun for years. If ever. Apparently, these dour looking Southerners were the backbone for some kind of witness protection program or Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms taskforce or something along those lines. Not to mention, that many of the stern looking and buffed up gentlemen wore guns on their hips. A short woman approached PT with a slightly crazed and devious look on her face. “Hi there, PT. Glad you could make it.” It was Anita Worley and the one who’d had the inane idea of having a Snow Globe performance for her fellow red, white and blue no-nonsense government associates. Whatever possessed her to have PT and his wacky and irreverent “12 Minutes of X-mas” show was never made clear. Apparently, Anita was exiting her job there at security central and wanted to leave her fellow employees with something to remember her by. Probably her way of getting back at the many years of tedious, mind numbing and unappreciated desk work, thought Mick. At least she hadn’t opened fire on everybody like some crazed postal worker and gone down in government employee infamy with a hail of gunfire and a rose between her teeth. Instead, it’ll be me and PT who’ll take the bullet, concluded Mick. Thanks, Anita, thanks for everything.

PT and Mick did make it through that gig alive but there were a couple of Snow Globe shows looming on the horizon that would alter their lives forever. And alter doesn’t really do justice to the series of circumstances that would soon follow. ‘Alter’native reality might be a better way to describe the madness to follow. It all started when Mick began to regularly walk the streets of Music Row at dusk in mid-December. Mick had grown up in Texas and developed a love of roll and roll, rhythm & blues, Tex-Mex Tejano as well as country music. His love of music was all inclusive as long as the song was well written and well performed. Rock & roll was his first love but he really enjoyed country music and, especially, the ‘old school’ country. On foot by himself, and in that rarified air on Music Row, he’d picture Hank Williams, Marty Robbins, Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline all there walking with him. It’d would start with a stroll down 16th Ave. South to where the old Country Music Hall of Fame had been located and had now moved to a new state-of-the art building some eleven blocks away in downtown Nashville. At that point, he’d come to Demonbreun Street that once was littered with down-market tourist attractions and vanity “museums” of various country music stars. These had begun to disappear in the late 1990’s after the closing of Opryland USA theme park (and subsequent reduction of tourist traffic in the area) and the announced move of the Hall of Fame. The strip sat largely vacant for a few years but had been recently redeveloped with a number of upscale restaurants and bars serving the Downtown and Music Row area. At the confluence of Demonbreun Street, Division Street, 16th Avenue South, and Music Square East is the Music Row “Roundabout" a circular intersection designed to accommodate a continuous flow of traffic. Flanking the intersection to the west is Owen Bradley Park, a very small park dedicated to notable songwriter, performer, and publisher Owen Bradley. Within the park is a life-size statue of Bradley behind a piano. Inside the roundabout is a large statue, “Musica,” depicting nude dancers. The statue was the subject of a controversy upon its 2002 unveiling, spurred by religious parenting groups, and other organizations that were offended by the portrayal of the nude human forms in the statue. The statue has largely been accepted in the community, although among locals, "Musica" is sometimes referred to as "The Nekkid Statues." At the other end of Music Row, across Wedgewood Avenue, sits the Belmont University campus, and Vanderbilt University is also adjacent to the area. Belmont is of note because of its Mike Curb College of Entertainment & Music Business (CEMB), the only college of entertainment music business in the world, and a major program in commercial music performance. Then again, there was the ‘school of hard knocks.’

Chapter 38

“If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man’s life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Nestled there between these affluent schools and trendy establishments was a honky-tonk. And we’re not talking about any just any ol’ honky-tonk, either. This Texas road-house style honky-tonk was the real deal and was called Balls. The rustic wood framed joint was the loving brainchild and personal watering hole for one of the most prominent country music managers in Nashville. His name was Berven ’Berv’ Ballsey and this was the guy who found, developed and made millions by promoting some of the biggest country music artists of the last twenty-five years. But it was a man by the name of George Stones who was his most famous client. And make no mistake about it, when an old-timer in Nashville says, King George, that’s who they’re talking about.

George ‘King George’ Stones is considered by most critics and country music purists as THE country music singer and a living legend. Known for his distinctive voice and phrasing that frequently evokes the raw emotions caused by grief, unhappy love, and emotional hardship he’s had more songs than any other singer on the country charts – 147. He has also had the most Top 40 Hits – 142 and is second to Eddy Arnold with the most Top 10 Hits – 78. Over the past twenty years, Stones has frequently been referred to as "the greatest living country singer" and "the Rolls-Royce of country singers." No less than Frank Sinatra once called him "the second best white male singer." The country music scholar Bill C. Malone writes, "For the two or three minutes consumed by a song, Stones immerses himself so completely in its lyrics, and in the mood it conveys, that the listener can scarcely avoid becoming similarly involved." Stones' alcohol and drug consumption is also the stuff of legends. For a great part of his life he woke up to a Screwdriver and spent the rest of the day drinking bourbon and snorting cocaine.

Today, King George is back in form and still performing. This time around he’s been on-the-wagon for ten years and counting and credits his current wife Nancy and current manager Berv Ballsey for rescuing him from drinking as well as cocaine consumption. Without question, every new young country music up-start in the top of the charts today would gladly take their cowboy hat off to King George. He's their ultimate country singing idol and, without doubt, the most revered country music star still living today.

And so, it happened that Mick stumbled onto Balls early one evening and just in time for a good ol’ fashioned Texas style ‘happy hour.’ The cheap draft beer, the incessant country music on the juke box and free popcorn were just what the doctored ordered. Mick was in honky-tonk heaven. And it was also on that very first night in Balls that Mick would have a chance to sit-in with a seriously good country band. The band consisted of three guys who played acoustic guitars along with a sizzling fiddle player and their harmonies were impeccable. Mick perched on a bar stool as a really big guy with long hair, a beard and a great voice began to sing a smokin’ little honky-tonk song called “A Real Fast Car.” He also happened to be the son of Berv Ballsey and was known affectionately as “Big Balls.” “WELL I’VE WORN A TUXEDO DRUNK BEER IN TOLEDO WON WITH HEADS WON WITH TAILS SPENT A NIGHT OR TWO IN JAIL I’VE EATEN FILET MIGNON I PULLED PORK FROM THE BONE BUT HONEY I’VE NEVER MET NO ONE LIKE YOU

YOU’RE PRETTY AS THE MOON AND THE SUN LIKE THE BARREL OF A SHINY NEW GUN YES HONEY YOU LOOK THAT GOOD TO ME YOU’RE FINE AS A NIGHT FULL OF STARS LIKE MY FAVORITE BAR I EVEN LOVE YOU MORE THAN I LOVE A REAL FAST CAR

WELL I’VE BEEN TO NEW YORK CITY BUT GREW UP ON CONWAY TWITTY I’VE LAID DOWN THE PERFECT BUNT BUT ON FOURTH DOWN I’VE HAD TO PUNT I’VE MADE A BUNCH OF MONEY I BEEN SO BROKE IT WASN’T FUNNY BUT HONEY I’VE NEVER MET NO ONE LIKE YOU

YOU’RE PRETTY AS THE MOON AND THE SUN LIKE THE BARREL OF A SHINY NEW GUN YES HONEY YOU LOOK THAT GOOD TO ME YOU’RE FINE AS A NIGHT FULL OF STARS LIKE MY FAVORITE BAR I EVEN LOVE YOU MORE THAN I LOVE A REAL FAST CAR

ALL I WANT TO DO AND IT’S THE GOSPEL TRUTH IS SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE LOVE LOVE LOVIN’ YOU

YOU’RE PRETTY AS THE MOON AND THE SUN LIKE THE BARREL OF A SHINY NEW GUN YES HONEY YOU LOOK THAT GOOD TO ME YOU’RE FINE AS A NIGHT FULL OF STARS LIKE MY FAVORITE GUITAR I EVEN LOVE YOU MORE THAN I LOVE A REAL FAST CAR YES I EVEN LOVE YOU MORE THAN I LOVE A REAL FAST CAR”

Mick was digging the band and had already downed a few beers at the bar courtesy of a kind man by the name of Horton C. Hooters. Horton’s father had been the official ‘pastor’ to the entertainers of the legendary Grand Ol’ Opry in the 1940‘s and 1950‘s and his insider stories of famous country stars and their sordid sin and salvation were fascinating. And so once again, Mick was encountering ‘the spiritual’ wherever he went. What did it mean? And what did it have to do with his crazy life of late? With only a cursory knowledge of Orthodox saints and their apparent ability to intercede in human affairs, Mick had a crazy thought. Maybe it was a saintly Hank Williams or Elvis Presley up there in honky-tonk heaven who was orchestrating some of the recent events in his life. And maybe, just maybe, all these seemingly random events would lead him into a full- fledged music career. Unbelievably, he had just been asked to perform his recently written song called “Elvis Says It’s Alright.” Yeah, the tune was a little tongue in cheek but who knew the difference? Or cared? It was a damn good Southern rockabilly song and Mick got up and sang it like a good ol’ Southern boy. “I DREAMED ABOUT ELVIS THE OTHER DAY FROM WAY UP YONDER I HEARD HIM SAY DON’T YOU WORRY ABOUT ME I’M ALRIGHT HE SAID PLAY YOUR GUITAR TILL THE BREAK OF DAWN SHAKE YOUR HIPS AND JUST CARRY ON AND DON’T YOU WORRY ABOUT ME I’M ALRIGHT

HE SAID RIGHT RIGHT I’M ALRIGHT DON’T YOU BE CRUEL TO YOUR BABY TONIGHT AND DON’T GET ALL SHOOK UP IT’S ALRIGHT

ITS BEEN A LITTLE WHILE SINCE HE ROCKED THIS TOWN I ASKED HIM WHAT HE’D DO IF HE WAS STILL AROUND NOW WOULD YOU BE SINGING OR RAPPING TONIGHT YOU SEE THINGS HAVE CHANGED THEY’RE NOT THE SAME AS THEY WERE BANDS AROUND HERE THEY DON’T SING ANY MORE WELL THEY CALL IT LIP SYNCHING AND IT DON’T SEEM RIGHT

HE SAID RIGHT RIGHT I’M ALRIGHT DON’T YOU BE CRUEL TO YOUR BABY TONIGHT AND DON’T GET ALL SHOOK UP IT’S ALRIGHT

HE SAID YOU KNOW YOU GOT TO GO BUT YOU DON’T KNOW WHEN SO KEEP ON ROCKIN’ TILL THE VERY END ROLL YOUR BABY ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT AND TELL HER ELVIS SAID IT’S ALRIGHT

THE VERY LAST THING THAT HE SAID TO ME GOD’S GOT A BAND IN ETERNITY AND THEY’RE ROCKIN’ THAT JOINT EVERY NIGHT HE WALKED AWAY SINGING

HE SAID RIGHT RIGHT I’M ALRIGHT DON’T YOU BE CRUEL TO YOUR BABY TONIGHT AND DON’T GET ALL SHOOK UP IT’S ALRIGHT

It was his conversation with Horton C. Hooters, and a friend of Berv’s, that had gotten Mick invited to sit-in with the accomplished musicians who played four nights a week in the corner of the bar and…BINGO… Mick’s songwriting and well played guitar licks, not to mention his good vocals, made him some friends in a hurry. Including a little later at the bar, King George’s manager and the owner of the honky-tonk, Berv Ballsey. “You can sing and play that damn guitar, man. Like the song about Elvis, too,” said Berv after hearing Mick sit in with the other accomplished musicians. “Thanks. Coming from you that’s a real compliment,” replied Mick sincerely. “I’m a huge fan of King George’s, too,” he added. And that’s all it took. Mick was now rubbing elbows with the country music ‘in-crowd’ and no less than the manager of King George was buying him a beer. The Lord does work in mysterious ways. Even in honky-tonks.

Chapter 39

“This above all: To thine own self be true.” William Shakespeare

And it wasn’t just in honky-tonks those mysterious ways were manifesting. Mick was about to have the amazing good fortune of meeting one of the original, if not the original, ’outlaws’ of country music. His name was Cowboy Jack Lement and he lived in a sprawling house that doubled as a recording studio and musical fraternity house for both famous and up-and-coming singers, songwriters and musicians. Night or day the three-story wood frame abode was always jumpin’ with men and women in recording sessions, video shoots, impromptu living room jams and other musical endeavors. And the common denominator in all those creative activities was to have fun. According to Cowboy Jack, “If you ain’t havin’ fun, what’s the point?” Cowboy Jack was something of a legend in his own time and had begun his career as a recording engineer at Sun Studios in Memphis in the1950’s. He’d also performed on stage with Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash and others. And the brilliant man was the consummate jack-of-all trades in the entertainment biz. Just some of those skills included his genius as a musician, singer/songwriter, ballroom dancer, filmmaker, recording studio designer, and most importantly, a recording engineer and ace record producer. Cowboy Jack would eventually make his way to Nashville and, among other things, produced hit songs and albums for the first African American major label country recording artist, Charlie Pride. And that was something that most Southern men of sound mind would never have attempted in the late 1960’s and 1970‘s. A black man singing country songs for red necks? The idea alone, to some people, should have gotten Cowboy Jack laughed out of the country music business not to mention shot in the back. Then again, Cowboy Jack pulled it off with great success and Charlie Pride became a massive country superstar.

Mick was on an early evening walk through Music Row when the eccentric and congenial man waved from the front porch of his house. He sat in a wooden swing and held a small ukulele in his hands. “You looking for my recording studio?” Cowboy Jack called out. Mick walked over and shook his head. “No sir, I’m not.” “Sorry. I’m waiting on a guy who’s never been here, and I thought you might be him,” explained Cowboy Jack. “What kind of studio you got?” “Your basic recording studio. You a musician?” queried Cowboy Jack. “Yes I am.” “What do you play?” “Guitar.” That was all it took. Cowboy Jack got up out of the porch swing and pointed into the house. “Come on in. I need another picker.” “I don’t have my guitar.” “Hell, man. I got more guitars than Ford has cars.” Mick had no clue who the guy was but then again, the wily old dude had a recording studio and a guitar for him to play. What else does a musician need? Cowboy Jack stood at the front door and smiled big. “Got a hunch about you, man. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” It seems Cowboy Jack’s hunches had turned into some of the biggest successes in the history of both rock and roll and country music. Mick was now officially ‘on a roll.’ The magical doorkeeper of the country music capital of the world was opening his doors to the down on his luck and out of work young musician.

Country music (or country and Western) is a blend of traditional and popular musical forms traditionally found in the Southern United States and the Canadian Maritimes that evolved rapidly beginning in the 1920s. The term country music gained popularity in the 1940s when the earlier term hillbilly music came to be seen as denigrating. The term country music is used today to describe many styles and subgenres. Country music has produced two of the top selling solo artists of all time. Elvis Presley, who was known early on as “the Hillbilly Cat” and was a regular on the radio program Louisiana Hayride, went on to become a defining figure in the emergence of rock and roll. Beginning in the mid-1950s, and reaching its peak during the early 1960s, the Nashville sound turned country music into a multimillion-dollar industry centered in Nashville, Tennessee. Under the direction of producers such as Chet Atkins, Owen Bradley and later Billy Sherrill, the sound brought country music to a diverse audience and helped revive country as it emerged from a commercially fallow period. This subgenre was notable for borrowing from 1950s pop stylings: a prominent and "smooth" vocal, backed by a string section and vocal chorus. Instrumental soloing was de- emphasized in favor of trademark "licks". Leading artists in this genre included Patsy Cline, Jim Reeves and Eddy Arnold. The "slip note" piano style of session musician Floyd Cramer was an important component of this style. Nashville's pop song structure became more pronounced and it morphed into what was called coutrypolitan. And this music was aimed straight at mainstream markets and it sold well throughout the later 1960s into the early 1970s. Top artists included Tammy Wynette and Charlie Rich. Contemporary country musician Garth Brooks, with 123 million albums sold, is the top best-selling solo artist in U.S. history. But all that good country music pales in comparison to the eccentric sounds of PT Barnum crooning his re-vamped kitschy version of Irving Berlin’s “White Christmas” in that beer guzzling honky-tonk called Balls. And here’s how that unlikely event came to be.

Chapter 40

“For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.” Ralph Waldo Emmerson

It seems the Nashville music industry is still a pretty tight knit group of folks and word got around that Mick had recorded at Cowboy Jack’s recording studio. Not once, but three times had Mick been asked back to play guitar and sing background vocals. If Cowboy Jack was impressed with Mick, then that about said it all. Berv Ballsey had also heard this news and was becoming equally impressed with the young musician, too. After a week of sitting-in with the house band at Balls, Mick had become familar with the club owner. It was a couple of beers and a shot of tequila late one night that gave Mick the courage to make the crazy suggestion. “I think I got a pretty interesting act for your bar, Berv.” The big shot music manager was always getting suggestions, requests and come-ons from promising artists, songwriters, and a multitude of others. He’d usually smile and nod his head and say nothing. Not this night. “Who is it?” asked Berv. “It’s a guy who does a really interesting Christmas type show. Not very long, either. He calls it “The 12 Minutes of X-mas” and it’s really cool,” was the pitch from Mick. As fate would have it, Berv was in an unusually good mood and seemed to take to the idea. “How about tomorrow night?” came his matter- of-fact response.

So, it came to pass that PT Barnum was actually inside his clear plastic snow globe in the crowded honky-tonk the next night and singing in a German accent, “…I’m dreaming of a white X-mas, just like the one’s I used to know...” and it was like something out of a weird and wonderful Coen brothers’ film as the hard-core country music lovers looked on in utter amazement. “And may your days be merry and bright and may all your X-mas’ be white,” belted PT as he dipped down and flung some fake snow up against the walls of the clear plastic orb. Mick stood at the crowded bar next to Berv and waited for some kind or response. Finally, it came. “What the hell is he doing?” snorted Berv in disbelief. “It’s called performance art, Berv,” responded Mick in the way of an explanation. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it,” replied Berv. And neither had the crowd. At first, they watched in silence with mouths open and eyes wide. It was shortly after the first two minutes of “The 12 Minutes of X-mas” that the first beer bottle was thrown…THUD… was the muted sound as it hit and bounced off the clear plastic orb. And then it was, …THUD…THUD…THUD…THUD…as more longnecks rained down on the rubbery globe. PT, for his all his bravado, was beginning to look a little frightened inside the globe but kept on singing anyway. “Now that’s funny,” Berv stated and smiled. “I don’t know, Berv, things might be getting a little out of control,” Mick replied worriedly as he watched the drunken crowd and the beer bottles flying across the room. “Naw, it’s just their way of saying they like it,” was the way Berv explained it. Mick on the other hand was starting to have some serious reservations about bringing PT and his Snow Globe act over to Balls. And then it happened. From across the room came the man himself. Like Moses coming down from the mountain, King George suddenly appeared and strode up to the plastic snow globe and held up his hand. The beer bottles stop flying and all became still. King George had calmed the crazed crowd and that was that. There were approximately eight minutes left in “The 12 Minutes of X-mas” show and they were performed bottle free and without a hitch and all due to the respect that only King George could command. So much for the first performance of “The 12 Minutes of X-mas” by the Snow Globe Man at Balls.

But ‘lo and behold’ an unlikely second performance was about to be proposed. And it was at the personal invitation of King George himself that PT got invited to perform “The 12 Minutes of X-mas” again at Balls. “Helleva act you got there, son,” said King George to PT a little later that night at the bar. “Thanks. I wasn’t really sure how it was going over to be honest,” replied PT sincerely. “Hell, those people really liked it. Honestly. Some of my best shows have been bombarded with beer bottles” said King George as he took a sip of coffee and smiled. “Now here’s the deal. I’d really like you to come back tomorrow night and do your show again. In fact, I’d like it so much I’m willing to pay you a thousand dollars.” PT looked shocked by the offer. Up to that point no one had ever paid him, or had he asked, for compensation for his performance/art act. “Well, sure. I’d be more than happy to do the show again,” was PT’s grateful answer. “Just one thing, though,” continued King George, “I’d really like to get inside that bubble myself and do a few songs. I mean, after you’re done with your act.” PT considered the idea and nodded his head. “Yeah, that’d be fine. You want to do my songs, too?” “No, son. After your little act, I’ll have my band accompany me while I sing some of my hits inside the bubble.” And that was that. This now promised to be one extra special and exceptional Christmas Eve to remember. Or forget. It all depended on how you felt about King George singing some country songs inside a clear plastic snow globe.

Chapter 41

“Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake.” Victor Hugo

Night fell on Music Row in Nashville, Tennessee and it was Christmas Eve. The brightly lit ‘cowboy boot’ neon sign was glowing above the entrance to Balls as a crowd of people waited in line at the front door. Inside, the joint was about as packed as it had ever been. Word had gotten out that King George was going to perform some songs tonight and every good Nashville country music lover worth his cowboy boots and buckle was there. And so were PT, Dora and Mick. They’d set up the plastic orb in the corner of the over-crowded room and were about to inflate it with the small air pump that was powered from an AC wall socket. “Now don’t forget to unzip the globe when I give the signal. That or I die,” said PT sardonically. “Yes, I know, PT. How many times do you have to tell me?” replied Dora with a little attitude herself. For the final show of the year she’d taken over the snow globe roadie duties from Mick. It had been her job all along and she was more than a little grateful to Mick for picking up those duties for the last few weeks. Mick watched on with amusement. He knew these two were completely in love with each other but after some years the familiarity and that ‘take it for granted’ thing begins to set in. As with many other couples some of those quirky little things you loved when you first met, can now just piss you off. PT and Dora never argued but, on occasions, they did know how to get under each other’s skin when they wanted to. PT crawled into the deflated orb as a plastic piece of tubing, about the size and length of a vacuum cleaner hose, was inserted into the orb. The tubing was connected to the air inflation pump which was then turned on by Dora. After a moment, the machine began pumping air into the orb as Dora pulled down on the heavy-duty size metal zipper that sealed up the one-half inch thick and puncture proof plastic that made it nearly air-tight. When the orb was overly inflated, she’d pull the tube out and zip it completely shut. Because of the grating sound made by the air inflation pump it was then turned off. It was now totally air-tight in the orb. Totally. PT always made light of this fact, but the truth is that anybody in the orb for more than fifteen minutes, without fresh air, would suffocate from oxygen starvation. Since PT’s act was only twelve minutes long they could safely pull the air tube out. There had never been any glitches and with Dora outside the globe there was no reason to worry. And for the second time there at Balls, PT performed “The 12 Minutes of X-mas.” It went about the same as the night before but with only two beer bottles thrown at the globe this time around. After all, it was Christmas Eve and everybody was in a damn fine festive mood and they were about to hear, arguably, the greatest country music entertainer of all time. The stage was now set for King George.

This highly unusual and free Christmas Eve appearance by the country music legend was going to be something very special. And everybody knew it. Someone in the crowd began the chant, “King George…King George…King George….” and it was picked up by others, “King George…King George…King George….” and then he appeared. It was like the Red Sea parting as King George made his way through the crowd and toward the corner of the room where PT, Dora and Mick all waited. “How ya’ll doing?” the country music superstar said with a big smile to the well-wishers as he passed. “Glad you could make it,” he spoke while continuing to elbow his way through the tightly packed throng of admirers. And boy was he dressed for the occasion. King George wore a flashy custom ‘Manuel’ designed rhinestone half jacket and cowboy boots and, dang it, you knew you were in the presence of country music royalty now. Finally, King George got to the corner of the room and was greeted by PT. “How are you, King George? You ready to get inside?” King George gave a little wave to his band members that had set up their amps and the drums along the side of the wall. He then turned to PT and smiled. “Sure am, son. I watched what you did last night but you got to walk me through it again. Now how do I get in that damn thing?” “Well, I’ll open it down here and then you just crawl in. Once you’re inside I’ll hand you your guitar and there’s a microphone on a stand already in there. It won’t take long for the globe to inflate and then you can stand up. Set the microphone in place and you’ll be good to go. I’ll pull the air tube out and zip it tight and then you’re on your own. Just signal me when you want me to unzip the globe and I’ll let you out. Remember now, no more than fifteen minutes. You’ll be out of air at that point,” said PT in the way of instructions. “By the way, I got this bag with some stuff I want to take in there, too,” said King George as he handed over a rumbled brown bag to PT. The country music giant then waved again to the delirious fans that had moved in close and yelled, “Merry Christmas, ya’ll.” King George went down to his knees and prepared to enter the deflated plastic orb. A very large woman in a bright orange dress and wearing an old fashion straw hat was almost hysterical as she also fell to her knees and reached out and declared, “I love you King George.” The country legend pulled a piece of paper and a pen out of his jacket pocket and quickly wrote something on it and handed it to her. Autographs were just a way of life for country stars and King George had signed thousands upon thousands in his time. Berv Ballsey then appeared next to the woman and he too got down on his knees and patted King George on the shoulder and spoke in his ear. “I love you, buddy, you’re the best,” he said reassuringly. PT pulled the plastic opening apart and King George slowly crawled into the deflated snow globe. Halfway in he reached back, and PT handed him his brown paper bag, and for a moment, it almost looked like King George was praying. There on his knees, the legendary country music superstar bowed his head and paused as the crowd urged him on. “Get in that bubble, King George!” “Sing us some songs, King George,” and so forth and so on. PT waited patiently and when King George finally looked up and nodded, he handed him his beautiful custom-made Gibson guitar with a leather guitar strap that read in big sparkling letters KING GEORGE. And those inlayed little Stones that ran the edge of the hand tooled lettering weren’t no costume jewelry, either. Those were genuine rubies and diamonds and what else would you expect from the King of Country Music? Little by little the globe inflated as the crowd went wild with shouts and screams, “Go get ‘em King George!”, “You’re the man, man!” and the band cranked up and began to play the intro to a gutbucket country song. All eyes watched as King George rose to his feet and strapped on his guitar. And there he was in the Snow Globe. With his outrageous rhinestone jacket reflecting little beams of light into the crowd, King George grinned and began to strum his guitar. Momentarily, he started to sing one of his biggest hits called “A Woman Knows.” “HOW CAN YOU JUST STAND THERE AND ACT LIKE NOTHINGS WRONG YOU HAVEN’T EVEN KISSED HER OR HELD HER FOR SO LONG THERE’S NO LIPSTICK ON YOUR COLLAR THERE’S NO PERFUME ON YOUR CLOTHES THERE’S NO NUMBER ON A MATCHBOOK BUT A WOMAN ALWAYS KNOWS

A WOMAN KNOWS WITHOUT ASKING A WOMAN KNOWS WHAT’S LEFT UNSAID A WOMAN KNOWS WHEN HER MAN’S BEEN SLEEPING IN SOMEONE ELSE’S BED….”

The crazed crowd had encircled the globe and the joint was jumpin’ and all was right in the world until King George stopped singing. The band was really jammin’ when King George suddenly reached down and pulled an unopened pint of Jack Daniel’s whiskey out of the brown paper bag. He twisted off the top and took a long deep slug. And another. And still another. Back at the bar Berv Ballsey watched in horror. “Oh, my God,” he said to a couple of really big cowboys standing next to him. “He’s drinking again! Look at that. He’s drinking again.” And that wasn’t all. King George reached deeper into the brown bag and pulled out a small vial full of white powder. After taking the top off the bottle he poured some of the white powder onto the rim of his guitar and leaned down and took a good snort. He poured a little more white powder out and took another. “Shit. He’s got some cocaine in there, too,” Berv exclaimed as he brought his fist down hard on the bar. “What the hell’s gotten into him?” King George put the bottle of whiskey and vial of cocaine back into the paper bag and dropped them to the ground. Without missing a beat, he began to sing again, “SHE DON’T HAVE ALL THE ANSWERS AND SHE DON’T HAVE A CLUE BUT IN HER HEART SHE KNOWS YOU FOUND SOMEBODY NEW

A WOMAN KNOWS WITHOUT ASKING A WOMAN KNOWS WHAT’S LEFT UNSAID A WOMAN KNOWS WHEN HER MAN’S BEEN SLEEPING IN SOMEONE ELSE’S BED…”

Once again, he stopped singing and reached down and picked up the brown paper bag. King George quickly finished off the half empty pint and just as quickly opened another pint and took a big hit off that one, too. As the band continued to vamp to the same song, King George dusted the rim of his guitar with some more cocaine and he had a snort. It seemed King George was not only off-the-wagon, he was officially ‘off his rocker.’ It was after more whiskey and cocaine and vamping that PT began to get worried. He leaned in against the orb and waved at King George. No response from the drunken, coked-up senior citizen superstar. King George was having a ball and wasn’t paying a bit of attention to PT or anyone else for that matter. PT looked at his watch and knew it was time. Time to open the globe and get some air in there. Reaching down PT pulled on the big metal zipper. It didn’t budge. He frantically pulled again but the zipper was stuck. How the hell did that happen? Thought PT. It never sticks and why wasn’t it opening? Inside the globe, King George was still going strong although he was beginning to wobble. No doubt the booze and the drugs and the lack of oxygen were beginning to take their toll. PT pounded on the globe again and yelled at the top of lungs, “You got to come out, King George!” as simultaneously someone else next to him started pounding on the globe. It was Berv Ballsey and he shouted, “Get the hell out of there George!” It had been well over the fifteen-minute limit and the known threshold that a person could exist in the orb without fresh air. Berv glared at PT and screamed, “Get him out of there! Now!” “The zipper’s stuck. I can’t get it to open!” PT yelled back as Berv looked toward the bar and waved hysterically. “Get me a knife!” The band was still really into it and the crowd was loving it when King George wobbled some more and then fell to his knees. He pulled the microphone down and sang into it in a wheezy voice, “WHEN YOU REFUSE TO TALK ABOUT IT IN YOUR SILENCE HER SUSPICION GROWS YOU DON’T HAVE TO PAINT A PICTURE SOMEHOW A WOMAN KNOWS YOU DON’T HAVE TO PAINT A PICTURE SOMEHOW A WOMAN KNOWS…”

And then he collapsed. King George fell face down as the band stopped and Berv pounded on the orb and PT tried again and again to open the zipper. It was too late. The greatest country singer, who ever lived, now lay dead inside the snow globe.

Chapter 42

“Behind him lay the Grey Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores; Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: “Now must we pray, For lo! The very stars are gone. Brave Adm’r’l, speak; what shall I say? “Why, say: ‘Sail on! sail on! and on! “My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly, wan and weak.” The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. “What shall I say, brave Adm’r’l, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?” “Why, you shall say at break of day: ‘Sail on! sail on! and on! They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: “Why, now not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas in gone. Now speak, brave Adm’r’l; speak and say- He said: “Sail on! sail on! and on!” They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: “This mad sea shows his teeth tonight. He curls his lip, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brae Adm’r’l, say but one good word: What shall we do when hope is gone?” The words leapt like a leaping sword: “Sail on! sail on! sail on! And on!” Then, pale and worn, he paced his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck A light! A light! At last a light! It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson: “On! Sail on!” Joaquin Miller

It was pure pandemonium and oddly reminiscent of Dealy Plaza in Dallas, Texas just moments after President John F. Kennedy was gunned down. Women wept and big hard men tried to fight back tears when the news came. Berv Ballsey had managed to cut open a slit in the thick rubbery plastic and pull the lifeless body of King George out from the orb. After checking for a pulse and signs of life, Berv made the tragic announcement. “He’s dead, ya’ll. King George is dead.” The grief in the room was now about as thick as the cigarette smoke and people were just plain torn up. But some were angry. Really angry. “Where’s that son-of-a-bitch who put him in that bubble?” growled Berv to the two really big cowboys who’d been with him at the bar. They stood at attention next to Berv and were, in fact, his very own personal bodyguards. Years of cutthroat music business wheeling and dealing had called for some protection. These two ex-Special Forces soldiers were always hovering around the big-time music manager and, without thought, would follow his any orders. Including and not limited to putting a bullet in someone’s brain. “I want some blood spilled on these floors. His!” came the command and bitterly vindictive words from Berv as he pointed across the room at PT. Fortunately for PT, he was at the other end of the bar where he had watched the aftermath of the tragedy in stunned shock and terror. Someone else in the crowd pointed at PT and yelled out, “That’s him. That’s the guy who put King George in that bubble.” Heads turned as the two really big cowboys pushed their way through the crowd in PT’s direction. That’s all it took. PT turned and ran as fast as he could toward the exit sign when someone else yelled, “He’s running. Stop him somebody!” It was too late as PT pushed open the exit door and disappeared into the dark alley outside. The two big cowboys were right behind him. PT was soon sprinting like a frightened calf from the rope of a rodeo rider and his fleet footed calf-roping horse. The night was dark and the old wood framed houses passed in a blur as he reached the end of the alley and stared back breathlessly. Running up the alley as fast as they could were the two big cowboys with several other guys following right behind. PT looked around and made the split-second decision to jump a near-by fence. It was very dark in the foliage invested backyard of the creepy looking old two-story house that rose up before PT. As luck would have it there was an old car parked smack dab in the back yard. It was a vintage 1941 two tone black and white Buick and it looked like it probably hadn’t been driven for at least fifty years. The tires were all flat and the big, dented body was weathered and worn. Little did PT know it, but this very car once belonged to a man that drove country legend Hank Williams from gig to gig throughout the South. And of all things it was this rusted old vintage Buick that would provide a safe haven and means of escape. The windows of the old car were broken out so it made it easy for him to crawl inside. PT quickly lay down on the floorboard of the antique vehicle and waited for the big cowboys and whatever retribution they had in mind. Hard drinkin’ Ol’ Hank may have gone through some rough times in that car…. but he had nothing on the Snow Globe Man.

But back to Balls. It was now a crime scene. That’s right, a big-time crime scene and hot breaking entertainment related national news story. The Nashville police detectives had showed up almost immediately after the 911 call came in and quickly determined there had been a crime. Not an accident, mind you, but a malicious and premeditated deadly crime. As in the crime of murder. Forty-five-year-old homicide Detective Bob Brouchard had found the incriminating evidence almost immediately. Right there in the crevices of the metal zipper on the side of the plastic orb was some dried clear glue. “Look at this,” said Bob to his younger Hispanic partner, Detective Raul Hernandez. “Got some kind of glue in this zipper,” was the observation that immediately turned the unfortunate and bizarre tragedy into a full-blown murder investigation. It was also the small tube of the superglue that lay at the base of the globe that made it obvious something afoul had taken place there. “Who zipped this thing up after King George got in it?” was the number one question of the hour from Detective Hernandez. “They say it was a guy who puts on some kind of artsy Christmas show. He’s the snow globe man or some kind of crap like that. Apparently, he did his routine and then King George followed him. From what I’ve been told the snow globe guy zipped up the globe and stood back and watched. Might be psychopathic death freak, you know? Watching a man suffocate gets you off or something like that. Pretty damn pathetic,” was the jaded observation from Detective Brouchard. “Could be a crazed publicity nut, too. Kind of like the guy who killed John Lennon. This guy knew it would be a big story. Really big. Can you hear the TV news camera helicopters overhead? That’s just the beginning,” was the accurate assessment of the case from Detective Hernandez. “Who’d a thought you could kill a man with some superglue? And especially someone like King George. That guy’s been through it all. Tough as nails I’ve heard. Just when you think you’ve seen it all, huh? ” was the final word from Detective Brouchard. No doubt some lurid tabloid headline would soon read something like:

SNOWMAN SUFFOCATES COUNTRY GIANT WITH THE HELP OF SUPERGLUE!

Superglue is a substance called cyanoacrylate that was discovered by Dr. Harry Coover while working for Kodak Research Laboratories to develop an optically clear plastic for gun sights in 1942. Coover rejected cyanoacrylate because it was too sticky. In 1951, cyanoacrylate was rediscovered by Coover and Dr Fred Joyner. Coover was now supervising research at the Eastman Company, and of all places, in Tennessee. Coover and Joyner were researching a heat-resistant acrylate polymer for jet canopies when Joyner spread a film of ethyl cyanoacrylate between refractometer prisms and discovered that the prisms were glued together. Coover finally realized that cyanoacrylate was a useful product and in 1958 the Eastman compound #910 was marketed and later packaged as superglue. · Asphyxia is a condition of severely deficient supply of oxygen to the brain that arises from being unable to breathe normally. Asphyxia causes generalized hypoxia, which primarily affects the tissues and organs most sensitive to hypoxia first, such as the brain, hence resulting in cerebral hypoxia. Asphyxia is usually characterized by air hunger, but this is not always the case; the urge to breathe is triggered by rising carbon dioxide levels in the blood rather than diminishing oxygen levels. Sometimes there is not enough carbon dioxide to cause air hunger, and victims become hypoxic without knowing it. This may occur, for example, if the oxygen in the air of an enclosed space is displaced by a large amount of inert gas. In any case, the absence of effective remedial action will very rapidly lead to unconsciousness, brain damage and death.

The bottom line is that the time to death is dependent on the particular mechanism of asphyxia and, in this case, you might call it …good ol’ fashioned snow globe asphyxia. And tragically that’s how it all went down on that fateful Christmas Eve at the Nashville honky-tonk known as Balls. And leave it to country music legend King George to go out in style and go out…. singing.

Chapter 43

“I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.” Alfred Tennyson

It was now a little after midnight on Christmas day morning and PT was still lying in the back seat of the vintage 1941 Buick. Fortunately for him, those big cowboys had failed to look in the back seat of the car after one of then climbed over the fence in search of the Snow Globe Man. The last harrowing hour in the car continue to play out in his head like a Hollywood thriller. “You see him, Bobby Ray?” called out Tommy Lee as he peered over the fence from the alley. Several other men stood next to him and stared into the dark, “Naw, man, but I saw come in here,” replied Bobby Ray who had climbed over the fence and was rummaging around in the dark back yard. “I think he got out of there. We’re gonna look down the street,” yelled Tommy Lee as he and the other men ran off. Bobby Ray took another good look around and made his way back to the fence and climbed over. PT was apparently safe from harm for the time being. For how long he didn’t know, so it was in that cold and damp old Buick that he decided to stay.

Two hours later and still prone on his back, PT finally decided to turn his cell phone back on. Turning it off had been a no-brainer since his personal ring tone with Bob Dylan’s classic song “Leopard Skin Pill-Box Hat” would, no doubt, have given his whereabouts away. Momentarily, the little lights flickered on the cell phone and he punched out a number. “Dora? It’s me,” spoke PT quietly. “Some guys chased me and I’ve been hiding out in a car up the alley from the bar,” he said before getting the ominous report from Dora. “Oh, my God. They what? They think I killed him? That’s crazy, how could I have killed King George?…Superglue? Where?…Oh my God, in the zipper? No wonder it wouldn’t open.” PT listened to more of the mind-numbing news from his wife as he began to get a nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was that queasy, acidic churning like sensation in the gut that one gets when they’ve just heard about the worst possible news that one could possibly hear. “How did they know where we live?” he asked and waited for answers. “Yeah, I guess you had to tell them. They would have found out anyway,” PT said with a sigh upon learning that both Dora and Mick had been questioned by the police detectives. Just a half an hour ago as a matter of fact. They’d told the truth and now the police were looking everywhere for the Snow Globe Man. And that included every nook and cranny in every building there at the Scarlet-Benson Center. Couldn’t they have said he was passing through town with a snow globe act or something? Thought PT. I mean this was Nashville and how many touring musicians came and went from this city? You know, George Strait, Reba McIntire, Alan Jackson, Martina McBride, Brooks & Dunn, Kenny Chesney, Tim McGraw, Faith Hill and, yeah, even the Snow Globe Man. Road dogs, all of them. It was all too much to fathom and PT had some hard choices to make as he lay there in the back of that vintage 1941 Buick. Should he just turn himself in and let the police sort it out? Or was he in so deep that he’d be tried and found guilty by virtue of being the last man to seal up the fatal snow globe? For now, though, he had to figure out how to get out of the old Buick and not get caught in the process. Surely those big cowboys would give up the chase eventually, right? Then again, he had no idea how big the chase had become. Tennessee manhunt big. Bring on those dogs, ya’ll, we got a runner here.

The Chief of Police, Robert ’Bubba’ Murdock, divided his description of police-media access relations in Nashville as "Before Bubba and After Bubba." Before Bubba became Police Chief in 2003, "Public affairs was a black hole," he stated. "No information on anything good or bad. The philosophy was, don't tell." After Bubba, of course, there had been more access to records and police meetings than ever before. "I believe it has created more good will in the city,'' Bubba said warmly. “People have become more familiar with the police and how they work." At least that’s what Bubba told the small but growing crowd of reporters and media types in the public relations room of the downtown Nashville police department. Bubba’s trusted aide and public relations officer, Lt. Luke Lewis, also spoke into the microphone that sat on the table in front of the two men. He went on to echo Bubba’s assessment and said the mission of the police departments public information section is to "be as transparent as possible to the public." Apparently, the two law enforcement officers were trying to lay the groundwork for what would certainly become a major media story and a national spotlight on the Nashville police department. Lt. Lewis’s tone, though, was gradually becoming a little harsher and it appeared that this was going to be one of those ‘good cop, bad cop’ acts. Chief Bubba being the benevolent good cop and Lt. Lewis the bad cop. And with that established, Lt. Lewis went on to say “that under current statutes or policies in Davidson County, Tennessee, officials have 5-7 days to respond to a request for information release, so nothing is going to be gained by filing a freedom of information act request. And, oh yeah, there was one other thing. He and Bubba also subscribed to a policy of "maximum discretion and minimum mandatory release." Say what? Did that mean what it sounded like? Most of the dog-tired but vigilant reporters gathered there in the police department on that early Christmas morning suspected it did. Lt. Lewis seemed to be telling them to back off. A very stern looking Lt. Lewis went on to stress the Nashville police departments protocol on how to handle news media during a hostage/barricade crisis or something similar. And in this situation, it had raised concerns about the incident's perimeter as well as the prospect of helicopter traffic that not only makes it more difficult for commanders on the ground to hear the suspect or each other but could compromise tactical positions if the air shot is broadcast live. Lt. Lewis was equally blunt about the number one motivator of the TV news business: money. According to Lt. Lewis, “the average news spot is 90 seconds, with an in-depth report perhaps 20 or 30 seconds longer. News directors demand more pieces, sacrificing quality for quantity.” And that was that. The two determined looking police officers rose from the table and walked out of the room. It was now time to apprehend the Snow Globe Man and, most likely, the killer of country music legend King George. In other words, stay the hell out of our way here in Nashville, ya‘ll.

Chapter 44

“Never give up! If adversity presses, Providence wisely has mingled the cup, And the best counsel, in all your distresses, Is the stout watchword of “Never give up.” Martin F. Tupper

Dora sat in the 2nd floor lounge of Bragg Hall and cried as Mick sat next to her silently and stared down into a cup of coffee. She tried to fight back the tears but they just kept coming. This uncontrolled emotion was really most uncommon for the thoughtful young woman. But the tears came anyway. And lots of them. Dora was bewildered and the man she loved was now suspected of murder and why had she let PT talk her into coming to Nashville? Their life back in Florida had been quiet and simple but perfect. She’d come to love the simple life and she missed their friends back there terribly. If only she’d have been insistent and not let him talk her into moving to Nashville, Tennessee. Having graduated from Vanderbilt University in Nashville she’d come to love the city they called ‘little big town’ but there were other extenuating circumstances that greatly concerned her about moving back there. And now there was this madness exploding all around her husband.

Nashville is the capitol of Tennessee and the county seat of Davidson County. It is located on the Cumberland River in Davidson County, in the north-central part of the state. The city is a center for the health care, music, publishing, banking and transportation industries, and is home to a large number of colleges and universities.

Nashville was founded by James Robertson, John Donelson, and a party of Wataugans in 1779, and was originally called Fort Nashborough, after the American Revolutionary War hero Francis Nash. Nashville quickly grew because of its prime location, accessibility as a river port, and its later status as a major railroad center. In 1806, Nashville was incorporated as a city and became the county seat of Davidson County, Tennessee. In 1843, the city was named the permanent capital of the state of Tennessee. By 1860, when the first rumblings of secession began to be heard across the South, antebellum Nashville was a very prosperous city. The city's significance as a shipping port made it a desirable prize as a means of controlling important river and railroad transportation routes.

It was the advent of the Grand Ole Opry in 1925, combined with an already thriving publishing industry, that positioned it to become "Music City USA" and in the early 1960s the city was home to the main activity of the 1960s Civil Rights Movement. In 1963, Nashville consolidated its government with Davidson County and thus became the first major city in the United States to form a metropolitan government Since the 1970s, the city has experienced tremendous growth, particularly during the economic boom of the 1990s under the leadership of Mayor Phil Bredsen, who made urban renewal a priority, and fostered the construction or renovation of several city landmarks, including the Country Music Hall of Fame, the Nashville Public Library downtown, the Bridgestone Arena, and LP Field.

Although not a country music singer, Dora knew how much her husband loved music and this was truly one of the music capitols of the world. Country music was king but rock, ‘Americana,’ contemporary Christian and even R&B had a home here. And then there were the musicians. No doubt, the Nashville music community had ‘pound for pound’ some of the finest players in the world. She also knew her husband desperately wanted to surround himself with that caliber of musician. It was odd but PT’s desire to be in Nashville was not predicated on being famous or even becoming wealthy but just being able to record some obscure albums and perform his cutting-edge performance/art musical acts for those with ‘eyes to see and hears to hear.’ In fact, he’d done some simple recordings on the Florida coast of German polka songs and fused them with a reggae groove. I mean, he’d grown up in Milwaukee and heard his fair share of German beer drinking songs at many an Oktoberfest. And to top it off he took the poems of ancient Jewish poets and adapted them for lyrics to several songs. Yore ben Yose from the fifth century, Elazar ben Kallir from the sixth century and Rabbi Abraham Abulafi from the twelfth century. And there was the old Steve Miller Band song “Gangster of Love” that also got the polka reggae treatment. And with a new title and words, “I’m a Baader-Meinhof Gangster of Love.” Wacky and wonderful and totally inspired were the ten songs and he even put them on-line at a few obscure music sites. He called the eclectic offering, PT Barnum & His Kosher Island Polka.

How many times had PT told her that there was “room for him in the waste land of today’s trivial and inconsequential entertainment biz.” I mean, he had real ideas that related to everything from the artificialness and commercialism that had become Christmas not to mention his unrelenting pursuit of truth and man’s place in the universe. There was the tattoo performance/art piece he’d worked up, too. It included a dozen different renditions of the song “Taboo” that was performed simultaneously with a mind-boggling video montage. Why people would want to have their bodies turned into canvases of flesh was of great interest to PT. And the fact that some people weren’t satisfied with their own natural bodies and were they just trying to elevate themselves to some higher level through this medium of ink and art? And it was because of Dora that PT had become fascinated with the Bible, both Old and New Testament. And among other things, his thoughtful reading of the scriptures had presented to him the concepts of an earthly body and a ‘heavenly body.’ Most probably, PT had concluded, it was a higher and more sublime state of conscious that everyone was seeking. Was tattooing some desperate attempt by mere mortals to attain that higher celestial body while spending a brief period of time here on this cosmic rock that hurled through space? He considered. Dora knew PT’s performance/art acts like “Taboo” and “The 12 Minutes of X-mas” might appear lightweight and fluffy, but at their core it was deep stuff and something her husband felt ‘called’ to do. In her case, she only felt ‘called’ to support the man she loved. Wherever his interests might lie. . So, it was that PT Barnum came to Nashville and met Father Partner and it wasn’t long before he took an interest in Eastern Orthodox Christianity. PT liked the overt mysticism and the fact that the Orthodox traditions hadn’t changed for over two thousand years. He was even more taken with the fact that the men and women who’d started up this religion were Jews, no less. I mean their leader, for Christ’s sake, was a Jew and Christianity was really a Jewish religion. Forget about all the lily white, fair haired images of Jesus, this man was probably the promised Hebrew Messiah and he’d even been a Rabbi. PT wanted to know as much as he could about Eastern Orthodoxy and Father Partner was just the guy to lend a hand. Although Dora was completely behind her husband’s newfound spiritual life, she was not at all drawn to the Easter Orthodox. In her opinion, the ancient dogmas and customs of the Orthodox were archaic and decidedly out of date. Then again, it was an archaic Orthodox priest who she decided to call at that very moment. “Hello, Father Partner? This is Dora Barnum and I need to talk to you. PT’s is in some very serious trouble,” she explained urgently into the phone. “The police think he killed a man,” were the difficult words as she paused to listen to his reaction. “Yes, it was the famous country singer, George Stones… I really don’t know what to do…can you help?” pleaded Dora who was once again on the verge of tears. “Thank you, Father, I’ll come to café. Thank you so much.” Dora looked at Mick and said with some relief. “Father Partner’s going to help.” Mick just nodded his head and thought about it all. He was still having a hard time coming to grips with all that had happened in the last few weeks. Here he was in the heart of Nashville’s Music Row and somehow, he had gotten himself involved in some of the strangest circumstances he could ever have imagined. There was the famous quote by the great country music songwriter, Harlan Howard, that suddenly came to mind. “Country music is three cords and the truth.” And in this case, Mick knew the truth to be truly stranger than fiction.

Chapter 45

“The battle is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave.” Patrick Henry

Father Partner, Dora with her daughter on her lap and Mick all sat at a small table in the back room of St. Basil Café. With great trepidation and cups of hot Russian spice tea in hand they attempted to sort out the current troubles. Those terrible and life changing troubles that had come raining down on the very personable and much-loved husband of Dora’s. Father Partner took a sip of spice tea and spoke calmly, “I’ve called one other person to meet with us. It’s the overnight security guard for Scarlet-Benson Center. I’m sure you know him, Dora, he’s quite a guy.” Jeremiah “Jerry” Pickerton was eighty-one years old and still going strong. The old coot pulled down ten hours a night as ‘security’ for the Scarlet-Benson Center and, make no mistake about it, this ornery dude was one tough son-of-a-bitch. With a constant cigarette hanging from his thin leathery lips he could always be counted on to cuss up a storm at any given moment. “Damn bastards crock a’ shit fools, head up thar’ asses” were just a few of his choice descriptions for about everybody and anybody. And that went especially for the government. Jerry had grown up in rural Kentucky, served his time in the army and it didn’t matter what the government did these days but in Jerry’s opinion ‘they’ were all a bunch of idiots and had pretty much made a mess of the good ol’ USA. He was also a card-carrying member of The John Birch Society.

The John Birch Society is a conservative American political organization. And conservative might be a massive understatement. It was founded in Indianapolis, Indiana in 1958 to fight what it saw as growing threats to the Constitution of the United States, especially a suspected Communist infiltration of the United States government, and to support free enterprise. The organization was named after John Birch, a United States military intelligence officer and Baptist missionary in World War II who was killed in 1945 by armed supporters of the Communist Party of China and whom the JBS describes as "the first American victim of the “Cold War.” His parents even joined the society as life members. ‘John Birchers’ are extremely anti-totalitarian, particularly anti- Socialist, anti-Communist and lean libertarian. They strenuously defend what they see as the original intention of the U.S. Constitution, rooted in Judeo-Christian principles. They idealize the Founding Fathers as patriotic anti-Communists. A good ’John Bircher’ opposes what is described as collectivism which in their view includes wealth redistribution, economic interventionism, socialism, communism and fascism.

Finally, The John Birch Society believes that cabals and conspiracies throughout the world have significantly shaped history and it seeks to expose and eliminate their claimed control in government in the modern era. And no doubt those very same cabals were at work on this holy and sacred Christmas morning in Nashville when that fine ‘John Bircher’ in good standing, Jerry Pickerton, strode into the back room of the café. With a lit unfiltered Camel cigarette dangling from his mouth, he stared down at Father Partner and Dora. “So, what the hell’s going on around here? Been a damn battalion of cops looking through every building in the place. Say they’re looking for PT,” he said with some exasperation. “Ain’t they got nothing better to do? Hell, PT is a damn good boy and they’d better not think I’m going help ’em find him.” That’s just what Father Partner was hoping to hear. “Please sit down, Jerry. Dora and Mick will tell you all about it. We’ve got a real problem on our hands.” Not as far as Jerry was concerned. Like he always says, “It just wouldn't be a picnic without the ants.”

“Yes, I see you got your brand-new leopard-skin pill-box hat, Well you must tell me, baby, How your head feels under somethin’ like that, Under your brand new leopard-skin pill-box hat…” came the ring-tone snippet of song from PT’s cell phone as he quickly answered the call. “Dora? I’ve been waiting to hear from you.” PT listened for a good minute or more and then slipped the cell phone back in his pocket. Not only was he cold and stiff from lying prone on the floorboard for hours, he hadn’t been able to shake the fear and dread that had over-taken him since he ran from the scene of the crime. And it was not just the dead man at Balls. It was also the fact that he too was dead. His real name was Zack Zimmerman. The rags to riches young singer/songwriter who’d catapulted to pop stardom and had supposedly drowned off the coast of Key West, Florida. But it had all been a ruse, a con and a masterful deception. The series of almost unbelievable circumstances involved the mafia and the music industry. And the ruthless mob-style business plan had been laid in Las Vegas several years before at Caesars’ Palace. It was the day ‘the king of pop’, Michael Jackson, had died. Or better put, been murdered.

Tonight, it’s the ladies of Caesars Palace who wear sheer see-through sexy black undergarments and dance suspended in cages above an open-air bar where the intoxicated gamblers, just below, drink hard and play blackjack. That is, when they’re not leering up at the slinky dancers who grind and gyrate in time to the heavy bass line that drives the pounding electronic club music. Just across the cavernous interior of the casino are the large and looming video screens that show live baseball games, horse races and even some early pre-season pro football. A gigantic digitized wall with odds on those games and all upcoming games blinks incessantly in red and blue. At a table, just across from the bar sit four men. Three of them are in their mid to late thirties and the older man appears to be in his late seventies. Except for the older man who wears stylish sweat pants and a silk New York Jets sweatshirt, the younger men all wear Armani. Top to bottom these guys look like any other upscale young professional man with good taste and money. And that last word is the key word. Money. “So, my wife Louise tells me you just had a baby,” says the old guy. This is Luciano ‘Lucky’ Campesi and the undisputed mafia boss of North America for the last forty years. His young counterpart is Peter Antonetti and he takes a sip of his martini and smiles. “Sure did Mr. Campesi. A girl. Got her mama’s good looks, too.” “Salude. I wish you and your wife and new baby great happiness,” replied Luciano and lifts his scotch and soda and toasts Peter. “Nothing like a pretty little girl in the family. They bring you back to reality when things get a little too hard out there. Ya’ now what I’m talkin’ about?” “Yes, sir. I do,” responds Peter gratefully. From across the bar a tall heavy set man in his mid-thirties, also in Armani, appears at the table and looks down anxiously at Peter. He speaks urgently before turning to leave, “Sorry to interrupt you, Pete, but I thought you should know. Michael Jackson just died.” The two other young guys look at Peter knowingly but don’t say a word. “Too bad,” replies Peter calmly. “Never really liked his music or that glove thing anyway.” This gets a few laughs from the guys but Mr. Campesi holds up his hand. “Don’t be makin’ light of the dead. ‘Cause when he was alive he made us millions. Sometimes, though, a dead guy can make you even more. Right, Peter?” “Yes sir, Mr. Campesi. And we appreciate you showing us the way on all this.” Luciano pulled a fat Cuban Cohiba cigar out of a small leather two pocketed humidor that lies on the table. Quickly, one of the guys takes a lighter out of his pocket and lights the cigar for the old mobster. It takes a few moments for the slow and methodical ‘lighting’ ritual that goes with any good cigar and then Luciano takes a big hit and lets the smoke out very slowly. He speaks quietly and with great purpose. “In the old days, when the rock and roll first got started we made our money the hard way. Payola and payoffs to radio stations and all that shit. When we went legit and started investing and running the record labels we hit pay dirt. The album sales were out of this world. It was like getting on a never-ending streak of good luck at the crap table.” Luciano takes a sip from his scotch and soda then inhales another mouth full of smoke and slowly blows it out before continuing. “After we bought controlling interests in those big labels we learned something. The thing we discovered was this. They call it ‘catalogue sales.’ In other words, a recording artist has a good run of hits and then it’s over. Bing bang boom. He’s done. But in the case of some artists the sales of their big hit albums will sell for years to come. In some cases, sell fifty or hundred times more than when they were first released. And especially after their dead. Look at Presley, he’s made more since he died than when he was alive. It’s like an annuity.” Peter sits up in his chair and interrupts the old man. “Did you do that?” “You mean wack him? In the end, yeah. We had him so juiced up and hooked on pills here in Vegas we figured it was just a matter of time. We decided to have some patience with Elvis ‘cause we thought it would happen sooner than later. The fat slob just wouldn’t die. We finally had to take of business, ya’ know what I’m talkin’ about?” “Yes, I do. Very well done, Mr. Capesi,” Peter replied approvingly. “Let’s just say we started to figure this out back in the old days with Buddy Holly. Before your time, but he went down in a plane crash.” “You arranged that?” asks Peter. “Hell yes, we arranged that. Buddy Holly was pretty famous but he became a legend overnight,” Luciano replies proudly and continues, “In the sixties and seventies we got really good at it. The rock stars were doing lots of drugs and if they’d accidentally overdosed, who’d question that? “ Peter takes a sip from his martini and looks at his two companions and says very sincerely, “We owe a lot to Mr. Capesi and the others. They were geniuses.” Luciano sit’s up a little straighter in his chair with this compliment and speaks with authority. “Now you take a living legend like Michael Jackson. He sold millions and millions but he’s become a schlock with all the weirdness he’s done. Plus, he’s over fifty years old. No more new multi-million selling albums. It’s over. I don’t give a shit if he went and toured the rest of his life, he was done. In my opinion, he also deserved to die.” Luciano aims his cigar like a gun and says loudly, “Bang! Michael Jackson…. you‘re dead. Rest in peace, you little pervert.” This definitely lightened up the atmosphere at the table and everyone laughed. Who knew Luciano had such a good sense of humor? Quickly getting back to business Luciano continues, “But the pervert is a legend and when the news of his untimely death gets out to the world, his fans are gonna shit. They’re going to canonize the guy. He won’t be the weirdo Michael Jackson anymore but St. Michael. And his catalogue sales will go through the roof. The old fans and the new fans are going to buy all those old albums again and, trust me, he’ll sell more albums now than he ever did when he was alive.” Peter has been listening intently to all this and speaks up again. “That’s why we so appreciate you letting us come into the music business. We’ve done everything you suggested and I promise we’ll make it worth your while. And, of course, all the other families, too.” Luciano nods his head and takes a puff off the cigar and exhales. He stares hard at Peter for a moment and speaks very slowly and deliberately. “You get them when they’re in their young and in their prime and make them a legend…. or you get them when their old and still a living legend. Either way you make them dead and you make a lot of money.

And then some years later it was Zack Zimmerman’s turn. After ascending to the top of the charts and becoming a massive young superstar it was his time to become a dead legend. All the world, including his wife Pandora and the mafia, assumed he’d drown and the hit man, Anthony ‘Capt. Tony’ Tarrincino, explained it this way to Zack’s wife late one night in Key West. “It’s not what you think. I’m sorry for something else,” he apologized again. “There’s some things I’m going to tell you. Some things that will have to go to your grave with you.” Pandora looked at him oddly and sat back in the chair. And waited. She waited and wondered what the strange and eccentric old man had to say. But instinctively she knew she was in for a shock. Whatever it was, she felt it coming. Like a tropical hurricane coming. And Capt. Tony didn’t disappoint her. “Let me start by telling you a little of my story. I’ve led a very unusual life outside of Key West and going back a long time.” Capt. Tony paused to gather his thoughts and continued, “I was employed by the mafia. The mob, or whatever you want to call them. My job was to execute people and make it look like an accident. And these people who employed me always expected it to be done perfectly. No questions asked later. If questions were asked and the truth came out then they wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. Or kill the people who I was supposed to of killed. Does that make any sense to you?” Pandora sat totally silent and was trying her best to figure out where this was all leading. Why is he telling me this? She kept wondering. “I guess so,” she answered timidly. “So the people I was hired to kill…. I didn’t kill them. I made it look like I killed them. You could call it a cover-up. And only me, the intended victim and a couple of other people knew the truth. In some cases, I had a couple cops and coroners on my payroll. Even had a woman named Kathryn Stuberg do some work for me. She was a famous wax figure maker out of Hollywood. You’d never know the difference to see a wax figure of hers in a coffin or the real person. She was a genius, like Divinci or somebody.” At this point, Pandora had to speak up. “What are you trying to tell, Capt. Tony? I’m not following you…” and now it was Capt. Tony’s turn to interrupt. “The thing is. Like that movie, The Godfather, I ‘made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.’ The intended victim could live but only on my terms. And those terms meant having to go away and never come back again. Ever,” he said and stressed that last word. Capt. Tony let that sink in and continued, “I guess like the FBI witness protection program. New identities and all that. Either that or I would kill them. It was their choice. And no one refused my offer. And the other thing is…they were all musicians…” Pandora was starting to sweat. Her forehead, even in the muggy warm Key West night, was beginning to bead up with moisture. And Capt. Tony continued with his bazaar and troubling talk. “Everything had to be perfect with this kind of thing. And that’s why I’m telling you I’m sorry. You couldn’t know….” It was then three men walked into the bar. It was two of the regulars, Uncle Aron and Johnny C and a younger man with short blond hair and a scruffy blond beard. They all stood in the doorway when Pandora glanced over. It was so dark in the bar and she couldn’t help but stare. It was then her heart began to pound and she suddenly felt faint and she kept staring at the young man in the doorway. He looked so familiar and, it couldn’t be, she thought….and that’s when Capt. Tony spoke one final time. “Go say hello to your husband.” Pandora let out a gut-wrenching scream and jumped up from the table. At the same time the young man ran towards her and he yelled out, “Pandora! It’s me baby.” Zack Zimmerman had come back from the dead.

Zack had been spared his life and, in return, he promised Capt. Tony that he would ‘stay dead’ and live out his life incognito in Key West. That is, until Capt. Tony died last year. It was then Zack made the decision to move his family to Nashville. He would change his name to PT Barnum and Pandora would become Dora Barnum. Zack did know that the mob would come after him with a vengeance if he were to ever surface and their nefarious ways got revealed. Just before Capt. Tony died, he made that point all too clear to Zack. “If they find out your alive, they’ll hunt you down and kill ya’ for certain,” were the ominous words from the bogus hit man about the mob. But Zack was convinced he could pull it off. His new look with bleached blond hair and beard and the off-the-wall nature of his music now. No one would put it together, he reasoned. And so, Zack Zimmerman had become PT Barnum and if apprehended for the King George tragedy, his past life would, no doubt, come to light. There was really no other choice for him but to evade the police in this horrible situation he now found himself in.

.

Chapter 46

“I’m going your way, so let us go hand in hand. You help me and I’ll help you. We shall not be here very long, for soon death, the kind old nurse, will come back and rock us all to sleep. Let us help one another while we may.” William Morris

The phone call from Dora had brought a small sense of relief but not much. A plan had apparently been formulated and PT could expect Jerry Pickerton to show up at any minute. PT was not a political man but, at that moment, he had only the highest regard for the John Birch Society. And it wasn’t long before help arrived. “PT, you in there?” came the raspy voice of Jerry who stood at the fence line. He wore his usual security guard uniform and called out again, “Get the hell out of that car. I’ll be waiting here by my truck.” Jerry looked up and down the alley and walked back to his truck and lit a cigarette. For the moment, there were no police cars in sight but there were several helicopters circling in the sky above. Jerry could see the bright white beams of the search lights from those same helicopters as they fell to the ground in search of the murder suspect. Momentarily, PT appeared at the fence, climbed over it and walked quickly over to the truck. Jerry wasted no time and just as quickly pulled an empty big, black heavy duty plastic trash bag off the floor of the flat-bed and put it on the ground. The truck bed also had a half a dozen other bags full of trash, but Jerry pointed at the empty bag. “Hop in this bag and I’ll lift you into the truck bed,” is all he said. PT looked at him quizzically but obeyed. He crouched down in the bag as Jerry looked at him and smiled. “Ain’t no hound dog gonna pick up your scent after this. There should be enough air to get you where we’re going.” And just in case there wasn’t, Jerry put the tip end of his burning cigarette against the plastic bag and burned a small hole in it. PT didn’t even bother to question the old man as Jerry closed the plastic bag around him and tied it off. Remarkably, the old man was still strong as a horse as he lifted the bag up and into the flatbed. Within moments, the pick-up truck was pulling out of the alley and up the street toward the Scarlet-Benson Center just two blocks away. Zack Zimmerman aka PT Barnum aka the Snow Globe Man had now officially become a ‘fugitive from justice.’

The fourth accomplice in the King George affair as it related to the disappearance of PT Barnum was Elmore James Jr. And if that name rings familiar it’s because this very big, black man claimed to be the son of legendary blues man, Elmore James. No one ever questioned this fact but then again why would anyone argue with a man who stood six feet 10 inches tall and weighed over three hundred pounds? If he said he was the son of Elmore James, then so be it. And what a legacy his famous father had.

Elmore James was born Elmore Brooks in the old Richland community in Homes County, Mississippi. He was the illegitimate son of 15-year-old Leola Brooks, a field hand. His father was probably Joe Willie "Frost" James, who moved in with Leola and so Elmore took this as his name. Elmore began making music at the age of 12 using a simple one-string instrument ('diddley bow' or 'jitterbug') strung up on a shack wall. As a teen he was playing at local dances under the names ‘Cleanhead’ and ‘Joe Willie James.’ His first marriage was to Minnie Mae in 1942 (whom he apparently never divorced). He subsequently married twice, to Georgianna Crump in 1947 and to a woman called Janice in 1954. During the 1950s he recorded for the Bihari brothers’ Flare Records, Meteor Records and Modern Records as well as for Chess Records. His backing musicians were known as the Broomdusters. In 1959 he began recording what are perhaps his best sides for Bobby Robinson’s Fire Records label. These include “The Sky Is Crying” (credited to Elmo James and His Broomdusters), "Stranger Blues", "Look On Yonder Wall", "Done Somebody Wrong", and “Shake Your Moneymaker", all of which are among the most famous of blues recordings. Elmore James died of his third heart attack in Chicago in 1963, just prior to a tour of Europe with that year's 'American Folk Blues Festival.'

Today, Elmore James Jr. carries on the family tradition by playing the blues at night and cooking at the Scarlet-Benson Center by day. And so, it was that Elmore got the early morning phone call from Father Partner and had come over right away. He’d also been told about PT’s predicament and was more than happy to help out. Waiting outside the entrance to the Susie Grey dining hall, Elmore stared up at the helicopters in the distance and sang softly to himself. It was the Jimmy Reed blues song “Big Boss Man.”

“BIG BOSS MAN CAN’T YOU HEAR ME WHEN I CALL WELL YOU AIN’T SO BIG YOU’RE JUST TALL THAT’S ALL GOT ME WORKING BOSS MAN WORKING ‘ROUND THE CLOCK I WANT ME A DRINK OF WATER BUT YOU WON’T LET JIMMY STOP

BIG BOSS MAN CAN’T YOU HEAR ME WHEN I CALL WELL YOU AIN’T SO BIG YOU JUST TALL THAT’S ALL WELL I’M GONNA GET ME A BOSSMAN ONE GONNA TREAT ME RIGHT WORK HARD IN THE DAY TIME REST EASY AT NIGHT BIG BOSS MAN CAN’T YOU HEAR ME WHEN I CALL WELL YOU AIN’T SO BIG YOU JUST TALL THAT’S ALL”

Elmore really didn’t care much for ‘the man.’ That being, in this case, the police in Nashville or any other city in the South. As an impressionable young teenager, he watched his mother get arrested and even beaten more than once during the Civil Rights protests of the early 1960’s. Understandably, he was deeply distrustful of the civil, and mostly white, authorities. Which is not to say that Elmore was an angry man. Just the opposite. Elmore was probably the sweetest man you could ever meet unless you were trying to fit some handcuffs over his immense hands. In that case, watch out. He was more than capable of ‘cleaning your clock’, as he called it, if you messed with him. But Elmore did like PT Barnum. A lot. So, without hesitation, Elmore was ready to do whatever was necessary to keep his friend out of trouble and far away from ‘the man.’

The beat up old red Ford pickup truck pulled slowly up to the service entrance of the Susie Grey Dining Hall and stopped. Elmore ambled slowly over as Jerry got out of the truck and they shook hands. Taking a long studied look around the grounds of the Scarlet-Benson Center, Jerry spoke quietly. “Howdy, Elmore. If you got one of those big trash cans inside, now’d be a good time to bring it out. I’m gonna dump these bags in my truck into the dumpster over there but I got one I‘d like you to put in your trash can,” said Jerry who pointed at one of the bags in the flatbed. “Weighs about a hundred and seventy pounds. Think you could put that one in your trash can and carry it back in for me?” “Yeah, I can do that. Where’s it going?” came the matter-of-fact question from Elmore. He knew exactly what was in that bag as Jerry pointed up at the soaring gothic Bell Tower that loomed high above. “Up there.” Jerry then looked back out over the conference center grounds and lit a cigarette. Ten policemen were standing next to their vehicles in the far parking lot. They’d already cased the grounds and buildings of the Scarlet- Benson Center and were waiting on the K-9 unit with the Bloodhounds.

The Bloodhound (also known as the St. Hubert Hound) is a large breed of dog bred for the specific purpose of tracking human beings. Consequently, it is often used by authorities, especially in the South, to track escaped prisoners or missing persons. It is a scent hound famed for its ability to follow a scent hours or even days old, over long distances. Combining a keen sense of smell with a tenaciously strong tracking instinct, bloodhounds have proven their worth as the archetypal trailing dog.

So there the confident cops waited and watched. There was also the off chance that the Snow Globe Man might make the stupid decision to come back home. I mean, did they really think he was that foolish? Then again, who knew what lurked in the mind of a Snow Globe Man?

Chapter 47

“Life must be measured by thought and action, not by time.” Sir John Lubbock

The Bell Tower along with the other buildings at the Scarlet-Benson Center was constructed with colored stone from the eastern part of Tennessee and trimmed with cut stone from Indiana and Kentucky. It was constructed to thrust upwards, to inspire reverence and awe of God. The tower was completed in 1928 and a year later Henry Hibbs won a gold medal for his ecclesiastical design. The fact that no one had been inside the Bell Tower for years also made it the perfect hiding place. Especially since the last known entrance to the Tower had long since been built over and, except for Jerry Pickerton, no one else knew about the ‘other entrance.’ The other entrance was hidden away in utility closet in Bennett Hall that was connected to the Tower. Jerry had discovered the hidden entrance while sorting through some cleaning items late one night. Out of shear boredom and a healthy sense of curiosity he got up on a stepladder and made the discovery. A panel made of wood could be removed from the ceiling and there it was. Looking up he gazed at the interior of the Bell Tower that rose skyward and had a square plant with strong angular, octagonal shaped pillars and a wooden circular staircase that went almost to the top. It was 195 feet to the very summit, and it was high up there at the top that the big bell hung. And that bell weighed approximately 900 pounds and was 40 inches in diameter and was made of pure brass. A set of thin rusted copper chains ran down from the bell and they probably hadn’t been pulled for at least fifty years. Jerry had always wanted to pull those chains but then it would have revealed what only he knew. That there was still an entrance into the Bell Tower, and it was his little secret and Jerry liked his secrets. But it was now time to share that secret and time to hide out his young friend, PT Barnum.

Meanwhile, Dora and Mick sat in the lounge at Tragg Hall and watched the late breaking TV news coverage in complete shock. The handsome CNN news anchor was the first to break the story and he spoke somberly into the camera. “The manhunt for the person known as the Snow Globe Man is gearing up to be the largest ever in Tennessee state history. It was only eight hours ago that country music legend, George Stones, suffocated to death inside a clear plastic, air inflated snow globe. Police have determined that this tragedy was caused by the substance known as superglue. Apparently, it was superglue that was applied to a metal zipper that failed to open and provide the very needed oxygen for Mr. Stones to live. For more, we turn to CNN's Kimberly Osias, who is on Music Row in Nashville, Tennessee.” The CNN news anchor smiled and gushed. “Kimberly, good morning and Merry Christmas.” A split screen now showed the anchor and a perky young red headed TV correspondent who stood just outside the entrance to Balls. Kimberley gushed back, “And good morning and Merry Christmas to you, Tom.” “What can you tell us about the death of country superstar George Stones?” “Well, this is actually a key area now that investigators have the aid of daylight. They are still inside this bar known as Balls here on what’s called Music Row. And the reason that this is critical in the investigation is that this is the last place where the suspected killer known as the Snow Globe Man was last seen. He is described as a performance artist who does a show known as “The 12 Minutes of X-mas” and all from inside of a clear plastic inflated bubble.” Like any good TV news reporter, Kimberly took a studied glance at her notes and looked back into the camera. “It was here at Balls on Christmas Eve that the Snow Globe Man did a performance and then was followed into the bubble by country music legend George Stones. According to witnesses, Mr. Stones, known to his fans as King George, did a show of his own only to suffocate inside that clear plastic bubble. Homicide detectives later found the substance known as superglue in the metal zipper of the globe. According to reports, it was the Snow Globe Man who was the last person to zip up the globe. Witnesses say he ran from the scene of the crime and that began this massive manhunt here in Nashville, Tennessee. ” Kimberly paused and did her best Barbara Walters imitation. Intimate and personal and very insider. “I want to show you an exclusive CNN video. The last that they have of the Snow Globe Man that was caught on surveillance tape.” It was then the dimly lit back door of Balls opened and out ran PT in his cherry red pants and sweater. Shortly, the two big cowboys followed by several other men ran out the door and then the clip was over. Actual footage of the murderer running from the scene of the crime. If it was on TV and Kimberly had the scoop, it all had to be accurate, right?

Back at the Susie Grey Hall, Elmore carried the big trash can through the empty dining hall as Jerry led the way. They came to a large wooden door which Jerry opened for Elmore and the precious cargo he carried in the trash can. A quiet voice came from inside that trash can. “Where are we?” “Hey there, PT,” replied Elmore jovially. “We’re taking you to the tower, son,” Jerry barked out like a marine drill sergeant. “You’ll be out of that bag real soon.” The two men proceeded down a walkway and through another door that put them at the utility closet. Jerry opened the door and put a small step ladder in place. He took several steps up and pulled out the wooden panel on the ceiling and pointed upwards. “That’s where he’s going, Elmore. You can take the plastic bag out of that trash can but leave him inside. Don’t want his scent here in the closet.” Elmore carefully lifted the bulky plastic bag out of the trash can and hoisted the bag over his head. He mounted the step ladder and when he reached the top, he stuck his head through the secret opening and took a look around. “So that’s the inside of the Bell Tower. Man, it sure goes up a ways,” Elmore said and hoisted the bag up and through the opening and stepped back down off the step ladder. Jerry spoke one more time. “PT you’re home. You can rip open that bag in a minute, soon as I shut you in. You’ll get the hang of it in there, son. I’ll have you some food and some camping gear as soon as I can.” And with those words, Jerry put the wooden panel back in place and PT was, for all practical purposes, safe from harm. Or was this just some temporary stopgap measure until the authorities finally got their man? That man being the ever elusive and now infamous Snow Globe Man.

Father Partner had watched the television reports and was in the café earlier than normal the day after Christmas. He puttered around in the kitchen and opened the refrigerator and looked for something or the other and then closed it. He walked back into the main dining room with the calming, colorful saintly icons that covered the walls and sat down at a small table. His decision to help hide PT from the police had not been an easy one. Father Partner recalled his first encounter with PT Barnum and remembered how he was immediately taken with his natural charm and piercing intelligence. As time went by, he also came to realize that PT was extremely serious and diligent in his pursuit of ‘truth.’ He always found him to be an extremely honest and very caring individual, as well. The priest just couldn’t fathom the possibility that PT would willfully kill someone. If by any chance, he was to find anything to the contrary then he would be the first one to go to the police. But for now, PT was innocent until proven guilty. So, it was with some serious prayer and a sure sense of his own instincts that he proceeded into the troubling and dangerous state of affairs that had befallen his young friend.

And those instincts as it related to PT and the murder of George Stones had, oddly enough, a lot to do with noted pulp writer, Raymond Chandler. Long before becoming an Orthodox priest and even before a professor of English, Father Partner had been an avid reader of fiction. And it was murder mysteries and detective novels that he enjoyed most. He had read and re-read every Raymond Chandler novel there was and knew absolutely everything about the author. Everything.

Raymond Thornton Chandler (July 23, 1888 - March 26, 1959) was an author of crime stories and novels of immense stylistic influence upon modern crime fiction, especially in the style of the writing and the attitudes now characteristic of the genre. His protagonist, Philip Marlowe, is synonymous with "private detective", along with Dashiell Hammett’s Sam Spade. Chandler was born in Chicago, Illinois but moved to Britain in 1895 with his Irish-born mother after they were abandoned by his father, an alcoholic civil engineer for an American railway company; they were supported by his uncle, a successful lawyer. To earn a living with his creative talent, he taught himself to write pulp fiction; his first story, “Blackmailers Don't Shoot”, was published in Black Mask magazine in 1933; his first novel, “The Big Sleep,” was published in 1939. Literary success led to Hollywood screenplay writer work: he and Billy Wilder co-wrote “Double Indemnity,” (1944), based upon James M. Cain’s eponymous novel. His only original screenplay was “The Blue Dahlia” (1946) two years later. And he collaborated on the screenplay of Alfred Hitchcock’s “Strangers On A Train” (1951), a story he thought implausible. By then, the Chandlers had moved to La Jolla, California, a rich coastal town near San Diego. Critics and writers, ranging from W.H. Auden to Evelyn Waugh to Ian Flemming greatly admired the finely wrought prose of Raymond Chandler. Although his swift-moving, hardboiled style was inspired mostly by Dashiell Hammett, his sharp and lyrical similes are original: “The muzzle of the Luger looked like the mouth of the Second Street tunnel; The minutes went by on tiptoe, with their fingers to their lips,” defining private eye fiction genre, and leading to the coining of the adjective Chandleresque, which is the subject and object of parody and pastiche. Raymond Chandler also was a perceptive critic of pulp fiction; his essay “The Simple Art of Murder” is the standard reference work in the field. All of his novels have been cinematically adapted, notably “The Big Sleep” (1946), by Howard Hawks, with Humphrey Bogart as Phillip Marlowe; novelist William Faulkner was a co-screenplay writer. Raymond Chandler's few screenwriting efforts and the cinematic adaptation of his novels proved stylistically and thematically influential upon the American ‘film noir’ genre.

So, it was the seminal novels of Chandler, “The Big Sleep,” “Farewell, My Lovely,” “The High Window,” “The Lady in the Lake,” “The Little Sister,” and “The Long Goodbye” that spoke volumes to Father Partner. And these were all the criminal cases of Philip Marlowe the hardboiled Los Angeles private investigator. Their plots following a pattern in which the men and woman hiring him reveal themselves as corrupt, corrupting, and criminally complicit as those against whom he must protect his erstwhile employers. It was now time for Father Partner to put his own investigative skills to work and protect his young friend and ‘spiritual son’, PT Barnum.

Chapter 49

“When the day returns, call us up with morning faces and with morning hearts, eager to labor, happy if happiness be our portion, and if the day be marked for sorrow, strong to endure.” Robert Lewis Stevenson

Dora and her artistic little touches were very much appreciated by Victoria Valdez, the incoming museum director at the Scarlet-Benson Center. Dora had a way with the little touches that made a display into something very special. In fact, she’d just finished arraigning a series of ‘fabric newspaper articles’ in some glass cases in the lobby of Leskey Hall. This artistic retrospective was one of the many regular multi-cultural exhibits that Scarlet-Benson had become known for in the last several years. These ‘articles’ Pandora had put together were actually pictorial stories woven of cloth by the women of Columbia to communicate the atrocities that were taking place in their country. Simple and primitive images depicted men with guns as the village women and children were killed or raped or fled in terror. With no access to the media and their fellow countrymen this was their only way to detail the on-going tragedies that were taking place in their country. Beginning in 1974, different presidential administrations chose to focus on ending the persistent insurgencies that sought to undermine Colombia's traditional political system. Many groups claimed to represent the poor and weak against the rich and powerful classes of the country, demanding the completion of true land and political reform, from an openly Communist perspective. And those ‘fabric newspaper articles’ that Dora had lovingly encased in glass, documented just some of those abuses. Life was hard. Everywhere.

It was only one hundred yards away in the Bell Tower that Jerry had put together a serious survivor kit for PT. It included a LED lantern, fatigue pants and fatigue jacket, G.I. issue ECWCS underwear and military issue socks and fatigue boots. An old Fort Drum Camo sleeping bag would also help keep PT warm in the cold nights ahead. A box full of canned foods and several gallon jugs of drinking water would also keep him fed and hydrated for a while, as well. Jerry had just delivered these items to PT and there they sat together on the concrete floor at the base of the Bell Tower. Jerry pointed out the provisions to the young fugitive from justice. “These things should keep you warm, son. I know it gets goddamn cold in here so put these on right away. Got you enough food and water for short spell, too.” PT acknowledged the gifts with a weary smile, “Thanks, Jerry. I really appreciate all your doing for me. I really do.” Jerry pulled out a pack of Camel cigarettes and offered one to PT. “Care for a smoke?” “Sure, why not,” replied PT happily. He was only an occasional ‘social’ smoker but if this wasn’t a good time for a cigarette, then when would be? PT took a cigarette from the pack as Jerry pulled an old Zippo lighter out of his front pants pocket. He then lit the cigarette for PT and one for himself and stared hard at his troubled young friend. “I know you think you got it bad but let me tell you ’bout a time I had in World War II. This here incident took place about the 18th of January 1945, in a wooded area about one mile outside of a small Belgian Village named Petit Their.” The old man took a long drag off his cigarette and continued. “The forest, which we soon entered, was dense, and the snow was so deep, that instead of attacking in a front, we were forced to move in single file, and have the lead man break the path through the snow,” said Jerry as he paused for PT to put a picture of this place in his head. And in fact, PT welcomed the diversion from his current nightmare and was picturing everything vividly when Jerry said, “Directly in front of our position was a small haystack, and perhaps three or four at the most, cows eating from the stack.” Jerry stopped his story again and took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke out ever so slowly. Jerry liked keeping that smoke in his lungs as long as possible. And he’d been doing that for sixty five of his eighty-one years and who cared what the doctors said? I mean how much longer could he live anyway? To top it off, he’d probably end up being the “oldest living person’ that you see from time to time in newspapers or on TV. You know the one, that wrinkled and wise old man or woman who drank or smoked and did absolutely nothing out of the ordinary to stay fit and healthy. And yet, there they were, the ‘oldest living person.’ Go figure. PT watched the old guy as he took another deep drag off his cigarette and wondered to himself how many times he’d told this very story. As if he could read his mind Jerry said, “Never told this to no one. Never.” Jerry put out his cigarette on the floor, lit another one and started up with the story again. “It was then a German machine gun ripped out a burst and slammed me on my back from a sideways position. Looking at my arm I could see where the bullet had gone through my sleeve, and I concluded that what I had was a nice little million dollar wound.” Jerry grinned and took a puff and closed his eyes for a moment. He let the smoke out again very slowly and continued, “The next day the machine gun was still there, and they had mortars which would occasionally throw a round into our area.” The old man appeared to about as close to crying as he’d ever been in his adult life. And Jerry didn’t cry. Ever. His words now came out in an almost reverent whisper. “The next described sequence remains one of the most vivid of my entire life. While issuing orders, the thought popped into my mind with no preliminary warning, that I was going to die, right then. My response was not spoken, but it was none the less a response, and it was…well, all right God, if it’s my time… and then it came over me, the most peaceful feeling that everything was going to be fine. Almost at that same time a mortar shell landed on the back of the cow I was trying to hide under, and the cow fell over, away from me, and was dead!” And that was it. The miracle World War II story. Jerry stood up and pulled the wooden panel off the secret opening and without a word disappeared back down into the utility closet below. PT wondered what a dead cow how to do with his predicament but then it really didn’t matter, did it? A miracle is a miracle and now he needed a miracle of his own. Bring on the dead cows, ya’ll.

Chapter 49

“You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that truly give.” Kahlil Gibran

The small group of unlikely accomplices and conspirators were all seated at one of the bigger tables in the back room of St. Basil Café and Books. At the head of the table was Father Partner and he was joined by Dora, Mick, Jerry and Elmore. Everyone had a cup of hot Russian spice tea and everyone had a worried look on their face. Father Partner began the meeting with a psalm of David from the Bible. “Unto thee, O LORD, do I lift up my soul. O my God, I trust in thee: let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me. Yea, let none that wait on thee be ashamed: let them be ashamed which transgress without cause. Shew me thy ways, O LORD; teach me thy paths. Lead me in thy truth, and teach me: for thou art the God of my salvation; on thee do I wait all the day. Remember, O LORD, thy tender mercies and thy loving kindnesses; for they have been ever of old. Remember not the sins of my youth, nor my transgressions: according to thy mercy remember thou me for thy goodness sake, O LORD.” “Amen” said Jerry reverently and he lit a cigarette. Normally, smoking was out of the question in the café but then things had gotten a little out of hand lately, to say the least. So, smoking didn’t seem to be a very big issue at the moment and, God knows, Jerry had really picked up the ball when it came to helping PT out. In fact, Father Partner wanted to know just exactly what Jerry had done with that ball. “So where is PT right now?” “Got him in the Bell Tower,” replied Jerry confidently. Father Partner took a deep breath and thought about the implications. The Bell Tower was only a hundred and fifty yards away from the café and the police had not only sealed off the entire Music Row area, but they were swarming the grounds of the Scarlet-Benson Center, too. And they now had the dogs. And he knew those dogs could track down anything that had a scent. “Jerry, don’t you think they’ll find him up there?” came Father Partner’s pertinent question. “Nope. No one knows how to get in there. Me and Carl do, though,” said Jerry as he took a deep drag off his cigarette and smiled slyly at Carl. “Ain’t that right, Carl?” “Yeah, that’s right, man. Nobody knows ‘bout that secret entrance to the tower,” came Carl’s matter-of-fact response. “How about the dogs? There must be dozens of them. Those Bloodhounds can pick up a scent almost anywhere” said Mick. Jerry quickly waved off the idea. “We sealed him up in plastic when he was moved, and those walls are thick as shit. Pardon the expression, Padre. Not to mention he’s gonna be moving up to the top of the Bell Tower. That’s way out of those damn dogs smelling range, trust me,” said Jerry confidently. Dora had been taking all this in her own quiet and thoughtful way. Oddly enough, she had just begun to write a piece on Germany. And it was the coincidence of Jerry’s comment about the ‘walls’ and her research that she found startling. Dora had become aware of her husband’s family history. At least, his father’s side that had immigrated to the US before World War II. The Zimmerman’s were German Jews and had narrowly escaped the insidious plans of Hitler and his Nazi thugs. Her research had started with the downfall of communism in East Germany and The Berlin Wall. And it now suddenly spoke volumes to her. The separation of loved ones and that’s just what was happening between Dora and her husband.

The Berlin Wall, in German “Berliner Mauer,” was a barrier separating West Berlin from East Berlin and the rest of East Germany. The longer inner German border demarked the remainder of the East-West German border between the two states. The wall divided East and West Berlin for 28 years; from the day construction began on August 13, 1961 August 13, until it was dismantled in 1989. During this period 125 people were killed trying to cross the Wall into West Berlin, according to official figures. However, a prominent victims' group claims that more than 200 people had been killed trying to flee from East to West Berlin. Newly discovered documents confirm that the Communist government gave explicit orders to shoot and kill attempted defectors. The East German government had always denied having such a policy. Families were split apart. Aunts, uncles and cousins who were in West Berlin were cut off from their jobs and from chances for financial improvement; West Berlin became an isolated enclave in a hostile land. West Berliners demonstrated against the wall, led by their mayor Willy Brandt, who strongly criticized the United States for failing to respond. Allied intelligence agencies had hypothesized about a wall to stop the flood of refugees, but the main candidate for its location was around the perimeter of the city. When the East German government announced on November 9, 1989, after several weeks of civil unrest, that entering West Berlin would be permitted, crowds of East Germans climbed onto and crossed the wall, joined by West Germans on the other side in a celebratory atmosphere. Over the next few weeks, parts of the wall were chipped away by a euphoric public and by souvenir hunters; industrial equipment was later used to remove almost all of the rest of it. The fall of the Berlin wall paved the way for German reunification, which was formally concluded on October 3, 1990.

And that’s what Dora desperately wanted. Reunification with her husband. And there was nothing she wouldn’t do to make that happen. For all practical purposes, the country music standard “Stand by Your Man” had now become Dora’s theme song.

Chapter 50

“Home is where the heart is.” Pliny

PT had climbed the circular stairs to the top of the Bell Tower at least a dozen times. It was there he could sit on a wooden floor that had been constructed just below the big brass bell. He would then look through the gaping vertical openings of the tower and out over the grounds of Scarlet-Benson Center. And what he saw and heard below was frightening. Dozens of policemen and dogs were busy searching for someone and he could only assume that someone was him. His multiple trips up and down the stairs were not only good exercise, but it helped keep his mind off the sound of the Bloodhounds and the walkie- talkies that rose from the grounds of the Scarlet-Benson Center. Those dogs from the police K-9 unit had been howling for hours and he knew what a good Bloodhound could do. With just a faint scent to work with those animals became driven to find it again. He didn’t know what it was that the police had given the dogs in the way of his scent. Maybe some clothing from his closet was the first smell those dogs had of the Snow Globe Man?

Night had fallen on Nashville and it was almost pitch black in the Bell Tower. PT did have the LED light that Jerry had given him, and he finally decided to try it out. It was not just the dark but those incredible dark and desperate feelings that had consumed him. And the loneliness. It was that stark and unrelenting loneliness that had him almost in tears. Fortunately, he’d come across some old boxes down at the base of the Bell Tower.

Apparently, these boxes had been left in tower long ago and they contained hundreds of files that included applications to the former Scarlet College as well as some funding raising related letters. PT had pulled a few of the documents out of the boxes and so he decided to pass the time by reading. Why not? What the hell else was he to do with his time and reading anything would be a good way to keep his mind off the madness. The first document was a Scarlet College application form that had faded and yellowed with age. It had handwritten answers to all the printed questions and the penmanship was exquisite.

Name in full: Virginia Plum Place of birth: St. Louis Date: 10-23-1927 Race: Caucasian Nationality: American (North) Height: 5’4” Weight: 118 Health: Excellent Disabilities: None Have you ever been married? No To What Church do you belong? Salem Methodist How long? Since Easter, 1949 Can you play musical instruments? Some If so, what? Piano, organ Sing? Some Can you type? Yes Do you write shorthand? No For what type of work are you preparing? Some type of Christian service High School, College, and other schools: Webster High School - Webster Groves, Mo 1941 to 1944 Central College - Fayette, Mo. 1944 to 1945 Washington University - St. Louis, Mo 1945 to 1947 Teaching, what and where? I have a teacher’s certificate obtained by examination which is good in this state’s grade schools. Social Work, what and where? General settlement work - Kingdom House, St. Louis Experience in Church Work, what and where? Kingdom House - Sunday School teacher and youth choir leader at the Salem Methodist Church Business, what type and where? Salesgirl, Stix, Baer & Fuller. Office girl, B&B Implements, Inc. When do you wish to enter Scarlet? March, 1950 Have you any indebtness? No What are your plans for meeting the expense of training at Scarlet College? I have the money in the bank. The applicant should write below a short sketch of his or her life, and the reasons for going into Christian service.

I was born in St. Louis 22 years ago and lived in Webster Grove, Mo., until a few years ago. I have always lived with my parents, attended the Webster Grove Public Schools, and had all the opportunities my contemporaries had. At the age of fourteen I became a member of the Webster Grove Presbyterian Church, and one year later I became a candidate of the Presbyterian Board of Foreign Missions. I graduated from high school in three years at the age of sixteen, intending to go to Iowa State College immediately, but was waylaid the following fall. While I was in high school, I did volunteer work at Kingdom House, a St. Louis settlement, where I was privileged to Know Emma Burris, Cleo Barber, Grace Butler, and Una Smith (some of whom have different last names now). Since leaving Central College I have kept house for my family, attended Washington U., work in an office, and sold for a large St. Louis department store-none of which are sufficiently interesting to me. I work with children in the church (now the Methodist Church), but I felt inadequate and for this reason would like to attend Scarlet. I am especially interested in Religious Educations, and hope to reach some decision by studying there.

Sincerely,

Virginia Blum

PS At the age of 20 I thought I knew everything and intended to solve all the world’s problems by myself. By now I am willing to admit I don’t know anything.

Join the club, thought PT. If anything was certain at this point in his young life it was that he didn’t really know anything. Or at least anything of any real lasting significance. Oh sure, in his late teens and early twenties he knew it all. Like most other young men that age he was certain of his abilities and his insightful ‘take’ on the world in general. Odd how that certainty can be so easily replaced with uncertainty, he thought. Life can do that and do it with a vengeance he now knew. PT felt a bit voyeuristic in reading this confidential college application but then again, this woman would be dead and gone. Too bad, he considered. He would have very much liked to have met Miss Virginia Plum. For one, there were her straightforward answers to the questions. No duplicity or poising with the young woman. Then again, he felt certain that most young women of that era didn’t pose or pretend or try to be anybody other than who they were. He liked that a lot. In fact, it was one of the qualities that had drawn him to his wife Dora. Surely, these two women from totally diverse backgrounds and eras would have been fast friends, he concluded. The next document was a letter. It also was faded and yellow with age and had been typed on something like a then common Smith & Corona typewriter.

Miss Betty Barnwell 150 Fifth Avenue New York 11, New York Dear Miss Barnwell,

The annual mid-year meeting of the Executive Committee of the Scarlet College Alumni Association will be held on Monday, March 5th, 1956 at 9:30 A.M. in my office in the Public Relations Building. This meeting is to one of in a series of events that will take place during the annual meeting of the Board of Trustees which will begin later in the afternoon. The middle of February you will receive an invitation to attend a reception which is being given for President-elect and Mrs. Foye G. Gibson on the evening of March 5th. This reception is being given by Dr. and Mrs. Hugh Stuntz and the Board of Trustees for the purpose of introducing Dr. and Mrs. Gibson to the Nashville community. I have been meaning to write to you and to thank you for the most enjoyable time spent with you at breakfast when you were here in the Fall. It was lots of fun just to sit around a talk for a while. I am looking forward to the experience at Buck Hill Falls. If all goes well I will leave here Monday morning arrive at The Inn early Tuesday afternoon.

I trust that your Christmas was a happy one and that this New Year will be the best ever.

Sincerely,

Betsy K. King

Betsy K. King Alumni Secretary

Yeah, that’d be alright with me to, thought PT, putting the letter back into the box. A happy Christmas and the best New Year ever. Unfortunately, this was one desperate Christmas and the New Year held about as much promise as those faded and yellow old glimpses into the past.

Chapter 51

“Love is strong as death…Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it.” Song of Solomon 8:6,7

Father Partner and Dora were now all alone in the cafe. Jerry, Mick and Elmore had left them to sort out the craziness and for Dora to sort out her feelings. I mean, this guy was a priest and counseling was part of his profession and so he counseled. “I can’t imagine how you’re feeling, Dora,” said Father Partner sincerely. “And you’re such a long way from home, too.” Pandora nodded her head and looked out the window into the dark Nashville night. “Yes, I guess so. Key West did become home, in a very odd way. I tried to talk him out of coming here. I knew it was risky but he just wouldn’t listen. He really thought he could still make some music and …. maybe it might have worked out…but now this nightmare...” Father Partner nodded his head, “I understand. We’ll find a way through this, Pandora. Have faith.” “What if he’s caught and the press finds out who he really is…” she said and let that thought hang. Who he really is? The priest considered those words and wondered what they could mean. “Is there something else I should know?” pried Father Partner. Pandora knew she’d just opened ‘a can or worms’, as they say in the South, on her husband’s past life. Freudian slip? Subconscious confession? Maybe it was time to share their dark secrets with someone, she considered. Why not a priest? Before she could speak, Father Partner spoke up resolutely, “You know I don’t believe PT murdered that man, don’t you? I’ve come to know him in this last year and I know he couldn’t kill somebody.” “I need to see him, Father. He needs me,” replied Dora just as resolutely. “We’ve got to be very careful about that, Dora. Perhaps, you could visit him briefly, but you can’t stay with him. The police will be watching everything you do. We’ve got to be very cautious.” Father Partner considered the options. Which were not many. They could wait on the police investigation and hope there might be some new insight into the murder. Then again, could the death of King George have been an accident? Not likely, he concluded. Why would anyone possibly have a tube of superglue there at the base of the bubble, much less the layer of the glue that was found in the big metal zipper? The only other option was simple yet daunting. He could put himself into the action and begin his own investigation. Maybe, he thought, all those years of reading crime novels might pay off. The only real problem was his own personal involvement, and he would certainly be considered an accomplice in the aiding and abetting of a fugitive from justice. But at this point, that possibility wasn’t going to deter him from helping this young woman’s husband. “There is something else. We have a man in our church who’s a policeman. I’m certain I can talk to him and he’d let me know where things stand in the investigation. There has to be another answer to everything and there has to be someone else who’s involved,” said Father Partner as he looked thoughtfully out the window. Momentarily, he turned his gaze back to Dora. “There’s even a chance he could get me into police headquarters.” Dora looked him in the eyes and stated firmly. “Yes, you go to police. I’m going to go see my husband.” Father Partner started to object but then the look in Dora’s eyes made him think better of it. He knew a determined woman when he saw one. And Dora had something else to say, too. She paused and then went for it…. “There is something you should know. PT isn’t who you think he is.”

The homicide unit was on the third floor at the downtown headquarters of the Nashville police department. It was late and all was quiet apart from the two Nashville detectives, Brouchard and Hernandez. The two men sat at a long, metal table with a stack of fact sheets and police files piled high in front of them. A couple of Styrofoam coffee cups and an empty box of Crispy Crème donuts completed the mess that surrounded them when Father Partner appeared in the doorway. He wore his black priest pants and shirt and looked over at the detectives and gave a small wave. “Good evening.” The detectives both looked up. “Can we help you?” asked Detective Brouchard. Father Partner walked over to the cluttered table and spoke softly, “Hello, my name is Father Partenerios. I was told by a member of my church I could find you here. I believe you know him. Sgt. Sargerian?” “Yes, we do. What brings you downtown, Father?” asked Detective Hernandez. “The man you’re looking for has been coming to my church for the last year,” stated Father Partner. The two detectives perked up. Was this the initial brake in their case? Was the priest about to try and cut some deal for the murder suspect? Was he going to be the middleman? “Do you know where Barnum is right now?” was the blunt question from Detective Brouchard. The priest had already thought about that potential question and had an answer of his own. “God knows where he is, Detective.” “I’m sure he does, but how about you, Father? Do you know where he is?” pried Detective Hernandez. “I haven’t seen PT for several days,” was the honest but somewhat evasive answer from Father Partner. “So, what can we do for you, Father?” interjected Detective Brouchard. “I’m certain that PT Barnum did not kill that man,” said Father Partner confidentially. Detective Brouchard sat back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. “What makes you so certain of that?” “Well, for one thing, I’m a very good judge of character. I know PT and I know he couldn’t kill a man.” “Well, good judge of character or not, the snow globe guy was the last man to handle the plastic bubble. That’s where we found some superglue. Small tube at the base of the bubble and the zipper was full of the stuff. Looks like a pretty open and shut case to me,” said Detective Hernandez just as confidentially. “Did you get some prints off the tube?” questioned Father Partner. “No we didn’t. Damn thing got trampled on in the aftermath. Beer and cigarettes and lot’s crap from off the floors was all we found,” Detective Brouchard replied with some irritation in his voice. Father Partner nodded his head and asked, “Could anyone else have put that glue in the zipper? From what I’ve heard the bar was very crowded.” “We’re looking into that now. But so far, your guy Barnum looks like our man,” said Detective Brouchard assuredly. “We’re real busy, Father. Thanks for coming down and we’ll be in touch,” he added firmly. Father Partner took a packet of gum out of this front pocket and offered it to the detectives. “Gum?” It was the ‘peace offering’ angle. Get on personal terms with these guys. If he’d been private investigator like Philip Marlowe in a Raymond Chandler novel it would have been a drink of scotch or a smoke. Work with what you’ve got, he figured. Detective Brouchard shook his head ‘no’ but Detective Hernandez reached out his hand. “Yeah, I’ll take a piece.” Father Partner pulled a stick of gum out and handed it to him and opened the wrapper on one for himself. “I hope you don’t think I’m intruding on your case. All I want to do is help out.” Detective Hernandez eyed the priest and responded. “So, what do you know about PT Barnum before he came to Nashville?” The gum thing apparently worked.

Chapter 52

“When the one man loves the one woman and the one woman loves the one man, the very angels leave heaven and come and sit in that house and sing for joy.” Brahma

Dora stood in the utility closet and stared up as Jerry came down off the stepladder. He took the lit cigarette out of his mouth and gave her a little smile. “I pulled off that opening. Be careful going up, now,” he said paternally and stood back. “PT must be up there on that higher platform. I took a look inside but didn’t see him. Soon as your inside you’ll see the circular staircase and that’ll lead you up to the top. Here’s a flashlight to help find your way around,” Jerry said and handed her a long metal flashlight. “Thank you, Jerry. Your very kind,” Dora responded gratefully. She then climbed the stepladder and crawled through the secret opening and disappeared into the Bell Tower. PT was indeed up at the top and peering out the long vertical opening in the side of the Bell Tower. He could see the police far down below, but the dogs had apparently headed off in some another direction. Thank God for Jerry and his brilliant little plastic bag trick, thought PT. No doubt, those Bloodhounds would have picked up his scent by now and the police would have found a way to get inside the Bell Tower with their guns locked and loaded. Snow Globe Man hunting would then officially be in season. “PT?” came a voice from the darkness below. PT flinched and stared down at the light approaching from below. Once again, the voice was heard, “Are you up there?” “Dora?” called out PT. “Yes, it’s me,” Dora replied as she made her way slowly up the old wooden circular staircase. PT quickly went to the staircase and waited. Momentarily, Dora made her way to the top and they embraced. It was not just an embrace but a powerful eruption of emotion and a coming together of body, soul and spirit between the two young lovers. They clung tightly together, and Dora cried. The tears fell from her eyes as they kissed, and the tears kept coming and the kiss went on forever it seemed like. Finally, PT leaned back just enough to brush some of the tears from her cheeks. “I love you Dora. I love you so much.” “I love you too, PT” whispered Dora into his ear as she held him tightly. “Everything’s going to be fine, I know it is,” was her soft-spoken encouragement. PT looked her in the eyes and smoothed out her disheveled hair. “I’m sorry Dora. I’m so sorry for everything and for making you come to Nashville. Do you forgive me?” Dora did not answer him, but her actions did. She slowly undid his belt and unzipped his zipper and pulled down his pants and underwear. Dora then hiked her dress up as he watched and waited. She wore no panties as she raised her leg up and put her foot onto the wooden railing and pulled him close. He was so hard, and she was so hot and it was there in the Bell Tower that the Snow Globe Man and his woman made some serious snow globe love.

It must have been in the air. Romance that is. At almost the exact same time as PT and Dora were doing it in the Bell Tower, Mick met a woman. And what a woman she was. This ‘way out’ cowgirl mama was decked out in a 60’s black and white checkered ‘Mod’ hat, red hand tooled leather cowboy boots, tight black spandex pants and a white faux fur coat. And if that little outfit didn’t make her stand out on Music Row then the pink pickup truck did. That’s right, a shocking pink pick-up truck. Mick was all eyes as the drop-dead gorgeous woman smiled and pointed to her flat tire. “Any chance I could get some help with this?” Mick couldn’t believe his good fortune. His customary early evening walk through Music Row had been of little help in calming his jittery nerves and the mind-aching thoughts that related to the King George incident. It had also been far too long since he’d even been out with a woman, much less, had a little romance in his life. Life had gotten a little hard around the edges lately and his normal woman attracting confidence and charisma had gone flat. Just like this hot chick’s tire. “Sure. You got some tire tools?” he asked. “I think so. Never had to use them before,” she said very flirtatiously. Mick opened the side door and looked behind the seat and there they were. “Found ’em,” he said as he got out of the truck and looked her over. “Nice little outfit you’re wearing. What’s your name?” he inquired. “Miranda” she answered with a sly smile. “What’s yours” came her own inquiry. “My names Mick. Mick Mahoney.” There was one other little thing that Mick had failed to notice in the growing darkness. In the flat bed of the truck was something that looked like an animal. The beast was stretched out on its belly and was it a big dog, maybe? Its head was different, though, and it had soft beautiful eyes and erect ears and a short snout with dilated nostrils. Mick did a double take, and damn if it wasn’t an Alpaca llama. It had a creamy coffee color appearance and its fleece hung down its sides, rump and breast in long, glossy silky strands. It was an animated ball of wool and it peered up tranquilly at Mick. And Mick peered back at it and it was just about the most beautiful animal he’d ever seen in his life. What a wonderful combination, he thought. A girl and her llama. “I was on my way down to the family shelter with some toys for the kids,” said Miranda and smiled sweetly. “Wanna come along? We’ll grab a beer at the Village Tavern after that and you can be my very own designated driver.” The beautiful and outgoing woman apparently had a soft spot for kids and made it a point every Christmas to take some toys to the destitute families at the downtown shelter. And before you could say Ol’ Saint Nick,’ Mick and Miranda were on their way downtown together in her pink pick-up truck. Miranda, not surprisingly, was a country/rock singer and had even had a successful recording career. That is until she went to prison. Not once but twice. Her full name was Miranda Logan and her numerous drunken DUI escapades had made the national news and it was only the day before that she’d been released from a six-month stint in the Davidson County women’s correctional facility. Mick was only vaguely familiar with the details that had propelled Miranda from the top of the charts to the bottom bunk in ‘the joint.’ But who cared anyway? Mick was just damn happy to be in the company of a lovely woman and one who seemed to be interested in him. Just because she’d done a little jail time was no reason not to hook-up with the little hottie, was it? God knows, he wasn’t the personification of ‘perfect,’ either. Besides, he had a soft spot for the homeless and why not tag along. I mean any chick with a pet llama, a pink pick-up truck and a love for kids…couldn’t be all bad, right?

Chapter 53

“To me the highest thing, after God, is my honor.” Ludwig van Beethoven

Dora had returned to the apartment in Tragg Hall after two hours of non-stop loving making with her fugitive husband. She had left reluctantly and only at his insistence. PT knew as well as Father Partner that the police would be watching Dora very closely in hopes of her leading them back to him. She sat at the small kitchen table when the phone rang. “Hello?” she answered. On the other end was Father Partner and he had called to give her an update on his meeting with the police detectives. He stood at the workstation in the café with his apron on and was prepping some food for tomorrow’s lunch. “Dora, this is Father Partner.” “Hello, Father. Did you go to police station? “I did Dora, a few hours ago. The detectives were fairly helpful, and I think I have a little better idea of what we’re up against.” Father Partner knew very well that the phone line might be tapped so he decided against giving out any more details. “If you’d like to meet me in the morning at the café, we can talk about it.” “Of course and thank you so much.” At that moment someone knocked at the door. Dora looked over and ended her conversation with the priest. “Someone’s at the door. I’ll call you in the morning.” Dora hung up the phone and walked to the door and opened it. And there stood those very two detectives, Brouchard and Hernandez. “Yes?” Dora said with some hesitation. “May we come in?” inquired Detective Brouchard. From the tone of his voice it was clear they were coming in whether she liked it or not. “Please do,” replied Dora as she stepped back and the detectives entered the apartment. Dora pointed to the kitchen table. “Would you like to sit down?” “That’ll be fine,” answered Hernandez. The two detectives took a long look around the room and then sat at the table. Pandora hovered for a moment and asked politely. “Would you like some tea?” Detective Brouchard waved off the offer, “No thank you. We’d like to ask you a few more questions, Mrs. Barnum.” Pandora sat at the table and waited for a repeat of the interrogation that the detectives had given her the day before. The two cops had been professional but played hard-ball with her in that last little get together. At the time, she had tried her best to be cooperative but that was before she knew where PT was hiding out. Could these detectives tell she had additional information? She wondered. These men were trained to look for any kind of deception and that’s exactly what she would be doing. There was nothing else she could do but lie if they asked where PT was. And that’s just what they did. “Have you seen you husband since we last spoke, Mrs. Barnum?” was the first question from Detective Brouchard. “No. I don’t where he is,” she said as calmly as she possibly could. “Have you spoken with him? By phone?” asked Detective Hernandez. “No I haven’t,” she lied again. Detective Brouchard leaned in close to Dora. “Do you know how serious this has become, Mrs. Barnum? There’s a major manhunt underway. We’re talking about hundreds of policemen not to mention all the news media that have gone crazy for this story.” Detective Brouchard sat back and crossed his arms and spoke confidentially. “We’ll find him, Mrs. Barnum. Believe me, we will find him.” He uncrossed his arms and leaned in close again. “What I’m going to tell you is very important. If Detective Hernandez and I find him he’ll be safe. On the other hand, he could easily be shot dead while he’s on the run. It happens all the time.” Dora swallowed hard and fought back the urge to cry. But damned if she’d let those tears out again and it was now time to be tough and to be strong. Like her husband’s family the Zimmerman’s. And German Jews were as strong as they get. And sometimes as eccentric as they get. Especially, Zack’s grandfather.

Joseph Zimmerman, in 1962, befriended a Düsseldorf colleague Nam June Paik, a member of the Fluxus movement. This was the beginning of what was to be a brief formal involvement with Fluxus, a loose international group of artists who championed a radical erosion of the boundaries of art, bringing aspects of creative practice outside of the institution and into the everyday. Although Zimmerman participated in a number of Fluxus events, it soon became clear that he viewed the implications of art’s economic and institutional framework differently. What served to launch Zimmerman into the public consciousness was that which transpired following his performance at the Technical College Aachen in 1964. As part of a festival of new art coinciding with the 20th anniversary of an assassination attempt on Adolf Hitler, Zimmerman created a performance or Aktion. The performance was interrupted by a group of students, one of whom attacked Zimmerman, punching him in the face. A photograph of the artist, nose bloodied and arm raised, was circulated in the media. It was for this 1964 festival that Zimmerman produced an idiosyncratic CV, which he titled Lebenslauf/Werklauf (Life Course/Work Course.) Zimmerman’s first solo exhibition in a private gallery was opened on November 26, 1965 with one of the artist’s most famous and compelling performances: How to Explain Pictures to a Dead Hare. The artist could be viewed through the glass of the gallery’s window. His face was covered in honey and gold leaf, an iron slab was attached to his boot. In his arms he cradled a dead hare, into whose ear he mumbled muffled noises as well as explanations of the drawings that lined the walls. Such materials and actions had specific symbolic value for Zimmerman. For example, honey was the product of bees who, for Zimmerman (following Rudolf Steiner), represented as ideal society of warmth and brotherhood. Gold had its importance within alchemical enquiry, and iron, the metal of Mars, stood for a masculine principle of strength and connection to the earth. Zimmerman produced many such spectacular, ritualistic performances, and he developed a compelling persona whereby he took on a liminal, shamanistic role, as if to enable passage between different physical and spiritual states.

And that’s what Dora would will into reality. Although not a big believer in Joseph Zimmerman’s cockamamie beliefs, she became determined at that moment to be like iron and to be full of strength and completely connected to the earth. “I’ve answered enough questions. If you’d like me to go to the police station, then I’ll go. Otherwise, I’m going to bed,” she said forcefully. The two detectives were caught a little off guard. Where did this come from? Apparently, there was a whole other side to this young woman they hadn’t seen. And God knows they didn’t want some lawyer intervening in things at this point and so that was it. End of the interview and end of playing hardball with the obviously resolute young woman. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Barnum,” said a much more polite Detective Brouchard. The two men stood and walked to the door and “Thank you, we’ll be in touch” were the conciliatory words from Detective Hernandez as they walked out the door. And was once said of German Rhine wines could now be said of the pleasant but unyielding Dora Barnum. The Germans are exceedingly fond of Rhine wines; they are put up in tall, slender bottles, and are considered a pleasant beverage. One tells them from vinegar by the label.

Chapter 54

“The seas are quit when the winds give o’er; So calm are we when passions are no more For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age decries. The soul’s dark cottage, batter’d and decay’d Lets in new light though chinks that Time hath made; Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home. Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.” Edmund Waller

In the hours before the funeral service began, a line of mourners stretched around the block under grey, windy skies, waiting to get into the famed Ryman Auditorium, where giant floral arrangements and portraits of King George graced the stage. At least five thousand people were on hand to pay their respects to the man known as the "The King of Country Music."

The Ryman Auditorium was first opened as the Union Gospel Tabernacle in 1892. It was built by Thomas Ryman (1843–1904), a riverboat captain and Nashville businessman. After his death, the Tabernacle was renamed Ryman Auditorium in his honor. It was subsequently used for Grand Ole Opry radio and television broadcasts from 1943 until 1974, when the Opry built a larger venue just outside Nashville at the Opryland USA theme park. The Ryman then sat mostly vacant and fell into disrepair until 1992, when Emmylou Harris and her band the Nash Ramblers performed a series of concerts there (the results of which appeared on her album “At the Ryman.”) The Harris concerts renewed interest in the restoring the Ryman; it was reopened as an intimate performance venue and museum in 1994. Audiences at the Ryman find themselves sitting in pews, the 1994 renovation notwithstanding. The seating is a reminder of the auditorium's origins as a house of worship, hence giving it the nickname "The Mother Church of Country Music". In 2001, the Ryman Auditorium was designated a National Historic Landmark and included in the National Register of Historic Places. Many of the greats of country music have performed at the Ryman over the years, including the legendary Hank Williams, Jim Reeves, Roy Acuff, Johnny Cash, Garth, Patsy Cline, Tennessee Ernie Ford, Loretta Lynn, Glen Campbell, Reba McEntire, Dolly Parton, Mary Robbins, Ernest Tubb, Dottie West and Tammy Wynette. Besides country, the venue also features alternative, bluegrass, blues, classical, gospel, jazz, pop, folk and rock, as well as musical theater and standup comedy shows. Among the countless other artists who have performed on the Ryman stage are Elvis Presley, Tallulah Bankhead, Ethel Barrymore, Sarah Bernhardt, Victor Borge, Ryan Adams, Bright Eyes, Fanny Brice, James Brown, The Byrds, Enrico Caruso, Carol Channing, Charlie Chaplin, Kelly Clarkson, Neil Diamond, Ani DiFranco, Bob Dylan, Elvis Costello, Oasis, R.E.M., The String Cheese Incident, O.A.R., Hooties & the Blowfish, W.C. Fields, Betty Grable, Erasure, Helen Hayes, Interpol, Katharine Hepburn, Bob Hope, Anna Pavlova, Norah Barnum, Van Morrison, Smashing Pumpkins, The Strokes, Kings of Leon, Trans-Siberian Orchestra, Wayne Newton and Coldplay.

In other words, this place had some serious history. And it was only fitting that King George’s public funeral, with an open casket, would take place at this historic and illustrious auditorium. For hours and hours, thousands of mourners had been streaming down the aisle of the Ryman to take one last look at their beloved King George. Little did those mourners know that two men in their midst were helping to harbor the man who was wanted in connection with the murder of their idol. Making their way down the tightly packed aisle of somber and sorrowful fans were Father Partner and Mick. The priest had taken a book of Orthodox writings with him to pass the time but, as it turned out, there was live entertainment all afternoon. And much to Mick’s delight. Father Partner hadn’t read a word as he and Mick listened to country stars like The Oak Ridge Boys, Little Jimmie Dickens, Jeanie Sealy, Marty Stewart, and Dolly Parton perform short sets of country music in tribute to the great man and their friend, King George. Father Partner and Mick were almost down to the lip of the stage as they listened to the words of a famous King George hit being sung wonderfully by The Oak Ridge Boys. “I WAS ROLLING THROUGH DALLAS AT THE SPEED OF LIGHT TRYIN’ TO MAKE TULSA BY AT LEAST MIDNITE I PULLED INTO A DINER FOR SOME CIGARETTES WHEN A CHICK PULLED UP IN A WHITE CORVETTE SHE HAD A CERTAIN KIND OF LOOK AND A BIG BLACK BOOK BOY WAS SHE FINE AND I GOT HOOKED WITH A WINK OF HER EYE AND A WAVE OF HER HAND I FOLLOWED HER DOWN TO THE PROMISED LAND AMEN AMEN BROTHER AMEN

SHE’S A ROCK SOLID BAPTIST GIRL PRETTIEST THING IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD SHE KNOWS THE WORD HAVE YOU HEARD SHE’S A ROCK SOLID BAPTIST GIRL

WELL THE PREACHER WAS WAITING IN THE CHURCH HOUSE DOOR HE MUST HAVE WEIGHED AT LEAST THREE HUNDRED OR MORE SAID HOW YOU DOIN’ SON GOD BLESS YOU YOU MUST BE ONE OF THE CHOSEN FEW WELL THE BELLS THEY RANG THE CHOIR THEY SANG BEFORE YOU KNEW IT I WAS STANDING IN LINE DIPPED IN WATER AND SAW THE LIGHT SHINE AMEN AMEN BROTHER AMEN

SHE’S A ROCK SOLID BAPTIST GIRL PRETTIEST THING IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD SHE KNOWS THE WORD HAVE YOU HEARD SHE’S A ROCK SOLID BAPTIST GIRL

WELL THE MORAL OF THIS STORY THE REASON FOR THIS SONG IS TO WARN YOU SINNERS WHO KEEP GOIN’ WRONG IF YOU PULL INTO A DINER FOR SOME CIGARETTES JUST PRAY YOU MEET THE CHICK IN THE WHITE CORVETTE

SHE’S A ROCK SOLID BAPTIST GIRL PRETTIEST THING THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD SHE KNOWS THE WORD HAVE YOU HEARD SHE’S A ROCK SOLID BAPTIST GIRL…”

“Love that song they’re playing,” said Mick as they slowly approached the looming open casket. Father Partner said nothing and just stared straight ahead. Three security guards stood at attention around the coffin that was made of Poplar wood with a high gloss cherry finish and bright brass on the tip of the handles. Inside the light beige crepe interior was cradled the body of the country music giant, King George. For Father Partner it was his first real glimpse of a country music star. He wasn’t much of a country music fan and had never even been to a country music concert. It was all the more unusual that he’d felt compelled all morning to make the trip downtown to the Ryman Auditorium. Mick on the other hand wouldn’t have missed it for the world. He loved the country music legend and what better way to say, ‘thank you’ to the man, but come to his funeral and pay his respects? And there he was. All decked out in a shiny red ‘Manuel’ rhinestone studded half-jacket, King George looked the part of a country music superstar even in death. To those who knew him personally this peaceful and serene poise seemed somewhat out of character but then King George didn’t have much to do with that, did he?

Finally, the priest and Mick were face to face with the deceased country singer. Mick leaned into Father Partner and whispered, “He was amazing. Man, could he sing.” Father Partner nodded his head and made the sign of the cross. “God rest his soul,” he spoke softly. “Look at that,” said Mick pointing to King George’s hands that lay folded together across his chest. Between the thumb and index finger of his right hand he clutched a metallic green plastic guitar pick. It was Father Partner who quickly observed a visible thin layer of some transparent substance that rimmed the outer edges of the guitar pick. “He’s a got a guitar pick,” Mick said and continued, “How cool is that?” What a touch, thought Father Partner. Even in death this guy was a shining example of a famous country musician. And like all famous musicians and singers they live or, in this case, die trying to please their fans. And in return they get the money and the fame and when they die they get thousands of tearful and grieving fans who come to say goodbye. And for these particular fans this good ol’ boy turned superstar had been their champion and hero and had faithfully represented the average man and woman for five decades. But for Father Partner it was now time to get back to the dilemma that was facing the man wanted in the murder of that very same good ‘ol boy. The King was dead, but the Snow Globe Man was still very much alive. Make that, ‘wanted dead or alive.’

Chapter 54

“Our minds have unbelievable power over our bodies.” Andre Maurois

PT had climbed up and down the circular staircase at least forty times and it was only mid-morning. At the very least he was getting in good shape but that was about all. His mind was still clouded with those dark and depressing thoughts and he was beginning to feel a real and tangible disconnect with reality. How could this tragedy have possibly happened? He kept asking himself. Never once had the zipper failed to open and, God knows, he would never have anything like superglue anywhere close to the plastic orb. Why would he? It just didn’t make any sense, the tube of superglue they found at the base of the bubble. Not to mention, the fact that some of that glue was found in the metal zipper. He had gone over the events that led up to King George entering the orb again and again in his head. For hours on end he had pictured in his mind every detail as best he could recollect them. It had been chaotic and noisy that night in the bar and there had been so many people and it was then he suddenly remembered. It was like a short scene from an old black and white movie when it came to him. It was ‘film noir’ of the mind.

Film noir is a cinematic term used primarily to describe stylish Hollywood crime dramas, particularly those that emphasize moral ambiguity and sexual motivation. Hollywood's classic film noir period is generally regarded as stretching from the early 1940s to the late 1950s. Film noir of this era is associated with a low-key black-and-white visual style that has roots in German Expressionist cinematography, while many of the prototypical stories and much of the attitude of classic noir derive from the hardboiled school of crime fiction that emerged in the United States during the Depression. The movie now most commonly cited as the first ‘true’ film noir is “Stranger on the Third Floor” (1940), directed by Latvian-born, Soviet- trained Boris Ingster. Hungarian émigré, Peter Lorre, who played secondary roles in bigger-budgeted movies, was top-billed, though here too he did not play the lead. “Stranger on the Third Floor was not recognized as the beginning of a trend, let alone a new genre, for many decades Most of the film noirs of the classic period were similarly low and modestly budgeted features without major stars (B movies either literally or in spirit), in which writers, directors, cinematographers, and other craftsmen found themselves relatively free from the typical big-picture constraints. Enforcement of the Production Code ensured that no movie character could literally get away with murder or be seen sharing a bed with anyone but a spouse; within those bounds, however, many films now identified as noir feature plot elements and dialogue that were—in some cases, still are—quite risqué. Thematically, film noirs as a group were most exceptional for the relative frequency with which they centered on women of questionable virtue—a focus that had become rare in Hollywood films after the mid- 1930s and the end of the pre-Code era. The signal movie in this vein was “Double Indemnity“ (1944), directed by Billy Wilder; setting the mold was Barbara Stanwyck’s unforgettable femme fatale, Phyllis Dietrichson—an apparent nod to Marlene Dietrich, who had built her extraordinary career playing such characters for Sternberg. An A-level feature all the way, the movie's commercial success and seven Oscar nominations made it probably the most influential of the early noirs. The makers of film noir turned all this on its head, creating sophisticated, sometimes bleak dramas tinged with mistrust, cynicism, and a sense of the absurd, in settings that were frequently either real-life urban or budget-saving minimalist, with often strikingly expressionist lighting and unsettling techniques such as wildly skewed camera angles and convoluted flashbacks. The noir style gradually influenced the mainstream—even beyond Hollywood.

And damned if that noir style wasn’t even influencing PT Barnum right there in that Bell Tower in Nashville, Tennessee. In his mind came a scene that was a bit sketchy and vague at first until it became clearer and clearer and he saw it again and again as the scene replayed in his mind. PT could see two other people at the base of the orb and they were both on their hands and knees. Or was it just his imagination? Was it something he wanted so desperately to believe that he was fabricating the images?

Confabulation, also known as ‘false memory’ is the confusion of imagination with memory, and/or the confusion of true memories with false memories. Noted psychological researcher Dr. Berlyne (1972) defined confabulation as “…a falsification of memory occurring in clear consciousness in association with an organically derived amnesia.“ He distinguished between: “momentary” (or “provoked”) confabulations - fleeting, and invariably provoked by questions probing the subject’s memory – sometimes consisting of “real” memories displaced in their temporal context. And there are “fantastic” (or “spontaneous”) confabulations - characterized by the spontaneous outpouring of irrelevant associations – sometimes bizarre ideas, which may be held with firm conviction. A false memory due to non-organic causes is a memory of an event that did not happen or is a distortion of an event that did occur as determined by externally corroborated facts. Confabulation also appears to be a common occurrence in normal individuals under experimental circumstances, as shown by research on choice blindness. It is common experience that memory may be unreliable to some degree. Our sense of identity, of who we are and what we have done, is tied to our memories, and it can be disturbing to have those challenged. Amnesia, Alzheimer’s disease, and post-traumatic stress disorder (also known as “shell-shock”) provide examples of dramatic loss of memory, with devastating effects on the sufferer and those around them. Memory is a complicated process, only partly understood, but research suggests that the qualities of a memory do not in and of themselves provide a reliable way to determine accuracy. For example, a vivid and detailed memory may be based upon inaccurate reconstruction of facts, or largely self-created impressions that appear to have actually occurred. Likewise, continuity of memory is no guarantee of truth, and disruption of memory is no guarantee of falsity. Finally, memory is a reconstructed phenomenon, and so it can often be strongly influenced by various biases, such as: subjective or social expectation, emotions, the implied beliefs of others, inappropriate interpretation, or desired outcome.

And so, PT remembered seeing two other people at the base of the orb besides him. One of them was a large woman wearing a hat and who appeared overwhelmed with emotion as she reached out to King George. And there was somebody else. It took longer to come into focus but when it did it was clear as a bell. It was the owner of Balls and the personal manager of King George. It was Berv Ballsey. The more he thought about it the more he remembered the quick exchange. King George was already halfway into the orb when Berv said something to him. PT couldn’t recall what was said but he did remember Berv being close enough to King George to pat him on the shoulder. Could he have put the glue in the zipper? Did Berv Ballsey murder his famous client? Or was some crazed female fan responsible for the deadly deed? PT knew he had to get this additional information to Father Partner and fast. How much longer he could remain a fugitive was uncertain but the fact that he’d be apprehended sooner or later was almost certain. Where’s a priest when you need one? And miracle of miracles it was then he heard a voice calling out from below. “PT? Are you up there?” It was Father Partner, and he was ascending the circular staircase with flashlight in hand. “It’s me, Father Partner,” the priest said to identify himself. “I’m here Father. Keep coming up,” PT called back. Momentarily, Father Partner appeared at the top of the staircase. “So, this is where you’re living these days. What do they get for rent in a place like this?” he said softly and smiled. Leave it to the optimistic priest to try and ‘lighten things up’ amid the abject darkness, thought PT. Then again, there might be some reason for optimism. He now had some memories that might provide new clues in the death of King George. Maybe, just maybe, Father Partner could take these clues and find some ‘light at the end of the tunnel.’

Chapter 55

“Let us bear with magnanimity whatever it is needful for us to bear.” Seneca

If life for Mick hadn’t been strange enough lately the next set of circumstances were like something out of a movie. Or in this case a television show. “America’s Most Wanted” had come to Nashville, ya‘ll. The reason was simple enough. There was a high-profile celebrity who was apparently murdered and a fugitive from justice who was wanted in connection with that murder. That fugitive was, of course, PT Barnum aka the Snow Globe Man and the producers of the TV show had wasted no time in preparing an episode revolving around the explosive case.

“America's Most Wanted” is a long-running TV show produced by 20th Century Fox. Its purpose is to profile and assist law enforcement in the apprehension of fugitives wanted for various crimes, including murder, rape, child molestation, white collar crime, armed robbery, gang violence and terrorism, many of which who are currently on the FBI Ten Most Wanted Fugitives list. After the program’s pilot aired, a lengthy search was conducted, and John Walsh was selected as the host of the show. Walsh gained publicity after his six-year-old son, Adam Walsh, was kidnapped and murdered in 1981, and he parlayed that into the creation of the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Other potential candidates included former Marine Corps. Commandant General P.X. Kelly and victims' advocate Theresa Saldana. The show began profiling missing persons, especially children, in 1991. As of January 14, 2008, 973 fugitives have been captured and 54 missing persons (including children) have been recovered alive as a direct result of viewer tips. Some of the most notorious captures include suspected killers Shawn Windor and Michael Brashar, the Texas Seven, as well as Elizabeth Smart’s abductors Brian Mitchell and Wanda Barzee. The show expanded its focus to also cover criminals in the ‘War on Terrorism’ when, on October 12, 2001 an episode aired featuring 22 most wanted al-Qaeda operatives. The show was put together due to a request by President George W. Bush, who had presented the same list of men to the nation two days earlier. In October 2002, the show did a special episode focusing on the serial sniper shootings in the Washington, D.C. area. In the new millennium, America’s Most Wanted has seen continued success and currently in its 21st season, AMW is close to a reported 1000 captures. The show usually ends with John Walsh saying, "...and remember, you can make a difference."

And that’s just what Mick might be doing. Making a difference by portraying the fugitive from justice known as the Snow Globe Man on “America’s Most Wanted.” And incredible as it may seem, it all happened because of Mick’s new love interest, Miranda Logan. The recently release jailbird and country/rock singer had been asked to audition for a role in the TV show and Mick had accompanied her along for the interview. And so, while waiting for Miranda to do her audition, Mick was confronted by casting director, Sherri Hughes. The short, portly woman walked into the office lobby and looked around the room. She signaled to Miranda to go in and then looked at Mick. “You’ll be reading next,” she said to him. “I’m not here to audition. I just came with my friend Miranda.” Sherri took a long look at him and glanced at her notes. She looked up puzzled. “You’re not here to read for the role of the Snow Globe Man?” “Uh, no,” answered Mick. Miranda hadn’t told him what she was auditioning for and, damn, what was happening here? The edgy and aggressive Hollywood casting director took her big black clunky glasses off and stared hard at Mick. “You’re not an actor?” she asked. “Well…I have studied a little acting in the past but that’s been awhile. I’m a musician,” Mick responded and hoped that was the end of it. God knows he didn’t want any part of this strange and cosmic coincidence. I mean, he was part of a conspiracy to hide out the very man he was being asked to portray. “A musician? Do you sing, too?” Sherri queried him. “Yeah, I sing,” replied Mick flatly. “That’s perfect. This guy does, too. Why don’t you read this role for me,” she said emphatically and handed him some pages of a script. Mick started to protest until she said, “It’s a great part and you’d be paid a couple thousand dollars for the shoot.” Whoa Nelly… a couple thousand dollars? Thought Mick. He was still basically broke and a couple thousand dollars could go a long way in helping him get out of his dire financial predicament. He was now in a serious quandary and he quickly considered the repercussions of his involvement in the TV show. Was there any other benefit in doing this role? Not just for himself but for PT? Perhaps, he thought, there might be some way to gain access to police files and other confidential information that might be of some help to his friend. And then there was the portrayal of the fugitive. He knew that some other actor might go for the obvious; sinister and menacing and stupidly simplistic. This kind of show was known for its less than stellar acting and many performances that went way ‘over the top.’ Maybe he could build some sympathy for the Snow Globe Man with a well-acted and flattering performance and as Shakespeare once wrote, “As in a theater, the eyes of men, after a well-graced actor leaves the stage, are idly bent on him that enters next.” Such was the improbable dilemma facing Mick and his possible re- enactment of the Snow Globe Man murdering King George on the hit TV show “America’s Most Wanted.”

Chapter 56

“Whenever evil befalls us, we ought to ask ourselves, after the first sufferings, how we can turn it into good. So shall we take occasion, from one bitter root, to raise perhaps many flowers.” Leigh Hunt

Father Partner was having that meeting with Dora that he’d promised and this time he had some good news. At least he hoped it was good news. “PT and I had a long talk last night. He remembered a few things that could be very helpful, too” said Father Partner to Dora who sat next to him at the small table in the café. Father Partner’s wife Marian was the only other person in the empty café, and she was wiping the tables down from the busy lunch crowd. “Really? Like what?” Dora asked with interest. “He remembered two other people being at the base of the globe that night. It was a very big woman and the owner of the bar, Berv Ballsey. You were there, do you recall any of this?” Dora thought about it and shook her head ‘no.’ “When George Stones did his performance, I was in the back of bar with Mick. PT did all the work and he zipped up zipper and turned the air machine on.” Father Partner nodded his head and continued, “Well it’s possible that the bar owner or the woman could have put the superglue in the zipper.” Dora looked at him and for the first time in quite a while, she smiled. “Yes, that’s a possibility. There must be someone else who did this. Can you talk to the police? “ “I certainly hope they’re considering the possibility of someone else being involved. Unfortunately, PT may be the only person who saw those two people….and remembers them,” stated the priest. Marian, who had been quietly listening to the exchange, spoke up, “Why don’t you tell the police that Dora remembers them. At least they’ll have something to work with.” Father Partner thought about this for a moment and agreed. “That’s a good idea, dear. Dora, you can tell them what PT saw. They won’t know the difference, anyway.” “Yes, of course. I’ll say anything to help,” Dora said as Father Partner stood up and looked out the window and down the street. “I think it’s also time I had a talk with Mr. Ballsey myself.” Dora stood up as well and began to put her coat on. “I’m going, too.” Father Partner nodded his head and looked at his wife. “We’ll be down the street at the honky-tonk if anyone calls, dear.”

Honky Tonk. The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) states that the origin of the word honky tonk is unknown. However, the earliest source explaining the derivation of the term (spelled honkatonk) was an article published by the New York Sun in 1900 and widely reprinted in other newspapers. It states un-categorically that the term came from the sound of geese which led an unsuspecting group of cowboys to the flock instead of to the variety show they expected. Also, the OED states that the first use in print was in 1894 in the Daily Ardmoreite (Ardmore, Oklahoma) newspaper where it was honk- a-tonk. However, honkatonk has been cited from at least 1892 in the Galveston Daily News (Galveston, Texas where it referred to as an adult establishment in Ft. Worth, Texas.) Other sources speculate that the "tonk" portion of the name may well have come from a brand name of piano. One American manufacturer of large upright pianos was the firm of William Tonk & Bros. (established 1889), which made a piano with the decal "Ernest A. Tonk". These upright grand pianos were made in Chicago and New York and were called Tonk pianos. Some found their way to Tin Pan Alley and may have given rise to the expression of "honky tonk bars". It is unlikely, however, that a Tin Pan Alley piano manufactured in 1889 would influence the vocabulary in either Texas or Indian Territory by 1892 or 1894. During the pre-World War II years, the music industry began to refer to the Honky Tonk music being played from Texas and Oklahoma to the West Coast as Hillbilly music. More recently it has come to refer to the primary sound in country music, which developed in Nashville as Western Swing became accepted there. Originally, it featured the guitar, fiddle, string bass and steel guitar (an importation from Hawaiian folk music) and is one of the early sources of electric guitar in country music. The vocals were originally rough and nasal, like singer-songwriters Floyd Tillman and Hank Williams, but later developed a clear and sharp sound with singers such as George Stones and Johnny Paycheck. Lyrics tended to focus on working-class life, with frequently tragic themes of lost love, adultery, loneliness, alcoholism, and self-pity. Hank William’s “Your Cheatin’ Heart” and Ted Daffin's "Born to Lose" are considered two of those prototype songs. During World War II, honky tonk country was popularized by Ernest Tubb ("I'm Walking the Floor Over You") who took the sound to Nashville, where he was the first musician to play electric guitar on Grand Ole Opry. In the 1950s, though, honky tonk entered its golden age with the massive popularity of Webb Pierce, Hank Locklin, Lefty Frizzell, George Stones and Hank Williams.

And so, it was the ol’ honky-tonk, Balls, which had just begun daily ‘happy hour’ when Father Partner and Dora walked through the front door. They took off their overcoats and looked around the woodsy room. Father Partner was decked out in his crisp black priest pants and shirt and wore the official badge of any godly private detective, a silver cross hung from a chain around his neck. Dora wore some black slacks, a tight beige cashmere sweater and immediately got a couple of ‘looks’ from some guys at the bar. She definitely had some firm ample breasts and they had eyes and, hey, this was a honky-tonk, wasn’t it? No harm in looking, even if she was with a priest. Along with these guys there was a flirtatious couple who sat at a table in the corner and spoke in hushed tones. A little late afternoon adulterous rendezvous, perhaps? It was a common occurrence at this watering hole and many other honky-tonks across the country. Appropriately, the Charlie Rich adultery themed country song “Behind Closed Doors” played on the juke box. And as it turned out, Father Partner and Dora were in luck. Bar owner and big shot music manager, Berv Ballsey, was also there in the bar. The handsome middle aged man with a well-trimmed beard sat at a table with two adoring young women who, most likely, were up-and- coming country singers. Father Partner walked up to the bar and smiled at the attractive female bartender who was dabbing some bright red nail polish on a fingernail. She wore a tank top, tight jeans and cowboy boots and smiled back. “What you havin’ honey?” “Is Mr. Ballsey here?” The woman pointed over to the table. “There’s the man.” “Thank you very much,” replied Father Partner. He motioned to Dora and they walked over to the bar owner’s table. Berv was patiently listening to one of the young women rattle on about some upcoming performance when Father Partner spoke up. “Excuse me, are you Mr. Ballsey?” Berv looked around and eyed the priest. He was used to just about everybody and anybody approaching him for a request or to pay their respects. But a priest? And in a honky-tonk? Berv was very curious about the visit but he was also the essence of cool and calm and didn’t blink an eye. “Yes sir, I am,” Berv responded. “My name is Father Partnerious and this is Dora Barnum. We were wondering if we could have a few minutes of your time?” Berv took a slow and deliberate sip of his beer and considered the request. The man hadn’t made millions of dollars and represented some of country’s biggest stars without some deliberation. Berv also had a wry sense of humor. “Well, if it’s time for my confession then that’ll take more like three years.” The two young women both laughed. Then again, they’d laugh, cry or do a topless jig on the bar if Berv asked them to. Father Partner smiled and picked up on the joke and retorted. “If you’ve got plenty of draft beer then I’ve got the time.” Berv smiled and pointed at two vacant chairs at the table. “Have a seat, ya‘ll.” He looked over at the bartender and called out, “Get me a pitcher of draft beer would you sweetheart?” and turned his gaze back on his new guests. But especially on Dora. “Now what can I do for you?” asked Berv as Father Partner and Dora took seats at the table. “Dora is the wife of PT Barnum and I’m his priest.” “Who’s PT Barnum?” queried Berv. “The Snow Globe Man,” stated Father Partner. Berv glared at the priest and looked at the two young women who sat next to him. “Could you girls come back a little later?” The women sensed the sudden tension in the air and rose from the table immediately and walked off to the bar. Berv turned his attention back to the priest and Dora. “I hope you got a real good reason for being here. That son-of-a bitch killed my friend and client, George Stones,” Berv said gruffly. Father Partner nodded his head and spoke softly. “I know the police think he did, Mr. Ballsey. But I’m not totally convinced of that.” “Well, hell, he had some glue and put into the zipper of that bubble, didn’t he? King George suffocated in that damn thing,” stated Berv. Father Partner thought about a measured response to the biting accusation but decided to go for it. “No one knows that for sure. In fact, Dora remembers two other people who could have put that glue in the zipper.” Berv took a slug of beer and eyed the priest. “Who the hell would that be?” “Well…it was you and a woman who wore a big hat,” stated the priest calmly. Silence. Berv said nothing. He momentarily turned his gaze on Dora and smiled. Berv liked good looking women and why let a little thing like murder get in the way of pleasantries? “It’s good to meet you, Dora. I’m Berv Ballsey.” “Thank you for speaking with us, Mr. Ballsey,” Dora replied. “And now that I think about it, I do remember you. How could I forget a fine-looking woman like yourself? You were helping your husband out with the bubble, right?” “Yes,” Dora answered. Berv nodded his head and stared back at Father Partner. “You’re right. I spoke with George as he was going in that bubble. Nothing more than that. The woman you saw was just Melba May Meriweather. She’s a regular here.” Berv took another slug off his beer and eyed the priest even more intensely. “Are you saying that I might have put that glue in the zipper?” “I’m just saying that there were other people who could have possibly done what the police think PT did,” answered Father Partner thoughtfully. “That’s all. I’m sure you’re not the kind of man who would murder someone.” Berv hadn’t taken his eyes off the priest when a wicked little smile crossed his face. “Don’t be too sure about that, Father. Don’t be too sure about that.”

Chapter 57

“The secret of contentment is the discovery by every man of his own powers and limitations, finding satisfaction in a line of activity which he can do well, plus the wisdom to know that his place, no matter how important or successful he is, never counts very much in the universe. A man may very well be so successful in carving a name for himself in his field that he begins to imagine himself indispensable or omnipotent. He is eaten up by some secret ambition, and then good-bye to all contentment. Sometimes it is more important to discover what one cannot do than what can do. So much restlessness is due to the fact that a man does not know what he wants, or he wants too many things, or perhaps he wants to be somebody else, to be anybody except himself. The courage of being one’s genuine self, of standing alone and of not wanting to be somebody else!” Lin Yutang

Mick got the part. Unbelievably, he would now be portraying the Snow Globe Man on the fast paced, fugitive finding hit TV show “America’s Most Wanted.” It was a combination of his acting abilities and his musical talents but more the fact that he actually knew PT Barnum. This astounding piece of information was revealed to the director and producers of the show during his audition. The executive suite that was doubling as a casting office in downtown Nashville had a long dark green velvet couch, a coffee table and a high-end video camera set up in the corner. Typical of casting auditions the two producers and the director all sat together on the couch and said nothing. The casting director, Sherri Hughes, did all the talking and read the script with Mick. A young woman manned the video camera as the audition began and Sherri read the lines of King George. “Howdy son. I’d sure like to do my show inside that bubble.” “Well, sure, King George, anything you say,” responded Mick in the role of the Snow Globe Man. “Hells bells, I ain’t ever seen nothing like a real snow globe bubble with some fake snow inside it.” “I think you’ll have some fun in there, King George,” was the forced delivery from Mick. “You know I’ve played on stages all over the world, but this will a first.” “You’re the best, King George. Inside or outside of a bubble,” replied Mick weakly. He was trying his best with the awful dialogue and having a hard time connecting to the preposterous script. This script, like all the others at “America’s Most Wanted,” was whipped together almost overnight. I mean, they had a fugitive to catch and time was of the essence. Not to mention, the budget for these shows was extremely paltry compared to the major network’s prime time dramas. Finally, the director himself interrupted the audition. “Could you try being a little more…let’s see…evil? Mick looked at him and grimaced. So that’s the way they were going with this piece of melodramatic crap, he thought. Why don’t just put a sign around my neck and let it read, I’M THE BAD GUY. “I’m not so sure he’d really act that way,” was Mick’s observation. “Why not?” asked the impatient director. “Well for one, he’s not really evil.” “He killed a man. That’s pretty damn evil,” snapped the director. “Well, to the best of my knowledge, they haven’t proved he killed anybody, and the fact is, I’ve met him,” stated Mick. The egomaniacal Hollywood TV director had to think about that one. “Say that again.” “I said that I’ve met him. He’s really a very nice guy.” The director and his producing partners all looked at each other. The arrogant and overweight TV director stood up from the couch and walked over to Mick. “You actually know this guy? “A little.” “My God. That’s incredible.” The director looked over at the producers who both nodded their heads at the same time. He then pointed straight at Mick and stated, “You’re playing this role. We’ll put a wig and a beard on you and it’ll be perfect. Welcome aboard.”

Not only was Mick cast in the role but two Nashville homicide detectives would be consulting the Hollywood TV production, as well. This was a common practice that “America’s Most Wanted” had cultivated with police departments across the United States. In the case of murder, the lead homicide detectives on the case became actively involved in every detail of the production and even flew to Washington D.C. when the show was aired. It was there that a bank of phones and operators were in place to field calls from viewers who might have information as to the location of the fugitive. It was a perfect little marriage. The play-pretend Hollywood production company and the real deal cops. In this case, it was two read deal Nashville homicide detectives and, you guessed it, it was Detectives Brouchard and Hernandez.

Police Detective. In most American police departments, a candidate for detective must first have served as a uniformed officer for a period of one to five years. Detective is often an appointed position, rather than a position achieved by passing a written test. Prospective U.K. police detectives must have completed at least two years as a uniformed officer before applying to join the Criminal Investigation Department. In many other European police systems, most detectives are university graduates who join directly from civilian life without first serving as uniformed officers. Detectives obtain their position by competitive examination covering such subjects as principles, practices and procedures of investigation; interviewing and interrogation; criminal law and procedures; applicable law governing arrests, search and seizures, warrants and evidence; police department records and reports; principles, practices and objectives of courtroom testimony; and police department methods and procedures. The detective branch in most larger police agencies is organized into several squads or departments, each of which specializes in investigation into a particular type of crime or a particular type of undercover operation, which may include: homicide; robbery; motor vehicle theft; organized crime; fraud, burglary; narcotics; vice; forgery, criminal intelligence; sex crimes; street crime; computer crime; crimes against children; surveillance; and arson, among others. Detectives may use public and private records to provide background information on a subject and they can search through files of fingerprint records. In the United States, the FBI maintains records of people who have committed felonies and some misdemeanors, all persons who have not applied for a Federal security clearance, and all persons who have served in the U.S. armed forces. As well, detectives may search through records of criminal arrests and convictions, photographs or mug shots, of persons arrested, and motor vehicle records. With a warrant, police detectives can also search through credit card records and bank statements, hotel registration information, credit reports, answer machine and cell phone messages and even medical records.

And it was the private records of King George that Father Partner was most interested in. Instinctively, he knew there had to more to the life of King George and the tragic circumstances that killed the country star, than met the eye. And inconceivably, Mick had been given access to much of the same information that the homicide detectives were in possession of. It was all a part of his preparation to play the role of the Snow Goble Man. At a hurried meeting in the café Mick revealed this astonishing information to Father Partner and Dora. “I’ve got a lot of the same records and information the detectives have,” stated Mick. “That’s just incredible that they let you have access to their files,” said Father Partner and shook his head. “What were they thinking?” Mick smiled wryly. “It’s that old Hollywood magic at work. I’ve already been given notes from the night of King George’s death. I guess they think this show will win some awards or something,” Mick quipped and took a sip of hot spiced Russian tea before continuing. “Hollywood outsiders, including the police, just become fools when they get involved in a TV show or a film. I’ve seen it before. Of course, I also told them I’d studied a little acting at the Lee Strasberg Theater Institute. I said there was no way I could really get under the skin of this guy without some in-depth information. And it would ultimately help me find some real emotion and motivation in myself and that’s what a good method actor does.”

Lee Strasberg (November 17, 1901 - February 17, 1982) was an Academy Award nominated Austro-Hungarian-American director, actor, producer, and acting teacher. He was born Israel Strassberg in Budzanów, former Austro-Hungarian Empire (now Budaniv, Budaniy, Ukraine) to Ida and Baruch Meyer Strassberg. In 1931, Lee Strasberg became one of the co-founders of the Group Theater, a company which included such legends as Elia Kazan, John Garfield, Stella Adler, Sanford Meisner, Franchot Tone and Robert Lewis. In 1936, Strasberg became a naturalized citizen of the United States. In 1949, he began a lengthy career at the Actors Studio in New York City. Within two years, he was artistic director and the now-renowned institution's reputation flourished. Actors under his tutelage there included Burt Young, Geraldine Page, Paul Newman, Al Pacino, Kim Stanley, Marilyn Monroe, Jane Fonda, James Dean, Dustin Hoffman, Eli Wallach, Eva Marie Saint, Robert De Niro, Jill Clayburg, Ellen Burstyn, Gene Wilder, Steve McQueen and Dennis Hopper. Strasberg is considered by many to be the patriarch of American “method“ acting. Method acting is an acting technique in which actors try to replicate real life emotional conditions under which the character operates, in an effort to create a life-like, realistic performance. This is contrasted with a more abstracted, less involved style of acting in which the actor himself or herself remains an outside observer of the character he or she is portraying. "The Method" in method acting typically refers to the generic practice of actors drawing on their own emotions, memories, and experiences to influence their portrayals of characters. In general, however, method acting combines a careful consideration of the psychological motives of the character, and some sort of personal identification with, and possibly the reproduction of the character's emotional state in a realistic way. It usually forms an antithesis to clichéd, unrealistic, so-called ‘rubber stamp’ or indicated acting.

Father Partner looked at Mick and asked, “Did you get any other information we could use? Like about Berv Ballsey and his customers at the bar?” Mick thought about it for a moment and shook his head. “That’s about it for now. We don’t start shooting until tomorrow, but I asked them to get me some more info on King George. Told them it would help me understand the man I killed. Who knows, I said, the Snow Globe Man could have been obsessed with the singer.” “Good. That could be a big help. But there is one other person I’d really like to talk to. There was a woman at the base of the globe that night named Melba May Meriweather. According to Mr. Ballsey, she’s a regular at the bar. Why don’t you see what they know about her, too” came the request from Father Partner. He got up from the table and walked over to the cash register and reached down in a drawer and pulled out a phone book. After a moment of looking through the Nashville directory he smiled. “We’ll look who’s here. Melba May Meriweather. And there’s an address, too.” Seek and you shall find.

Chapter 58

“One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon-instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming outside our windows today.” Dale Carnegie

Father Parter and Dora stood at the door of a modest one-story wood framed house in the blue-collar neighborhood of East Nashville. He knocked at the door and waited when momentarily the door opened and there stood Melba May Meriweather. And Miss Meriweather was a sight to behold. She stood five feet, eleven inches tall and weighed in at about two hundred and forty-five pounds. On most days, she’d be wearing a colorful oversized cotton sundress and a straw hat, but today it was a hefty chartreuse terry cloth bathrobe that draped her big bulky frame. In her hand, she held a copy of the tabloid magazine, The National Enquirer. Never married, Melba May had lived her entire adult life alone and got her kicks vicariously through the lives of country music stars. Every news item, every tabloid story and any parcel of gossip totally consumed the middle-aged woman. She even had silly little nicknames for all her favorite male country stars and she was certain that someday soon she’d be married to one of them. Melba May stared apprehensively at Father Partner and Dora. Jehovah Witnesses? she wondered to herself. “Miss Meriweather?” inquired the priest. “Yes, that’s my name.” “Hello, I’m Father Partenerios and this is Dora Barnum. If you have a couple of minutes we’d really like to talk with you. It’s about the death of King George,” stated the priest and waited for a response. “Why would you want to talk to me?” “Mrs. Barnum is the wife of PT Barnum, the man who’s wanted in connection with the death of King George,” said Father Partner as he glanced at the magazine in her hand. There on the cover was a picture of a very dead King George sprawled out on his back on the barroom floor of Balls. Apparently, someone in the crowd had taken the lurid photo just moments after the country star died. No doubt, they’d also probably collected some big money as a result. The headline above the photo read:

KING OF COUNTRY KILLED BY SNOW GLOBE MAN!

Father Partner continued in his usual soft-spoken manner. “Dora remembers you being at Balls that night. It would be a very big help to us if you could tell us what you might have seen…. could we come in for a minute?” Melba May looked torn and glanced back into the house and back at the priest. “My house is just a mess. I’m not even dressed right.” “We don’t mine, really. Would you please talk to us?” Dora pleaded with some emotion in her voice. This seemed to do the trick. “Well…I guess it couldn’t hurt. Come on in,” she said reluctantly and opened the door wider as Father Partner and Dora entered the dimly lit house. Melba May led them down a narrow hall with a series of framed and signed photographs of famous, and mostly dead, country music stars lining both walls. Roy Acuff, Patsy Cline, Chet Atkins, Dottie West, Charlie Pride, Hank Cochran, Jim Reeves and one particular photograph that quickly caught the eye of Father Partner. “Is that you Miss Meriweather?” Melba May lit up and said proudly, “Yep, that’s me when I was a teenage girl. I was backstage at the Grand ’Ol Opry with King George and my grandmother Minnie Pearl.

Minnie Pearl was the stage name of Sarah Ophelia Colley Cannon (October 25, 1912 - March 4, 1996). She was a country comedian who, along with friend Roy Acuff, was an institution at the Grand Ole Opry, and on the television show Hee Haw from 1969 to1991. She was known for wearing a big hat with a price tag that read "$1.98" hanging off the side. Her first performance onstage as Minnie Pearl was in 1939 in Aiken, South Carolina. Her ’catch phrase’ was always, "Howdeeee! I'm jest so proud to be here!" delivered at what seemed to have been the top of her lungs. Once she was an established star, her audience almost invariably shouted "Howdeeee!" back to her. Mrs. Cannon portrayed the "Minnie Pearl" character for many years on the perennial Saturday night television cornfest “Hee Haw” both on the original network and subsequent syndicated versions. This may have been less taxing than it would appear; the program was shot entirely in Nashville and totally out of sequence, so that each performer could record all of his or her appearances for an entire television season in a matter of a few days or parts of days. When asked why the cornball program was so popular, Cannon explained that it took viewers to a place where there was "no war, no cancer." Mrs. Cannon was fairly influential in the lives of many older country music singers taking something of a maternal interest in them, especially Hank Williams, but also many of the younger generation of female singers; she had seen many of the inequities in the treatment of women in business in general, and women in the country music industry in particular, firsthand. She was also a close friend of Paul Reubens and the legendary Dean Martin. She was also a trailblazer for rural humorists. Among those who followed in her footsteps were Jerry Clower, Jeff Foxworthy, Bill Engvall, Carl Hurley, David L Cook, Chonda Pierce, Ron White and Larry the Cable Guy. In 2002, she ranked #14 on CMT’s ‘40 Greatest Women in Country Music.’

At the end of the hallway, Melba May pointed the priest and Dora towards a sitting room. And this was one crazy little sitting room. The small space was cluttered with several worn old trunks, wooden antique furniture and some very odd items that included a stuffed rusty colored red fox with white underbelly, black ear tips and legs, and a bushy tail with a distinctive white tip. It crouched in the corner of the room below a series of ‘Southern Belle’ rag dolls that lined an antique wooden table up against the wall. But the most eye-catching object in the room, without a doubt, was the large framed Hatch show print of King George. It was a vintage poster from the 1960’s of King George in his prime and when he played as many as two hundred and fifty dates a year.

Hatch show prints started, naturally enough, with the Hatch family. William H. Hatch ran a print shop in the town of Prescott, Wisconsin, where his two sons, Charles R. and Herbert H. (born in 1852 and 1854, respectively), grew up and learned the craft of letterpress printmaking. In 1875, William moved his family to Nashville where, four years later, Charles and Herbert founded CR and HH Hatch. From their very first print job - a handbill announcing the appearance of Rev. Henry Ward Beecher (brother of Harriet Beecher Stowe), the Hatch Brothers got the look right. Here was the simplicity, the effortless balance between type size and style, vertical and horizontal layout. Here too was the distinct whiff of American history, Southern culture and entertainment. Hatch flourished, for these were the days when show business was get-up-and-go business. Show posters created the excitement that sold the show, covering the sides of buildings and barns in cities and towns throughout the country. Whether circus, minstrel show, vaudeville act or carnival, if you wanted to fill seats, Hatch got the job done. From the mid-1920s, when Charles' son Will T. Hatch took over the business, until Will's death in 1952, Hatch lived its Golden Age. It was a golden era for country music as well, and Hatch captured the magic. Will frequently turned his talent as a master woodblock carver to "chiseling and gouging" (as someone once put it) some of the most indelible images of country music performers ever made. To further seal the historic link, Hatch's home from 1925 to 1992 was right behind the Ryman Auditorium, the "Mother Church" of country music. Hatch captured the glory of other musical genres, doing work for the great African-American jazz and blues entertainers of the day such as Cab Calloway, Bessie Smith, Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong. And today, when it comes to bands, country music is still a primary focus. Recent jobs have been designed for Shania Twain, Trisha Yearwood, Ricky Skaggs, The Mavericks and BR5-49. But you'll also find work for everyone from Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen to B.B. King and the Beastie Boys.

Father Partner and Dora both stared around the room and then sat on a worn old couch as Melba May plopped herself down in an overstuffed armchair across from them. On the coffee table were copies of the latest editions of tabloids, The Star and The Globe, and they both had cover stories related to the death of King George. The priest was very curious about Melba May’s association with King George, so he decided to probe. Very carefully, though. He could tell he was dealing with a fairly fragile personality so he spoke as almost to a child. “So Melba May, how long did you know, King George?” “I knew him as long as I can remember,” she answered reverentially. “He was about as good a man as you could know. And I loved the way he sang. I have every one of his records, too.” Melba May immediately got a pained looked on her big face and looked away from the visitors. Momentarily, a few tears fell from her eyes. Melba May was obviously a fan and maybe much more, concluded Father Partner. “So, you were a big fan of his?” Melba May turned her gaze back to Father Partner. “Yes sir, I was his biggest fan.” And that’s all she said. Father Partner waited for more, but it never came. “I’m sure he was the best,” Father Partner finally said. “I so sorry for all that happened. Please believe my husband would never kill this man,” Dora interjected. Melba May took an embroidered white handkerchief out of the pocket of her bathrobe and dabbed her eyes. “I believe you, ma’am. I really do. And I’m so sorry your husband is in deep trouble, too.” Father Partner tried his best to decipher this piece of information. Melba May obviously was up to date on the fugitive issue but why was she so certain that PT Barnum was innocent? Did she have other insights or information that could help get PT out of his current predicament? “Ms. Meriweather, do you remember seeing a tube of superglue by the globe that night?” he asked. “No sir, I don’t. I’ve heard about that glue but I sure don’t remember seeing any.” Father Partner nodded his head and continued. “How about Berv Ballsey? Would there be any reason he would put that glue in the zipper?” Melba May looked shocked. How could anybody ever think Berv Ballsey would do such a thing? “Of course not. He was King George’s manager. And he’s one of the nicest men I know. My God, this is all such a dang mess.” And this started the tears again. These were not just a few small tears but Melba May was starting to drop buckets of big salty ones that gushed out from her eyes. And it was almost impossible not to watch as those tears rolled down her face and soon plummeted off her prominent square chin and onto her chest. Dora knew it was time to go. “Thank you very much. I’m so sorry for everything.” She and Father Partner stood and walked out of the sitting room. Melba May was in a ‘world of hurt,’ as they say in the South, and there was nothing more to be accomplished. So, for the time being it seemed best to let the grieving woman…grieve. Grief is itself a medicine.

Chapter 59

“Never esteem anything as of advantage to thee that shall make thee break they word or lose they self-respect.” Marcus Aurelius

The Nashville police department news conference was going to be held at exactly twelve noon and the room was packed with waiting newspaper reporters and TV news correspondents from across the country and the world. The death of King George was big news and it had grown bigger every day that went by without the capture of the Snow Globe Man. Snow Globe mania had set in. And every good journalist was trying their best to find some angle that might shed some new light on the story. And in the case of one TV correspondent, an angle that would help shed some publicity on his newly found TV reporting career, as well. The hot breaking story had been haphazardly thrown together the previous afternoon by an up-and-coming young TV news correspondent from WTDB in Denver, Colorado. Lawrence ’Larry’ Mabry had only graduated from college last year and was given the assignment as a favor from the news director of the Denver TV station. It seems Larry’s mother was a major financial supporter of the local Denver running marathon known as the ‘Denver Dash’ and this being the TV stations pet project, it only seemed fitting to send her son to Nashville to cover the King George affair. Put him in the action and give him some ‘face time’ on-camera was the choice little reward handed to the boy from the news director and with the blessing of the TV station manager. Larry looked around the crowded police department conference room and knew this was what he had been destined for. This really was the big time and he was standing within feet of TV news correspondents from the major television networks CNN, CNBC, CBS, NBC, ABC and FOX. And then there were the seasoned hard core newspaper reporters from the Associated Press, New York Times, Chicago Tribune, Los Angeles Time, Washington Post and dozens of other papers. Surely, it wouldn’t be long before he was reporting for one of those esteemed news groups, he reasoned. I mean he had graduated from the University of Colorado with above average grades and had even been an assistant student editor and writer for the college paper The Campus Press. College frat parties were his specialty, too. Larry could paint a picture of beer drenched debauchery like no one else. And here he was amid the action and he had reported his story only last night and it taken off like a fire storm. According to Larry’s far-fetched and poorly documented hypothesis, the performance artist known as the Snow Globe Man was possibly the ring leader of the recently reformed and infamous late 1960s and early 1970s German terrorist operation known as the Baader-Meinhof gang. And here’s how this laughable piece of garbage became so-called ‘news.’ Larry, like most young men his age, was an internet wiz who found, much to his delight, a web site that listed PT Barnum’s indie record album. It was billed as PT Barnum & His Kosher Island Polka and contained a song that was titled “I’m A Baader-Meinhof Gangster of Love” and it was a parody on the old 1960s Steve Miller Band send-up tune, “Gangster of Love.” PT lyrics to the song were in no way terrorist or revolutionary or even political but then Larry hadn’t taken the time to check out this particular fact. Larry had also interviewed numerous people who had been at Balls the night of the murder. And that’s when he learned that PT Barnum was German. Or at least, he sang with a German accent. Larry’s excitement over his discovery grew even stronger after a long- distance phone call with his Dad, Tunstill Mabry, back in Denver. It seems Tunstill had heard about the infamous German gang from his older brother, Blake, who had been a former 60’s college radical along with Abby Hoffman and the Chicago Seven. Well, he wasn’t exactly one of the seven but he knew those guys.

The Chicago Seven were seven (originally eight, when they were known as the Chicago Eight) defendants charged with conspiracy, inciting to riot and other charges related to violent protests that took place in Chicago, Illinois on the occasion of the 1968 Democratic National Convention. The Convention, held in late August - convened to select the party's candidates for the November 1968 Presidential election - was the scene of massive demonstrations protesting the Vietnam War, which was at its height. Thousands of people showed up with signs and banners, music, dancing and poetry. A pig, “Pigasus the Immortal", was brought into the city to be "nominated" for President. Initially, there was a carnival atmosphere. The police were edgy. Some people responded to a night-time curfew announcement with rock-throwing. Police used tear gas and struck people with batons, and arrests were made. In the aftermath of what was later characterized as a "police riot" by the U.S. National Commission on the Causes and Prevention of Violence, a grand jury indicted eight demonstrators and eight police officers. The original eight protester/defendants, indicted by the grand jury on March 20, 1969, were Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, David Dellinger, Tom Hayden, Rennie Davis, John Fronines, Lee Weiner, and Bobby Seale. The defense attorneys were William Kunstler and Leonard Weinglass of the Center for Constitutional Rights. The judge was Julius Hoffman. The prosecutors were Richard Schultz and Tom Foran. On February 18, 1970, all seven defendants were found not guilty of conspiracy, two (Froines and Weiner) were acquitted completely, and five were convicted of crossing state lines with the intent to incite a riot. Those five were each sentenced to five years in prison and fined $5,000 on February 20, 1970. At sentencing, Abbie Hoffman suggested the judge try LSD, offering to set him up with a dealer he knew in Florida. All of the convictions were reversed by the United States Court of Appeals for the Seventh Circuit on November 21, 1972, on the grounds of bias by the judge and his refusal to permit defense attorneys to screen prospective jurors for cultural and racial bias. The Justice Department decided not to retry the case. During the trial, all the defendants and both defense attorneys had been cited for contempt and sentenced to jail, but all of those convictions were also overturned. The contempt charges were retried before a different judge, who found Dellinger, Rubin, Hoffman and Kunstler guilty of some of the charges, but opted not to sentence the defendants to jail or fines.

And so, TV reporter Larry’s dad, Tunstill, had been told about the German gang from his older brother, Blake, and, yeah, it was possible that the Snow Globe Man had reformed the outfit. I mean, anything’s possible, right? So, Larry decided to float the wild notion in one of his daily taped TV reports and he made the pointed observation right there on-camera. “This is Lawrence Mabry reporting from Nashville, Tennessee where the manhunt for the suspected killer of country superstar King George goes on. The individual police have identified as PT Barnum is also known as the Snow Globe Man. From what we can determine Mr. Barnum might be from Munich, Germany where the infamous Baader-Meinhof gang got its start. After some investigation, I have found some remarkable similarities with Mr. Barnum and that of the late 1960’s German terrorist, Andreas Baader. And there is no disputing the common similarity in their common disregard for human life. Could the Snow Globe Man be the new young leader of this radical German group known as the Baader-Meinhof gang?” And that’s all it took for this piece of unsubstantiated gobbledygook to become a real national news item. Inconceivably, all the national TV networks had picked up on it, too. Andreas Bernd Baader and PT Barnum aka the Snow Globe Man were obviously kindred spirits and birds of a feather.

Andreas Bernd Baader (May 6, 1943 - October 18, 1977) was born in Munich, German and was a German terrorist. He was one of the first leaders of the Baader-Meinhof gang, later to be called the Red Army Faction or RAF. In 1968, Baader and his girlfriend Gudrun Ensslin were convicted of the setting fire to a department store in Frankfurt am Main. They were arrested and sent to jail, but Baader escaped. He was caught in April 1970, but in May 1970, he was allowed to go a library outside the prison. Journalist Ulrike Meinhof and two other women were allowed to join him. They let a masked man into the library who fired shots at a 64-year-old librarian. Baader, the three women and the masked man fled through a window, and the group soon became known as the Baader-Meinhof Gang. Baader and others then spent some time in a Palestinian military training camp in Jordan before being thrown out. Back in Germany, Baader robbed banks and bombed buildings from 1970 to 1972. On June 1, 1972, he and fellow RAF members Jan-Carl Raspe and Holger Meins were caught after a gunfight in Frankfurt. Meins died during a hunger strike in Stammheim Prison in 1974. This was when philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre visited Baader. He described Baader as "incredibly stupid" and "an asshole".

The police news conference was officially starting up now that Nashville Chief of Police, Robert ’Bubba’ Murdock, had strolled up to the podium with his trusty public relations officer Lt. Luke Lewis and Detectives Brouchard and Hernandez at his side. The overly caffeinated newspaper journalists and TV news correspondents were in a feisty mood and immediately started asking questions. “Could you please give us an update on the manhunt, Chief?” yelled a reporter from the crowd. “Is the Snow Globe Man considered armed and dangerous?” was another question from a female TV correspondent who stood against the wall. Chief Murdock took a few moments to glance at some notes and turned and spoke quietly with Lt. Lewis. “Tell ‘em to pipe down and then we’ll give them some information.” “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be giving you some updates and then we’ll take questions. In other words, hold up on the questions for now,” stated Lt. Lewis emphatically into the microphone. The room full of news professionals got the message and waited with pens in hand and cameras rolling. Chief Murdock smiled big and looked out over his anxious audience. In a deep baritone voice, he proclaimed, “To begin with let me tell you that the Nashville police department is hard at work this very moment and we will not rest until we have our suspect in custody.” He paused to let his sonorously spoken words sink in. “Secondly, let me assure the citizens of Nashville that we have every man and woman on the police force working overtime to keep our city safe. As to the recent reports that we may be dealing with a terrorist….” said the Police Chief who let that statement hang before continuing, “…we are cooperating with Federal and state officials and I assure you that everything is being done to apprehend the fugitive. We’ll get our man, don’t ya’ll worry.” And so, thanks to the preposterous reporting of Denver TV news correspondent, Lawrence Mabry, the stakes at grown much higher in the manhunt for the Snow Globe Man. Way higher.

Chapter 60

“Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer tjo Thee! E’en though it be a cross That raised me; Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! Though like the wanderer, The sun gone down, Darkness be over me, My rest a stone; Yet in my dreams I’d be Nearer, my God, to thee! Then, with my waking thoughts Bright with Thy praise, Out of my stony griefs Bethel I’ll raise; So by my woes to be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! Or if on joyful wing Cleaving the sky, Sun, moon, and stars forgot, Upward I fly, Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee!” Sarah Flower Adams

And speaking of way higher, PT was still high up in the Bell Tower and about to go even higher. Spiritually speaking, that is. The days since he’d gone into hiding had begun to blur and he was reeling from his total isolation from everyday reality and it was the trivial things he missed the most. Like his early morning coffee set-ups in the lobby of the Scarlet-Benson Center, for one. What he would give to make some pump pots of coffee and hot water for tea that would be waiting there for the bleary eyed, early morning hotel guests. And after that little chore was done, he would take his leisurely walk next door to the beautiful Vanderbilt college campus and stroll and think of lyrics to his new songs. It was the little things that he missed the most. On the other hand, he had slowly begun to acclimate to his solitary privation and was in some small sense living the life of the hermits of early Christianity. Completely alone to his thoughts and prayers and far more attuned to…. the spirit world. His sense of that world had been palpable that night in the dark Bell Tower when he suddenly woke up startled. There before him was a Light in the darkness. Not the kind made by man or by nature or like anything he’d ever seen before. It was a Light so luminous that he could hardly look at it. Its resplendent rays seem to in-gulf him and all he could see was the Light and with the Light came a feeling of complete and total bliss. It was some kind of warm and wonderful ecstasy that transcended anything he’d ever known, and it washed over him in waves, and it went on forever it seemed. And then it was gone. Had it been a dream? Was it a vision? Was he losing his mind? And then he remembered reading a book at St. Basil Café & Book Store that recounted the life of Archimandrite Sophrony and his encounter with the Light of Tabor.

Light of Tabor “Now at this time in my life I have decided to talk to my brethren of things I would not have ventured to utter earlier, counting it unseemly…” This wrote Archimandrite Sophrony, then ninety-two years old, in “We Shall See Him as He” Is, his spiritual autobiography. In this book, Fr. Sophrony, one of the most beloved Orthodox Christian elders of modern times, revealed to the world his own experience of union with God, and the path to that union. Drawing near to God with intense love and longing, accompanied by struggle, self-emptying and searing repentance, Fr. Sophrony was granted to participate in the life of God Himself through His uncreated Energies. Like Orthodox saints throughout the centuries, he experienced God’s grace as an ineffable, uncreated Light. It was in this Light that Christ was transformed on Mount Tabor before his Apostles, and it is in this Light that “we shall see Him as He is.” (1 John 3:2) Archimandrite Sophrony continued in his book, “The action in man’s spirit of the Light of which I write bears witness to its Divine Nature. It is uncreated, unnamable. It is mysterious, imponderable, inviolable. I do not know how to describe it. By nature it is otherworldly, supernatural. Its coming down on us is no less than the manifestation of God to man, the revelation of heavenly mysteries. By the gift of this Light at the Transfiguration on Mount Tabor was knowledge of God confirmed. From the moment it shone there on the three Apostles it entered into the history of the world, to become the inalienable inheritance of generation after generation of those who believe in Christ-God. Without this Light the earth would have lacked true knowledge of God. Judging from my own experience I would call it the Light of the Resurrection. Its coming introduces the spirit into the sphere where there is no death….and sometimes the upsurge of repentance is overpowering. To the exclusion of aught else mind and heart are filled with the agonizing sensation of being held in evil darkness. And then, unforeseen, the Light of the uncreated Sun penetrates the dungeon of the soul; the Light which fills the whole cosmic expanse. It lovingly embraces us. We know Him and dwell in Him.” The doctrine entertained by the Archimandrite Sophrony, as to the experience of a vision of divine radiance was that this Light is the same manifested to Jesus' disciples on Mount Tabor at the Transfiguration and this experience is referred to as theoria. Noted Orthodox theologian Gregory Palamas defended this phenomenon in the 1340s at three different synods in Constantinople, and he also wrote a number of works in its defense. In these works, Palamas uses a distinction, already found in the 4th century in the works of the Cappadocian Fathers, between the energies or operations (Gr. energies) of God and the essence (ousia) of God. Gregory taught that the energies or operations of God were uncreated. He taught that the essence of God can never be known by his creature even in the next life, but that his uncreated energies or operations can be known both in this life and in the next and convey to the recipient in this life and to the righteous in the next life a true spiritual knowledge of God (theoria.)

PT did not sleep the entire night after the supernatural visitation. What did it mean? He kept asking himself. Then again, did his current set of dire realities in some way prepare him for this other-worldly experience? All he knew was that he had experienced something profound and awe-inspiring and it had changed his life forever. And he wasn’t going anywhere until it happened again. Or something similar. This was now ‘holy ground.’ Like the ground on which Moses saw the ‘burning bush’ kind of holy ground. PT was now perfectly content to wait there in the Bell Tower for whatever else God had in mind for him. And there was no way he was leaving anytime soon, and they’d have to drag him out of there kicking and screaming. Like some holy man on a mountain in Tibet or a contemplative monk who lived his life alone in the Egyptian desert this was now his very own divine desert and it was in there in the Bell Tower he was staying.

The Desert Fathers were Christian Hermits, Ascetics and Monks who lived mainly in the Scetes desert of Egypt, beginning in about the third century. Very few of the Desert Fathers lived in other deserted regions of Egypt. The original desert hermits were Christians fleeing the chaos and persecution of the Roman Empire’s Crisis of the third century. Christians we’re often scapegoat during these times of unrest, and near the end of the century, this persecution was made systematic by the emperor Diocletian. In Egypt, Christian refugee communities formed at the edges of population centers, far enough away to be safe from Imperial scrutiny, but still close enough to have access to civilization. Records from this time indicate that Christians often lived in tombs and trash heaps on the edges of major cities, more or less protected by their obscurity. In 313, when Christianity was made legal in Egypt by Diocletian’s successor Constantine I, a trickle of individuals, many of them young men, continued to live in these marginal areas. The solitude of these places attracted them; the privations of the desert were a means of learning stoic self-discipline. These young men saw in Jesus’ fasting on the mountain and in his cousin John the Baptist (himself a desert hermit) two models for such self-discipline. These individuals believed that desert life would teach them to eschew the things of this world and allow them to follow God's call in a more deliberate and individual way. Then again, there was far more interest, now, in the death of King George and the illusive and most capricious Snow Globe Man. And helping to fuel that fire was the TV show “Americas Most Wanted” and the role of the Snow Globe Man as portrayed by Mick Mahoney.

Chapter 61

“The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The TV production company had moved shooting locations already twice during the day and they were now at a small bar in West Nashville. The producers of the show had tried unsuccessfully to use Balls for the big death scene but Berv Ballsey wanted no part of it. In fact, he was downright insulted that they wanted to film the death of his close friend King George in his bar. Forget the fact that it was his bar where King George died. Or was murdered, if you believed the police and the world-wide news reports. The TV director looked around the room and smiled. It had been thrown together fast but his set decorator had faithfully reproduced the ‘look’ of the honky-tonk, Balls.

A good set decorator is extremely valuable and especially for a show like this one. The set decorator is the one in charge of the set dressing on a film or TV set, which includes the furnishings, wallpaper, lighting fixtures, and many of the other objects that will be seen on camera. Props and set dressing often overlap, but are usually provided by different departments. Props are defined as items which are handled directly by actors, and discussions take place between set decorators and prop masters in order to check that everything is being covered. The set decorator gives direction to buyers and to the leadman, who is in charge of the set dressers. The set decorator also maintains a set dressing budget separate from the set budget or the prop budget and answers directly to the production designer.

And as to PT’s clear plastic inflatable orb the set director had a new one made that resembled the snow globe in which King George suffocated. I mean, it wasn’t the same but then how many plastic snow globes were laying around town? Especially, one that could be inflated and was large enough to fit a full-grown man inside. Once again, the set decorator had scrambled and finally found a plastics factory in Memphis which had assembled something similar and at considerable cost. It had been shipped overnight to Nashville and there it lay on the floor in the bar. A small air inflation machine was found and they’d tested it several times and everything was good to go for the dramatic recreation scene. A production crew of fifteen people and a small crowd of extras stood waiting for the cameras to roll for the re-enactment of the fateful event. A newspaper ad in the daily paper, The Tennessean, had announced a need for the extras and about 80 people showed up for the shoot. Including of all people, Melba May Meriweather, who stood silently off to the side and watched the proceedings with great interest. Mick was getting some final make-up applied to his face and he wore a longish blond wig and fake beard and his red outfit was like the original worn by the Snow Globe Man. It wasn’t the same but then again it was red and who in TV land would know the difference? Another actor who resembled King George was also getting some last minute make-up as the director spoke with the camera operator and, dang it ya‘ll, it was time for the …lights…camera… and….action. “Places, everybody,” yelled the assistant director to the actors and extras. There had already been a few rehearsals of the scene and it was now time to shoot the scene for real. The extras moved into place around the globe as the actors took their place next to the deflated globe. “Okay everybody, this is a take,” called out the assistant director. Another assistant slated the scene and then came the familiar directorial phrase from the Hollywood director. “And action…”

Just like the fateful night in Balls, the Snow Globe Man opened the slit in the clear plastic as King George prepared to crawl in. It was then from the back of the crowd that Melba May spoke up. Loudly. “That ain’t right, ya’ll.” All eyes turned to look at the big woman as the director yelled, “Cut!” Melba May slowly make her way through the crowd of extras toward the globe and a very angry director. “What the hell are you doing? We’re trying to shoot a TV show here lady!” Melba May finally made her way up to the globe and looked innocently at the director. “That ain’t all that happened.” “What do you mean?” asked the director impatiently. “King George gave me a something.” He looked at her quizzically and asked a little more politely. “You were there?” “Yes, sir, I was.” “And King George gave you what?” “Just something.” A quick conference ensued with the director and the two producers who suddenly appeared at his side. Finally, the director turned back to Melba May. “So what did happen?” “Like I said, King George gave me something and then wrote me a note on it and autographed it,” she stated. “So was it a picture?” asked the very interested director. I mean, was he going to have to play ‘twenty questions’ with this crazy lady? “Don’t matter. He wrote me something real nice and you should put that incident in your picture,” said Melba May and that was all. Melba May had a way of going silent just when you thought she was going to tell you something of great importance. Like why the hell hadn’t she told this to the police? Or to anybody else for that matter?

It was later that night after the shoot that PT recounted this new and very odd bit of information to Father Partner. The priest listened thoughtfully at a small table in the café and thought about it for a moment. “From your description, it sounds like Melba May Meriweather,” said Father Partner as he gave it some more thought. “I don’t think she ever mentioned her name. She was a very big woman, I know that.” “Did this woman do the scene with you?” “No. She told all this to the director and then left the bar,” said Mick and shrugged. “I don’t think it means much myself. Maybe she was there when King George died or maybe not. Who cares, really?” The priest wasn’t as convinced as Mick. “I don’t know. If that was Melba May Meriweather then there might something else we don’t know about.” “And by the way,” said Mick. “I was able to look at a few other documents, too. They had to do with King George, and I made a couple of notes,” and he fished in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. Mick studied them and paraphrased the information. “Said King George was performing regularly up to the night of the murder. He also had a big New Year’s Eve show coming up at a casino in Las Vegas. Cancelled a few shows in October and November and was seeing a doctor named James Brayford. That’s about it.” Father Partner eyed Mick and observed. “Las Vegas? I wonder if King George was a gambling man?” “Why?” asked Mick. “I don’t know, gambling debts, that sort of thing.” Father Partner said and glanced again at the notes. “Do you know what kind of doctor he is?” Mick shook his head, “Don’t know.” Father Partner got up from the table and walked over to the cash register and reached underneath and pulled from a drawer a phone book. Momentarily, he found what he was looking for. “Got it. Dr. James Brayford, Oncologist.” Father Partner walked back over to the table with the phone book still in hand and sat down. He didn’t quite know how to put it all together, but he knew he was very close to something. Something very relevant and something that might hold the answer to why King George was killed. “This is getting very interesting,” is all he could come up with. “There is one more thing. It has to do with King George’s funeral at the Ryman Auditorium,” continued Father Partner. “It was something I noticed that’s been troubling me.” Troubling seemed to be the maxim for the whole messy King George affair and, no doubt, more trouble lay just ahead. Trouble mixed with a little tenderness, that is.

Chapter 62

“If we are ever to enjoy life, now is the time--not tomorrow, nor next year, nor in some future life after we have died. The best preparation for a better life next year is a full, complete, harmonious, joyous life this year. Our beliefs in a rich future life are of little importance unless we coin them into a rich present life. Today should always be our most wonderful day.” Thomas Dreier

Dora and Jerry walked through the empty Susie Grey dining hall and out the large wooden doors that led to the utility closet. That was the closet that held the secret opening into the Bell Tower where Dora’s husband had remained hidden from view for over a week now. She also carried a bottle of a rare red cherry wine that she and PT loved to drink on special occasions. Once inside the closet, Jerry put the stepladder in place and opened the wooden panel that would give Dora entrance to the tower and to her desperately lonely husband who waited above.

PT was seated on the platform just below the great brass bell and heard footsteps that signaled someone climbing the circular staircase. He assumed it was either Dora or Jerry or even Father Partner but then how could he know for certain? A voice came from below. “PT?” And he knew it was his wife and he was delighted. How many times had she called his name in the past and he’d never given it a second thought. Just the beautiful intonation of her voice now thrilled him. “I’m here, Dora,” he called out and waited. Momentarily, Dora appeared at the top of the staircase and they embraced. “Hello, sweetheart,” she said softly. PT kissed her passionately and then gently pulled her down to the floor where his sleeping bag lay. And those kisses to her were far better than that rare red cherry wine and they kept coming as he pulled her sweater off and undid the zipper of her pants. Dora lay there and waited until her clothes were completely off and then she did the same with PT. The two naked hard bodies came together as PT put himself inside her and they began to make love. Slowly at first, he thrust himself in and out of her as she moaned, and he would thrust and then retreat and then slowly thrust again and retreat. And the more she moaned, he moaned, and their intense undulations soon became more and more forceful as her long legs were now wrapped up high around his body and after a while he was about to climax, and she was in the throes of an orgasm when her right foot got entangled in one of the thin brass chains that ran down from the bell. And soon the chain became wrapped tighter and tighter around her foot as Dora moaned and cried out, “yes...oh, yes….” and her foot jerked the chain up and down and PT cried out, “Yeah…. Oh…yeah” and it all felt so wonderful as Dora’s foot kept pulling the chain up and down and up and down and then the bell rang. At first it was a muted metallic sound but the more she moaned and the harder he thrust her foot would jerk the chain and the bell rang louder and he was thrusting so hard as the bell was ringing even louder and soon it was ringing out for the world to hear. BONG…. BONG…. BONG… it rang out as he was climaxing, and she was having her orgasm and the bell was ringing like it was Independence Day!

BONG…. BONG…BONG...BONG…. BONG…BONG…. BONG…. BONG

Elaine Parquet was a dour, sixty-seven-year-old woman who lived and worked at the Scarlet-Benson Center. Widowed for many years she had secured the job and her living situation through her old friend who had been a Methodist minister’s wife in Cleveland, Ohio. She worked the front desk by day and by night she read her books and magazines and lived a lonely and very frustrated life. Elaine was in her room in Cadabury Hall when she heard the bell ringing. There was nothing that happened at the Scarlet-Benson Center that Elaine didn’t know about. And she knew for a fact that the bell in the tower had not rung for all the years she had lived and worked at Scarlet-Benson Center. At night and with a lack of anything better to do, her imagination would run rampant when she heard unfamiliar noises outside her building. But now she really had something to be curious about. Why was that bell ringing? she wondered. And the more she thought about it the more certain she was that it had something to do with PT Barnum aka the Snow Globe Man. She knew the police had searched the grounds of Scarlet-Benson and many times over. Of course, that’s it, she thought. No one would ever think to look in the Bell Tower and very possibly this was the very place the fugitive from justice was hiding out. And there was another slight problem. Elaine had never really liked PT Barnum and she had tolerated his idiosyncratic and seemly self- important attitude toward her, and she was not surprised to learn that he had killed the famous country music star. I mean, he wore his hair way too long and he had that pretentious artsy air of someone who thought they knew more than they actually did. And so, Elaine decided to make the phone call and punched out those three digits only to be used in an emergency….911. And, God knows, this was an emergency. “Hello? I’d like to report something very unusual here at Scarlet- Benson Center. I think I know where the Snow Globe Man is hiding,” stated Elaine breathlessly.

Chapter 63

“Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor could thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shall lie down With patriarchs of the infant world-- With kings, The powerful of the earth-- The wise, the good, Fair forms, And hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre.” William Cullen Bryant

Father Partner had made the short drive over to the Shuckenbach Serenity Chapel and Funeral Home and prepared to enter the nondescript one-story red brick building. He was hoping to speak with the funeral director who had been responsible for King George’s funeral and he was in luck. His name was Purvis Shuckenbach and he had been the funeral director of the Shuckenbach Serenity Chapel and Funeral Home for 35 years. It was his father, Orville Shuckenbach, who had started the family business some seventy years ago and between the two of them they’d presided over some of the biggest country music funerals in Nashville. A frail and wrinkled old woman by the name of Mrs. Wynonna Worteimer sat at the reception desk and put hon a forced smile when Father Partner entered the reception room. “Good afternoon. May I help you?” “Yes, thank you. My name is Father Parternarious and I was wondering if the funeral director is in?” “May I ask what this is in reference to?” asked Mrs. Wortheimer who looked like it wouldn’t be long before she’d be in need of her employer’s services. “It’s personal if you don’t mind.” Well, the old woman did seem to mind. I mean, this funeral home catered to Protestant funerals and didn’t the priest know that? Let the Catholics and all the other cults find some other place to bury their dead. She fumed for a moment and then picked up the phone and waited. “Mr. Shuckenback? There is a priest here to see you. He says it personal.” And she gave Father Partner a quick furtive glance and waited on instructions. “Alright, I’ll send him back.” Mrs. Wortheimer looked back up and almost spit out the words, “The funeral director will see you.”

Mortician The modern profession of being a mortician started in England in the 1700s. Before it, officers of the College of Arms – a government heraldic authority – directed funerals. The family of the deceased had to contact a member of the College of Arms to manage the funeral. The family also had to hire and coordinate the efforts of others involved in the funeral, such as surgeons, plumbers, coffin-makers, upholsterers, carpenters, tailors, drapers and other contractors. Most modern-day funeral homes are run as family businesses. The majority of morticians work in these small, family-run funeral homes. The owner usually hires two or three other morticians to help him. Often, this hired help is in the family, perpetuating the family’s ownership. Most funeral homes have one or more viewing rooms, a preparation room for embalming, a chapel, and a casket-selection room. They usually have a hearse for transportation of bodies, a flower car, and limousines. They also normally have choices of caskets and urns for families to purchase or rent. Evolution of the industry is continuing today. While most funeral homes are still operated by families, larger and more centralized organizations are coming to prominence. This shift towards larger and less personal organizations can largely be attributed to changing societal views toward the death process, such as the institutionalization of death.

But no centralized organization at the Shuckenbach Serenity Chapel and Funeral Home, ya‘ll. This was still a tight knit small family business and they aimed to please here. Especially when it came to the death of big-time country music stars. And when it came to King George that was about as big as it got

Purvis Shuckenbach sat at a cluttered desk with a rummy look about his eyes and a big coffee mug full of the same stuff. Rum and coke was his drink of choice and he was pretty well tanked up for the day. He was watching a TV set that sat on the ledge of a large wooden cabinet behind his desk when Father Partner walked in. The funeral director without looking around gave a little wave. “Come on in and have a seat.” Father Partner smiled and walked over and sat down in armchair covered in genuine Mexican horsehair. Purvis’ dad Orville had been given the keepsake by the estate of a late and great Country & Western singer from El Paso. This was the real deal, too. Genuine paint-pony horsehair and solid silver studs ran down the length of the chair. Bill kept staring at the TV as Father Partner waited patiently for him to turn around. The priest knew it would be asking a lot of the funeral director to divulge personal information about a funeral but if you don’t ask you don’t get answers, right? “What can I do for you?” asked Purvis without turning around. “I wanted to ask you a few things about King George.” Purvis took a good gulp of his rum and coke and then turned around. His words were slurred as he eyed the priest quizzically. Apparently, he was just drunk enough to talk to anybody about almost anything. “What about King George?” “I was at the funeral and was wondering about the guitar pick in King George’s hand. It almost looked like it was glued to his fingers.” “Yeah, that’s right, it was.” The funeral director held up his right hand and said, “When he was brought in here the damn guitar pick was glued to his thumb and forefinger. I decided to leave it there.” Say what? Father Partner was right, and his passing observation had been correct. Did King George get some of the deadly glue on his hand while crawling into the orb? The priest pressed on. “Any idea how that might of happened?” “Nope. Guess it must a got on there from that glue that was inside the bubble,” replied Purvis who looked back at the TV screen and pointed. “Matter of fact, it looks like they got the guy who put the glue in there. Police found the killer of King George.” Father Partner looked up at the TV screen and what he saw shocked him. It was a live breaking news report on CNN and the news correspondent stood surrounded by hordes of police squad cars and a half a dozen helicopters circling overhead. Just off in the dark distance was the beautifully lit gothic Bell Tower of the Scarlet-Benson Center. The day of reckoning had finally come for the Snow Globe Man.

Chapter 64

“You can't depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus” Mark Twain

It was the perky young red headed TV news correspondent, Kimberly Osias, reporting from the scene. And what a scene it was. At least thirty police cars, a dozen unmarked detective cars along with several law enforcement vans, and modified buses had surrounded the parameters of the Scarlet-Benson Center. And circling above were the helicopters. Like a flock of sinister, stainless steel seagulls they hovered and watched for their prey. The Nashville police as well as the state, and federal authorities had quickly formed a command post on the outer parameter of the grounds as Kimberly spoke into a microphone in a hushed but very dramatic voice. “And from all accounts the police believe they have found the killer of country music star, King George. He’s known as the Snow Globe Man…” she pointed to the Bell Tower in the distance, “…and police believe he’s hiding out up there in the bell tower of the Scarlet-Benson Center. It’s dusk here in Nashville and the police are hoping to resolve this issue before it gets totally dark.” Kimberly glanced at some notes and continued her report, “It was the sound of the bell ringing in the tower that alerted police to the possibility that the fugitive from justice might be up there. Apparently, the old brass bell in the tower hasn’t been rung for decades and it was heard ringing several hours ago.” Kimberly pointed behind her and continued. “Prior to this incident, the police had searched the grounds of the retreat and conference center thoroughly and found no evidence of the Snow Globe Man,” she said breathlessly and continued, “this is also the location where PT Barnum has lived and worked for the last year with his wife, Dora Barnum, and now it appears it’s where he will be apprehended.” Once again, the news reporter took a quick look at her notes before looking back into the camera. “According to our sources the police went into the adjoining Bennett Hall with blood hounds and found a previously unknown entrance into the sealed off bell tower. A small entryway was discovered in a utility closet and once found the police lifted one of their dogs briefly into the Bell Tower. It was then the police dog picked up the scent of the Snow Globe Man. Not knowing if the suspect is armed and dangerous the police have now proceeded to set up a command post and have surrounded the entire conference center. We’re waiting on word right now from the police department as to what could be happening up there in the Bell Tower. Did the Snow Globe Man ring the bell on purpose? And if he did, does this signal a possible surrender? This is Kimberly Osais here at the scene and we’ll keep you updated on the unfolding drama as it develops.”

Dora looked down through the vertical opening in the Bell Tower at the alarming scene below. And she was frightened. Very frightened. It had been several hours since the brass bell rang followed by the sound of police sirens wailing and the whir of helicopters and the dogs barking and what the hell was happening? All hell had broken loose far below, and Dora was really scared. On the other hand, PT sat serene and silent in a yoga-like position on the sleeping bag on the floor. “PT? What should we do?” pleaded Dora again. She had been asking this question for the last hour and PT had yet to give her an answer. Finally, he looked up from his trance-like state and replied calmly. “It’s alright baby. Everything will be alright.” Dora wasn’t too sure about that. In fact, she was almost in tears at the gathering shitstorm that was coming at them from all directions. “The police will come up here, you know that. We’ve got to go down.” It was at that very moment they heard the ominous words coming from the bullhorn that echoed across the grounds of the Scarlet-Benson Center. It was the booming baritone voice of Nashville Police Chief Bubba Murdock and standing at his side were Detectives Brouchard and Hernandez.

“PT Barnum! This is the Chief of Police. We know you are up there.”

A moment of silence and then the amplified voice of Chief Murdock came again.

“We want you to come down Mr. Barnum…we have the Bell Tower surrounded and we want you to come down now!”

Dora stared at PT who seemed nonplussed by this grave announcement and begged him. “Please, PT, we have to go down.” PT took her hand in his and spoke calmly. “You go down, Dora. And you tell them I am innocent as God is my witness.” “PT? Have you lost your mind? They won’t care what I tell them. They want you to surrender.” “I’m not leaving. This is a very holy place, and this is where…. I saw the Light.” Dora visibly cringed and held back the tears and walked slowly to the staircase that would lead her from her delusional husband’s heavenly hideaway to the hell that waited below. She was not about to give up on him, though, and maybe she could keep him from being killed in some insane gun related bloodbath. Life had become so violent in America, she knew. Crazy people with guns and grudges and police shooting before asking questions and she was determined to not let that happen to her husband. “I’ll go and talk to police then,” were her final words as Dora descended the circular staircase there in the Bell Tower. And those words would fall on very deaf ears.

Standing some fifty feet behind the cordoned off area where the Chief of Police and his men stood were Scarlet-Benson Conference Director Reverend Inelle C. Chatsworth, security guard Jerry Pickerton, head cook Elmore James Jr. and Mick Mahoney. They had all been updated about the emergency police activities and had been brought over immediately. They were being questioned by two men from the Hostage Negotiation Team and, if needed, they might be asked to help lure the fugitive down from the Bell Tower. It was still unknown if the Snow Globe Man held any hostages and all precautions were being put into place. Randall Nelson and Hank Folger were the two men, and they were crack hostage negotiators for the Nashville police department. Between them they had worked over two hundred hostage related incidents and had been successful in most those situations. “Have you ever known Mr. Barnum to use violence?” Randall questioned the group. “No, sir. I’ve never even seen PT in a bad mood,” was Inelle’s quick answer. “He’s a very peaceful man,” chimed in Mick. “How about you two?” he asked Jerry and Elmore. “Naw man, PT is a sweetheart,” said Elmore matter-of-factly. Jerry did not respond. Damned if he was going to let these government guys push him around and he so he lit a cigarette and stayed mute. “Mr. Pickerton? I asked you a question,” stated Randall. “Don’t mean I have to answer it,” was Jerry’s terse response. Randall and Hank looked at each other. Obviously, the old guy was not going to be of much assistance. But then again, they were negotiators and so they negotiated. “Mr. Pickerton, we would really appreciate your help here. All we want to do is bring this situation to a peaceful conclusion. I’m sure that’s what you want too, right?” Jerry took a long deep drag on his cigarette and thought about it. Momentarily, he nodded his head. “I don’t want to see PT’s head blown off, if that’s what you mean.” Now they were getting somewhere. Randall strongly agreed, “Well, we don’t want that to happen either. Believe me sir, we don’t want anything like that to happen.” Jerry seemed to like this answer. He took another puff and looked at both the negotiators and said, “Why don’t you let me go up there and talk to him.” “I’ll go, too,” chimed in Inelle followed by Elmore, “Yeah, man, count me in,” and then Mick, “Me to. He’ll listen to us.” Damn these negotiation guys were good. Really good. Negotiation is an art form and especially hostage negotiation.

Hostage Negotiation As the probable etymology (through French ostage, modern otage, from Late Latin obsidaticum, the state of being an obsess or hostage; Medieval Latin ostaticum, ostagium) from the Latin hostis ('guest') testifies, it has a history of political and military use dating back thousands of years, where political authorities or generals would legally agree to hand over one or usually several hostages in the custody of the other side, as guarantee of good faith in the observance of obligations. The practice of taking hostages is very ancient, and has been used constantly in negotiations with conquered nations, and in cases such as surrenders, armistices and the like, where the two belligerents depended for its proper carrying out on each other’s good faith. The Romans were accustomed to take the sons of tributary princes and educate them at Rome, thus holding a security for the continued loyalty of the conquered nation and also instilling a possible future ruler with ideas of Roman civilization. And the practice continued through the early Middle Ages. The Irish High King Niall of the Nine Hostages got his epithet Noígiallach because, by taking nine petty kings hostages, he had subjected nine other principalities to his power. Taking hostages is today considered a crime or a terrorist act; the use of the word in this sense of abductee became current only in the 1970s. The criminal activity is known as kidnapping. An acute situation where hostages are kept in a building or a vehicle that has been taken over by armed terrorists or common criminals is often called a hostage crisis. Hostage taking is still often politically motivated or intended to raise a ransom or to enforce an exchange against other hostages or even condemned convicts. However, in some countries hostage taking for profit has become an "industry,” ransom often being the only demand.

In the case of the Snow Globe Man, who knew? But then PT Barnum was not concerned with these inconsequential doings of mortal man. He sat crossed legged on the floor mesmerized and stared straight ahead. The heavenly warm waves of bliss and love were once again washing over and through him. It had returned. And what he saw before him was far greater than Christiaan Huygens ‘luminiferous ether’ theory of light or physicist Max Planck’s discovery of ‘photon’s’ and way beyond Albert Einstein’s notions of what became known as ‘wave-particle duality.’ It was the Light of Tabor.

57 YARDS FROM THE LIGHT - Dora appeared in the front doorway of Bennett Hall below the Bell Tower and looked out at the unbelievable congregation of law enforcement. She had made her way down the dark tower and now stood in the blinding glare of some harsh white police search lights. Little did she know but she was also in the gun sights of the SWAT Team. That’s right, they were there too.

SWAT (Special Weapons and Tactics) is a specialized unit in many American police departments, which is trained to perform dangerous quasi- paramilitary operations. These can include serving high-risk arrest warrants, performing hostage rescue and/or armed intervention, preventing terrorist attacks, and engaging heavily-armed criminals. SWAT teams are equipped with specialized firearms including assault rifles, submachine guns, shotguns, carbines, riot control agents, stun grenades, and high-powered rifles for marksmen (snipers). They often have specialized equipment including heavy body armor, entry tools, armored vehicles, steel reinforced boots and night vision optics. The development of SWAT is generally credited to the Los Angeles Police Department, in particular to then-inspector Daryl Gates, in 1967. In Gates’ autobiography, “Chief: My Life in the LAPD” (Bantam Books, 1992), he explained that he neither developed SWAT tactics nor its distinctive equipment. Gates wrote that he supported the concept, tried to empower his people to develop the concept, and lent them moral support. SWAT duties include: protecting emergency personnel against snipers; providing high-ground and perimeter security against snipers for visiting dignitaries; providing controlled assault firepower in certain non-riot situations, e.g., barricaded suspects; rescuing officers and citizens captured or endangered by gunfire; neutralizing guerilla or terrorist operations; catching people that could be involved in undercover work; resolve high-risk situations with a minimum loss of life, injury or property damage, resolve situations involving barricaded subjects, stabilize situations involving high-risk suicidal subjects, provide assistance on drug raids, arrest warrants and search warrants, provide additional security at special events;

And these SWAT boys in Nashville were ‘bad to the bone.’ Six members of the elite team had their sniper rifles trained on Dora while the other twelve members had taken up positions in and around the Bell Tower. Their weapons included submachine guns, assault rifles, shotguns and tactical aids that included flash bang, Stinger and tear gas grenades. They were also dressed out in fire-resistant Nomex coveralls or jumpsuits, and wore body armor vests with Aramid, an outer tactical load bearing vest for carrying ammunition and equipment. If needed they had protective eye goggles, gas masks and wore on their feet combat steel reinforced boots. And those boots were ‘made for walking.’ Or in the case, running, and in an instant two SWAT members bolted from the side of the building and pulled Dora away from the entrance. At the same time a police helicopter with its bright beam of light trained on the daring rescue dropped low to the ground and the whirring sound of the propellers was earsplitting. Simultaneously, from above in the Bell Tower PT’s voice rang out. “I love you Dora! Stay calm.” And it was so hard to understand with the blaring helicopter noise and Police Chief Murdock yelled to one of his aides. “That voice came from the bell tower. I couldn’t hear him. What did he say?” The young police officer replied hesitantly, “Uh…I have a bomb?” And so, it was the confusion of PT’s words, “I love you Dora, stay calm,” …that sounded to the police like… “I have a bomb,” that notched up the apprehension of the Snow Globe Man into something much larger. And potentially much more lethal.

Chapter 65

“For the same reason the Spartans sacrificed to the Muses before an action, these goddesses being expected to produce regularity and order in battle; as they sacrificed on the same occasion in Crete to the god of love, as the confirmer of mutual esteem and shame. Every man put on a crown, when the band of flute players gave the signal for attack; all the shields of the line glittered with their high polish, and mingled their splendor with the dark-red of the purple mantles, which were meant both to adorn the combatant, and to conceal the blood of the wounded; to fall well and decorously being an incentive the more to the most heroic valor. The conduct of the Spartans in battle denotes a high and noble disposition, which rejected all the extremes of brutal rage. The pursuit of the enemy ceased when the victory was completed; and after the signal for retreat had been given, all hostilities ceased.” John Ruskin

Within minutes, a hurried law enforcement conference was called by the Chief of Police and now all cards would be put on the table. The Snow Globe Man would probably have to be taken out. As in…killed dead. “If that son-of-bitch has a bomb then we got us a real problem,” said Chief Murdock to a small group of local, state and federal officials who’d gathered together at the cordoned-off police command post. “Let’s start thinking about evacuating the neighborhood. Get the storm troopers ready, too,” stated the Chief emphatically. One of those officials who stood listening to the Police Chief was hostage negotiator Randall Nelson. He’d seen this many times before, the rush to use deadly force. He still held out some hope for a peaceful negotiation and he quickly spoke up, “We’ve got some people who know this guy. They say their willing to go up and talk to Barnum.” The Police Chief thought about it and nodded his head. “Could be worth a shot.” He glanced up at the Bell Tower and back at the hostage negotiator. “Make damn sure they don’t have any weapons on them but go ahead. Let’s see what they can do. I’ll give them thirty minutes max.” Chief Murdock turned to one of his police lieutenants and barked. “Get the SWAT team ready to roll.”

45 YARDS FROM THE LIGHT - Jerry Pickerton followed by Inelle C. Chartworth, Elmor James Jr. and Mick Mahoney were sent on the potentially hazardous mission with hopes that they could talk some sense into the fugitive from justice. Hells bells thought group leader Jerry Pickerton, this was a ‘walk in the park’ and he still had another eight hours left on his shift and it would definitely be more interesting than most nights patrolling the placid grounds of the conference center and retreat. With a cigarette dangling from his mouth the old soldier led his small troop up the circular staircase in the Bell Tower and called out, “Hey there PT. It’s me Jerry and I got Rev. Chatsworth, Mick and Elmore with me, too.”

227 YARDS FROM THE LIGHT - Father Partner, who had driven as fast as he could from the funeral home, had been stopped at a police barricade a couple of blocks away from the Scarlet-Benson center. “You’ll have to leave the scene, sir. Right now,” came the command from the police officer who stood and glared down at the priest in his old green Volvo. “I know the man in the Bell Tower. I think I can be of some help.” The officer did not seem impressed.

“I said you’ll have to leave. This is a police scene and I’m asking you to leave right now.” Father Partner looked up from the driver’s seat and tried again. “I really do need to get up to the Bell Tower, officer. I know I can be of help.” The cop still wasn’t going for it and pointed down the street. “That way. Now.” Father Partner nodded his head and reluctantly drove away but he was not going to be deterred. He’d come to some hazy conclusions on his drive over and he was going to get them heard. One way or the other. He’d also tried calling Melba May Meriweather. There had been no answer at her home but he would keep trying. Oddly enough, Father Partner was convinced that Melba May Meriweather held the answer and the final piece of the puzzle that would put the King George tragedy into perspective. But time was running out to get that answer and the priest knew the police were very close to getting the Snow Globe Man out of the Bell Tower. And most probably, in a body bag.

126 YARDS FROM THE LIGHT - Dora now stood in the cordoned off police command post next to Detective Brouchard and Hernandez and pleaded her case. “Please don’t hurt him. Please.” “I warned you about this, ma’am. Unless his friends can talk him down I’m afraid it’s out of our hands now,” said Detective Hernandez sympathetically. “The Police Chief thinks he may have a bomb up there,” interjected Detective Brouchard with some attitude. “Did you see any sign of a bomb, Mrs. Barnum?” It was obviously, once again, going to be a good cop, bad cop kind of thing. “PT has no bomb” Dora spit out incredulously. “Why would they think that?” “All I know is that think he might have one up there. Unless you can tell me something more substantial, I think you’d better wait in our vehicle over there. We’ll come get you if we need you,” said Detective Brouchard resolutely. It was then Dora’s cell phone rang. She considered not answering it but pulled it out of her jacket pocket anyway. “Yes?” And thank God, she did. It was Father Partner and he spoke urgently. “Dora? It’s Father Partner. I don’t know where you are but I need to talk to the police. I think I may some answers that could help PT.” “I’m with the detectives right now.” “Tell them I need to talk to them. It’s very important.” Dora looked back over at the two detectives who had stepped away and were conferring with several uniformed police officers. She called out to them. “Can please talk to Father Partner?” The two detectives were in the middle of a heated exchange and Brouchard waved the suggestion away. “We can’t talk to anyone right now.” Dora spoke back into the cell phone, “They won’t talk to you Father Partner.” It didn’t talk long for the priest to come up with the suggestion. “If they won’t listen to what I have to say then maybe the world will. Meet me in the parking lot at Grand and 19th Avenue. Tell the TV news correspondents to come with you and you’ll make a statement.” “A statement? What kind of statement?” “Don’t worry about that. Just make sure they know you’re the wife of the Snow Globe Man and tell them to come with you.”

14 YARDS FROM THE LIGHT - Jerry, Inelle, Elmore and Mick slowly climbed the wooden staircase in the Bell Tower when Jerry called out again. “PT? You up there?” There was no response, so he stopped for a moment and lit a cigarette. He called out again, “We’re on our way up.” The old trooper took a couple of puffs off his cigarette and started his climb back up the steep steps until he finally reached the top. And it was Jerry Pickerton who first saw the Light. Followed in order by the Very Reverend Inelle C. Chatswoth, Elmore James Jr. and Mick Mahoney.

257 YARDS FROM THE LIGHT - Dora stood surrounded by a several dozen newspaper reporters and TV news correspondents. The impromptu press conference was being held in the parking lot of the headquarters of the Disciples of Christ Historical Society and Museum which was situated directly across the street from the Scarlet-Benson Center. Video cameras with satellite feeds had been hastily put into place and a bank of microphones were waiting for any revelations from Dora Barnum. And it hadn’t taken much to get the interest of these news hungry journalists as this was the first time the wife of the fugitive from justice had commented on her husband’s trials and tribulations. Human interest stories were always good news. Especially, when it was a close relative of a hardened criminal. No doubt, Dora would get peppered with questions about what it was like to live with a treacherous and deadly individual like the Snow Globe Man. And had she ever been abused by him? Did he have a history of violence? But the most revealing question and the one that would pack the most wallop with the viewers would be…did she still love him? In spite of what he did. It was then Father Partner appeared at the edge of the crowd and waved at Dora. She was looking a little helpless and forlorn and quickly waved back. She immediately called out to him, “Please come down, Father Partner. “ The journalists all looked over at the priest and quickly made a way for him and he was soon at Dora’s side. He leaned into her and whispered, “I’ve got something to say and I’d better hurry. We don’t have much time.” Dora stepped up to the bevy of microphones and spoke softly. “I am the wife of PT Barnum. My friend Father Partner would like to speak to you now.” And that’s all she said as she looked at Father Partner who stepped up to the microphones and began his brief statement to the press and the world. “Hello. My name is Father Partnerious and I would like to say a few words. Mrs. Barnum will be holding off on any comments for the moment.” The priest paused to collect his thoughts and continued, “Neither Mrs. Barnum or I believe that PT Barnum murdered King George. We believe all this is a tragic mistake and I’ve done some investigation myself into this whole matter. I could speculate but first I’d like to ask someone else to join us here.” He paused and looked directly into the cameras and spoke passionately. “Melba May Meriweather? If you’re watching this would you please come down here? I beg you to please bring the letter you told me about. The one you got from King George the night he died.”

Father Partner put his arm around Dora and continued, “Please, Melba May. You’ll be doing the right thing and you might be saving the life of Dora’s husband. Please Melba May, please come down to the Scarlet- Benson Center right away.”

2 MILES & TWENTY-TWO YARDS FROM THE LIGHT - Melba May Meriweather sat in her well-worn over-stuffed armchair and stared at the television set. She’d been glued to the CNN news reports and hadn’t left that chair or even answered the phone for the last couple of hours. And there was Father Partner with his arm around Dora and he had just made an urgent plea for her to come down to the Scarlet-Benson Center. Melba May squirmed in her armchair and looked torn. Should she go and make a spectacle of herself in front of all those TV news people and the police? And why in the world did the priest have to bring her into this god- awful mess? Sometimes it’s best to just let things be.

126 YARDS FROM THE LIGHT - Police Chief Murdock looked at his watch and fumed. “Where the hell are those people? It’s been forty-five minutes. Damn, I hope the son-of-bitch hasn’t harmed ‘em. We’ll take hell for it if he did.” The two detectives Brouchard and Hernandez stood next to him along with several uniformed police officers and the ranking member and head sniper of the SWAT team. Joe Bob Jackson was his name, and he was ready for some action. Enough of the talk, he figured, it was time to get serious and take the fugitive out. His men were in place and a plan of action had been decided upon. The anxious SWAT team was ready to go whenever he gave the word. A first phase air assault with a sniper in a helicopter had been decided upon. It was then through the vertical opening in the Bell Tower the expert marksman could put a bullet in the head of the Snow Globe Man. Lightning fast and completely without warning. If properly pulled off it would leave the fugitive dead, or at the very least, maimed. A ground assault from within the Bell Tower would then seal the deal. “I think it’s time we made a move, Chief,” said the SWAT officer urgently. The Chief stared up at the Bell Tower and back to Joe Bob Jackson. He then gave the fateful order. “You’re on your own now. You have my permission to use deadly force if necessary.

257 YARDS FROM THE LIGHT - Father Partner and Dora were still waiting for Melba May Meriweather. After thirty minutes the big-time news correspondents had given up hopes of getting any good comments or ‘sound bites’ from the wife of the Snow Globe Man. Besides, there was the possibility of a police action, like an assault on the Bell Tower, and they just couldn’t risk missing out on that. Walking into the parking lot at the headquarters of the Disciples of Christ historical society was Melba May Meriweather. She was dressed in a bright oversized yellow animal print sleeveless dress and wore her signature straw hat. Father Partner immediately spotted her and called out. “Melba May! Over here.” The big woman stared over and reluctantly walked in the direction of Father Partner and Dora. When she arrived, Father Partner smiled warmly and spoke as if to a close personal friend. “It’s so good to see you. Thank you so much for coming down Melba May.” “Your welcome,” replied Melba May shyly. “Did you bring that letter?” the priest inquired. “Yes sir, I did,” said Melba May and she pulled a single white piece of stationary out of her purse. She looked like she was about to cry when she handed it over to the priest. “If there’s any way I can get it back it sure would mean a lot to me. It would mean a whole lot. He wrote me something special and I was afraid someone would take it away from me and I’d never get it back.” Father Partner took the piece of stationary and quickly read the letter. He was right. His carefully thought out set of deductions about the glue at Berv Ballsey’s honky-tonk and the doctor and Melba May were all accurate. It had all come together now with this letter written in long hand by King George and it pretty much said it all. Father Partner showed the letter to Dora who read it very carefully. She literally gasped and then spoke urgently, “We’ve got to get this to the police. This changes everything,” “Yes, I know. I don’t know if they’ll let me through the barricade, though,” replied Father Partner as he looked up the street at the police cars that lined the street and secured the parameters of the Scarlet-Benson Center. “Then go with me. I’ve got press credentials from the newspaper and maybe we can get this to the Chief of Police,” came the urgent proposition from Dora. Father Partner thought about it and nodded his head. “That’s a good idea. But we’ve got to hurry. I’m afraid things are going to escalate into something awful.” Leaving Melba May behind the determined young newspaper reporter and Father Partner took off in the direction of the Bell Tower with the revealing letter in hand.

333 YARDS FROM THE LIGHT - The daring air drop of SWAT sniper Joe Bob Jackson had been approved and green lighted and the human target was the Snow Globe Man. A police modified CH-46 Chinook helicopter with a pilot and the SWAT leader were taking off on the mission that would soon put them directly above the Bell Tower of the Scarlet-Benson Center.

Helicopter is an aircraft which is lifted and propelled by one or more horizontal rotors, each rotor consisting of two or more rotor blades. Helicopters are classified as rotorcraft or rotary-wing aircraft to distinguish them from fixed-wing aircraft because the helicopter derives its source of lift from the rotor blades rotating around a mast. The word 'helicopter' is adapted from the French hélicoptère, coined by Gustave de Ponton d'Amecourt in 1861. It is linked to the Greek words helix/helik- (ἕλικ-) = "spiral" or "turning" and pteron (πτερόν) = "wing". As an aircraft, the primary advantages of the helicopter are due to the rotor blades that revolve through the air, providing lift without requiring the aircraft to move forward the way an airplane does. This creates the ability for the helicopter to take off and land vertically without the need for runways. For this reason, helicopters are often used to operate in congested or isolated areas where airplanes are generally not able to take off or land. The lift from the rotor also allows the helicopter to hover in one area for extended periods of time, and to do so more efficiently than other forms of vertical take-off and landing (VTOL) aircraft, allowing it to accomplish tasks that airplanes are unable to perform.

And it was a helicopter that would help facilitate and put an end to the Snow Globe Man.

143 YARDS FROM THE LIGHT – Dora and Father Partner had encountered some resistance at the outer rim of the police parameter. Two burly policemen stood next to their patrol car as Dora showed them her press credentials. The bigger of the two cops was a guy named Max Hammer. Yeah, that’s right, just like murder mystery writer Mickey Spillane’s fictional private eye of the same name. Max had wanted to become a detective when he joined the force but had to settle for a street beat in downtown Nashville. Someday, he still hoped, he could make detective and live up to his namesake. “Please. We’ve got to see the Chief of Police right away,” Dora said urgently. “Sorry, lady. The Chief can’t be talking to reporters right now. You can join the rest of the reporters up there,” Max replied and pointed to the large contingency of TV news units and newspaper reporters in a sectioned off press area. “That’s as far as you go,” he stated categorically. “You’ve got to believe me. We’ve got some information that will change everything,” pleaded Dora. “Look. We’ve got a real dangerous situation here. You’ll have to wait until the Chief holds a press conference if you want to talk to him,” responded Max. Dora was not going to take ‘no’ for answer and held the letter out. This time she demanded. “Read this. If you know anything about this whole thing then you’ll know what I’m talking about. It was written by King George the night he died.” Max looked over at his partner who shrugged and said, “Go ahead. Take a look.” Max took the letter from Dora and gave it a quick read. After a moment, he got a quizzical look on his big lumpy face. Max had to think this one through. He knew this was about the most inappropriate time imaginable to interrupt the Chief of Police and his job could be on the line if he did. Then again, he knew the facts of the case and this letter, if authentic, might just change everything. Funny how life throws those little changes at you and at the most inopportune time. Max handed the letter back to her and asked. “Does this mean what I think it means?” “Yes, officer, it does,” answered Dora. Max made the snap decision. The hell with the repercussions, he decided, he was going to the Chief of Police. “You two go to the press area and wait there. I’ll try to talk to the Chief.” And Max didn’t just walk away, he ran. About as fast as a man who weighed two hundred and fifty pounds could run, he bolted off in the direction of the Bell Tower.

37 YARDS FROM THE LIGHT - The CH-47 Chinook police helicopter was directly above the Scarlet-Benson Bell Tower. Like a massive metallic hungry hawk, it hovered and waited for the right moment to attack. And that moment was just at hand.

Hovering is the most challenging part of flying a helicopter. This is because a helicopter generates its own gusty air while in a hover, which acts against the fuselage and flight control surfaces. The end result is constant control inputs and corrections by the pilot to keep the helicopter where it is required to be. Despite the complexity of the task, the control inputs in a hover are simple. The cyclic is used to eliminate drift in the horizontal plane, that is to control forward and back, right and left. The collective is used to maintain altitude. The pedals are used to control nose direction or heading. It is the interaction of these controls that makes hovering so difficult, since an adjustment in any one control requires an adjustment of the other two, creating a cycle of constant correction.

And the seasoned young Nashville police helicopter pilot was doing his job perfectly. This was no different than his two tours of duty in Iraq and this assignment was for all practical purposes a tactical airlift.

Tactical airlift is a military term for the airborne transportation of supplies and equipment within a theater of operations (in contrast to strategic airlift). Aircraft which perform this role are referred to as tactical airlifters. These are typically turboprop aircraft, and feature short landing and take- off distances and low-pressure tyres allowing operations from small or poorly-prepared airstrips. While they lack the speed and range of strategic airlifters (which are typically jet-powered), these capabilities are invaluable within war zones. Larger helicopters such as the CH-47 Chinook and Mil-26 can also be used to airlift men and equipment. Helicopters have the advantage that they do not require a landing strip and that equipment can often be suspended below the aircraft allowing it to be delivered without landing. Tactical airlift aircraft are also designed to be maneuverable, allowing low-altitude flight to avoid detection by radar and for the airdropping of supplies.

And in this case, the mission was to airdrop a sniper down just low enough to give him a line of sight where he could ‘take out’ the fugitive from justice.

117 YARDS FROM THE LIGHT - Dora and Father Partner stood amid at least two hundred and fifty TV news correspondents, newspaper reporters, camera men, make-up artists, unit producers and a host of other media related people. There was a cacophony of on-camera reporting coming from the TV news correspondents with all the late breaking news of the Snow Globe Man. There were also ‘live’ satellite feeds and they were going out to the world and the world was watching by the millions. Father Partner still clutched the letter and turned to Dora. “I’ve never seen anything quite like this. Is this what they call media frenzy?” “I guess so,” Dora replied. Father Partner looked in the direction of the Bell Tower and watched with curiosity the helicopter that hovered above it. He could see a man with a rifle perched in the open doorway of the helicopter and the more he thought about it the more worried he got. “I wonder what that helicopter is doing?” he asked Dora. She stared up at the hovering craft and shook her head. “Dear God, I don’t know. But it looks serious. That man has a rifle.” That man was the SWAT marksmen Joe Bob Jackson, and he was peering through the telescopic lens of his sniper rifle and the helicopter was slowly moving downwards. Gradually it descended lower and lower as Father Partner and Dora watched the ominous event unfolding before their eyes. It was then Max appeared with the Chief of Police and detectives Brouchard and Hernandez. The four men strode at a quick clip through the throng of reporters and TV news correspondents when Max pointed in the direction of Father Partner and Dora. All eyes from the media watched with interest and then they all sprang into action. Before you knew it, there were cameras and outstretched microphones and TV news correspondents asking questions and it was truly a media frenzy. The shouted questions came one after another. “What’s happening in the Bell Tower, Chief?” “How long do you expect the standoff to last?” “What can you tell us about a possible bomb?” “Is the Snow Globe Man still alive?” “Did he take hostages?” Chief Murdock ignored their questions, but he had one of his own for the priest and the young reporter. He soon towered over them like some mighty military general or a warrior chief of old. There was no time to waste and he didn’t mince words. “What’s this about a letter from King George?” inquired the very agitated Chief of Police. “It was written by King George the night he died,” Dora quickly answered. “What does it say?” Chief Murdock asked in the way of an order. With the world watching by way of television and Chief Murdock glaring at him, Father Partner read the letter out loud. Or in this case, the suicide note.

This is it, ya'll. Time to turn out the lights. I’m sorry to leave you but my time has come. Please don’t be angry with me for the way I’m going out but it‘s the best I can do under the circumstances. If you’ll remember, I’ve always said I’d go out singing. Damn doctor gave me the news a couple of months ago. I got terminal lung cancer and no more than 3 months to live. Damn if I’m going to lay around and die in front of all my loved ones and put everybody through that kind of crap. I love ya’ll more than you can know and I can’t wait to see you again at God’s big ol’ barn dance in the sky. Yours forever and ever, George Stones

PS Don’t be blaming the snow globe guy for anything either. I’m putting the glue inside that zipper myself.

And on the back of the paper was scrawled the handwritten note that Melba May cherished so much. So much she was going to keep that note and the revealing information all to herself.

Melba May, I love you forever girl. I wish to hell I‘d married you! George

The Chief of Police took a moment to think about it, then grabbed the letter out of Father Partner’s hand and read it himself. He quickly handed it to Detective Brouchard who anxiously read the handwritten suicide note. “I think we’ve been chasing down an innocent man,” was the conclusion from the Chief of Police. After reading it, Detective Brouchard gave it to his partner and agreed. “Damn. He killed himself. King George did himself in.” It was then the Chief of Police got an excruciatingly pained look on his face. “Shit. I gave SWAT the green light,” he exclaimed as he quickly pulled a walkie-talkie out of a big pocket of his BDU fatigue jacket. He spoke urgently into it.

“This is Chief Murdock. I repeat this is the Chief. Cease all SWAT actions. I repeat, cease and desist all SWAT actions.” It was too late.

33 YARDS FROM THE LIGHT - The CH-47 Chinook was hovering at just the right angle for the SWAT sniper to get his shot off. Joe Bob Jackson had been prepped with pictures of the fugitive from justice and he knew his target by heart. The expert marksman looked through his lens and ever so slightly moved the angle of his rifle and went from one person to the next. There they all sat in a circle; Jerry, Inelle, Elmore and Mick. After a moment of patiently studying each face through his lens, Joe Bob found his target. There sat the Snow Globe Man and he rounded out the circle. Odd, thought the sniper, this guy had a serene smile on his face and showed no signs of panic or fear and seemed oblivious to the sound of the helicopter just outside the walls of the Bell Tower. It was now time to ‘take out’ the killer of King George before he could detonate a bomb or kill again. Joe Bob took a deep breath as his index finger readied itself to pull the trigger when suddenly he saw the other man. There had been five people and now there were six. Somebody else was standing directly behind the Snow Globe Man. And where did he come from? The sniper couldn’t believe his eyes but there was someone else in the Bell Tower and he was like no one he’d ever seen before. The man or the angel or whatever he was…. was straight out of the Book of Daniel, “clothed in linen, with a belt of gold from Uphaz around his waist. His body was like beryl, his face like lightning, his eyes like flaming torches, his arms and legs like the gleam of burnished bronze.” And from Him emanated the Light.

117 YARDS FROM THE LIGHT - And at the very instant the sniper saw ‘the other man’; Police Chief Murdock clutched his walkie-talkie and waited desperately on word about the deadly SWAT mission while Detective’s Brouchard and Hernandez stood silently and pondered the turn of events that had now transformed their homicide into a suicide and Father Partner stared off in the distance at the Bell Tower when suddenly it was his turn…to see the Light. Streaming out from the vertical shafts of the Bell Tower were two great rays of Light. Like ‘Crepuscular rays’ in atmospheric optics, these were like sun rays that appeared to radiate from a single point within the Bell Tower. They were near-parallel shafts of Light and Father Partner was transfixed by the sight and stood amazed. At the same time, he felt a sense of wonderful warmth and bliss like he’d never known, and he pointed at the Light. All he could say was, “Look.” The two detectives and Dora stared up at the Bell Tower. “What is it Father?” asked Detective Brouchard “The Light. Can you see it coming out from the Bell Tower?” he said reverently. “What light?” said Detective Hernandez who kept staring and saw nothing but the Bell Tower and the helicopter that hovered above. “What are you talking about, Father?” asked Dora. It seems that this phenomenon and gift of God could only be seen by those appointed with ‘eyes to see.’ And just like PT Barnum, Inelle Chatsworth, Jerry Pickerton, Mick Mahoney and Father Partner, the SWAT sniper Joe Bob Jackson had those same ‘eyes to see.’ He saw the Light and did not shoot. The Chief of Police got the good word when an urgent voice came over his walkie-talkie. “The SWAT mission has been aborted, Chief. I repeat the mission has been aborted. Over.”

Chapter 66

“Expect the best! It lies not in the past. God keeps the good wine till the last. Beyond are nobler work and sweeter rest. Expect the best!” William Pierson Merrill

So ends the tale of woe and wonder in Nashville, Tennessee otherwise known as ‘Music City, USA.’ Well, almost. It was 12 months to the day that PT Barnum was exonerated for the crime of murdering the famous country music singer and Father Partner sat at a small table by himself in St. Basil Café and Books. His mind had been unusually consumed the past few days with thoughts of the whole King George affair. And today of all days, there had been a groundbreaking for the future King George Museum that would house all the precious memorabilia that once belonged to the country legend. His colorful rhinestone jackets, guitars, gold and platinum records, pictures and letters and so much more. Soon they would-be put-on display in the no-expense spared new museum for his many fans. In fact, it was right next door to the honky-tonk, Balls, that the King George Museum would soon be built. Father Partner had just finished reading something in the paper about the event but had no desire to attend. He cringed when he saw a picture of the lethal, clear plastic snow globe in the paper. But there was something that still bothered him. It lay below the surface of his consciousness and would occasionally surface and bring him back to the events that led up to the death of King George. Once again it had come back to haunt him like some unresolved dream that he couldn’t quite remember after waking. He knew that King George had taken a tube of the superglue with him into the plastic orb that night and applied some of it to the metal zipper himself. But something just didn’t add up. He looked over and stared again at the picture of the deflated globe in the newspaper. It was then he knew. How could King George have layered the entire zipper himself? The time frame just didn’t allow for him to apply the glue to the entire five feet long metal zipper that comprised the opening of the plastic orb. Not to mention, it would have taken more than one tube of glue to fill the big metal zipper and seal it tight. There had to have been someone or maybe a couple of people who helped to apply the glue to the zipper that ultimately caused the country music star to suffocate inside the bubble. It had been a conspiracy, he concluded. And one, he decided, that need not be revealed. After all, it was the wishes of a terminally ill man who had engaged the help of the conspirators. In the end it was not murder, Father Partner knew, but an assisted suicide. In fact, it had all been a brilliant smoke screen of deception that had kept their involvement a secret and kept them from the prevailing law of the land. Murder is still murder when a death is perpetrated by an outside party and not a suicide. And who says those slow talking, drawlin’ Southerner’s aren’t just plain sly and smart as a fox?

The ground-breaking ceremony for the new King George museum had been a great success that afternoon. Over a thousand fans and friends had turned out for the event and it was turning dusk on Music Row. Only two people now stood on the very ground that would soon be poured over with concrete and make for the foundation of the new museum. They both held longneck beers in one hand and empty used tubes of superglue in the other. Getting down on their knees they set their beer bottles aside and then dug a small hole in the ground. It was there in that sacred dirt on Music Row they buried the final pieces of evidence that would put forever an end to the King George tragedy. Berv Ballsey and Melba May Meriweather grabbed their beer bottles, stood back up and hoisted the longnecks up to the heavens and said in unison, “We love you King George.”

As to PT Barnum, Mick Mahoney, Elmore James Jr., Jerry Pickerton and the Very Reverend Inelle C. Chatsworth, they teamed up and mounted a very successful Broadway musical called “I Saw the Light.” The title came from the famous gospel song written by the legendary country singer and songwriter, Hank Williams. PT and Mick were the principal performers in the show with Elmore playing electric guitar in the forty-piece orchestra. Inelle had assumed the role of business manager for the production and Jerry Pickerton was the acting head of backstage security along with former SWAT sniper Joe Bob Jackson. The dazzling music and dance review had opened to rave reviews in New York and was already sold out for the coming six months. In fact, an early feature story had been written by newspaper journalist Dora Barnum who was now a free-lance writer for the New York Times and Rolling Stone Magazine after winning a Pulitzer Prize for her article on the Snow Globe Man and the King George tragedy and ensuing Tennessee manhunt.

Chapter 36

“God’s throne is heaven and that heaven is the heaven from the Divine that proceeds from the Lord, and this divine is called Divine truth. The Lord Himself is not in heaven, but above the heavens, and is seen as by those who are in the heavens as a sun. He is seen as a sun because He is Divine love, and Divine Love is seen by the angels as solar fire; this is why “sacred fire” in the Word signifies love Divine. From the Lord as a sun light and heat proceed: the light that proceeds, since it is spiritual light, is Divine truth; and the heat, since it is spiritual heat, is Divine good.” Emanuel Swendenborg

Meanwhile back in Key West, Dora Barnum had taken a well-deserved sabbatical and respite from all the craziness of the past year. She and PT had decided it best to go their separate ways for the time being as Dora really didn’t have the passion to get involved in the Broadway musical “I Saw The Light.” And especially, involved with the fervent mysticism that her husband had embraced since ‘seeing the light.’ With their daughter asleep that night, she had tossed and turned in bed and dreamed of the early days of her romance with her dashingly handsome and talented husband. If only PT hadn’t gone the way of the spiritually deceived, she thought. She still loved him, like life itself, but how could she continue to indulge his delusions based on some old Eastern Orthodox superstition? The Light of Tabor. How could she ever believe in something as implausible as that? Suddenly, Dora caught a brief glimpse of someone or something just outside the bedroom window. She raised her head slightly and stared out into the foggy darkness. All night long the wind had been acting curiously and she felt certain it was just the fantastic shadows of the trees that danced in the muggy Key West breeze. She laid her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes and it was then in her mind or her imagination or from some deep recess of her being that she saw a small point of Light. No bigger than a small dot it emanated out in waves. It was so lovely and luminous and sparkled like a fine diamond in the sun. What was it, she wondered? Not daring to open her eyes she lay there and contemplated the small point of Light in her ‘mind’s eye.’ Dora knew that if she opened her eyes and still saw the Light it would change everything. She would then become one of them. A religious fanatic. A deep sleep pulled desperately at her and she could so easily just go down into the darkness of that sleep and not confront what she feared but also desired with every fiber of her being. From somewhere Shakespeare’s immortal line ran through her mind... “To be or not to be, that is the question” …and should she just lose herself to the dark sub-regions of slumber or should she open her eyes and look for herself? It was at the very same moment her husband in New York began to sing the closing number from his big hit Broadway musical that Dora opened her eyes.

“I SAW THE LIGHT” (Hank Williams) “I WANDERED SO AIMLESS LIFE FILLED WITH SIN I WOULDN’T LET MY DEAR SAVIOR IN THEN JESUS CAME LIKE A STRANGER IN THE NIGHT PRAISE THE LORD I SAW THE LIGHT

I SAW THE LIGHT I SAW THE LIGHT NO MORE DARKNESS NO MORE NIGHT NOW I’M SO HAPPY NO SORROW IN SIGHT PRAISE THE LORD I SAW THE LIGHT

JUST LIKE A BLINDMAN I WANDERED ALONG WORRIES AND FEARS I CLAIMED FOR MY OWN THEN LIKE A BLIND MAN THAT GOD GAVE BACK HIS SIGHT PRAISE THE LORD I SAW THE LIGHT

I SAW THE LIGHT I SAW THE LIGHT NO MORE DARKNESS NO MORE NIGHT NOW I’M SO HAPPY NO SORROW IN SIGHT PRAISE THE LORD I SAW THE LIGHT….”

THE END

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