The widower’s two step

10

I came over the rise of San Geronimo Hill and saw the Indian Paintbrush below. The whole expanse of metal building was lit up stark white like some kind of giant UFO hangar. Its twentyfoothigh trademark neon wildflower blinked one petal at a time, then flashed all at once.

The road sign out front said TAMMY VAUGHN TONIGHT! Underneath, in smaller letters that obviously hadn't been changed in a long time, it said MIR NDA D NIELS EVERY SAT.

Apparently Tammy Vaughn had some draw. The gravel lot was almost full and a line of trucks and cars was still snaking in from the access road. Inside the lot, parking attendants jogged around trying to give directions. Waistdeep clouds of shiny dust were rolling through the crisscrossed headlights.

After parking the VW, I made my way to the ticket window and through an entrance corridor that smelled like a cattle chute. A bouncer in a Confederate flag Tshirt stamped a little green star on the back of my hand and sent me on into the main hall.

The place was not small.

A lightgauge bullet shot from the entrance probably would've fallen short of the neon beer signs mounted on either side wall. The ceiling would've been a long shot too.

Along the back wall was an empty stage about fifty feet wide and five feet high.

Speakers the size of coffins hung from the ceiling, cranking out canned music that sounded vaguely like Alabama.

The bar stretched out for a good forty yards, manned by an army of bartenders in matching red Western shirts. Some of the bartenders were busy filling orders. Most were not. I walked downstream until I found a particularly boredlooking woman whose name tag read Leena. I ordered a Shiner draft and a shot of Cuervo.

"Sheck around tonight?" I asked.

Leena started to make a distasteful face, then froze, suddenly wary. "You a friend?"

"Sheck's got friends?"

Leena smiled. "Amen to that."

I told her I was a talent buyer putting together a promotional and I was hoping to run some demos past Sheck. I had no idea what I was saying and neither did Leena, but she was more than willing to point out Tilden Sheckly. He was forty yards away at the edge of the dance floor, arguing heatedly with a redheaded woman in a skyblue jumpsuit.

"I wouldn't count on him being available anytime soon," Leena told me. "Simulcast rights."

"How's that?"

She nodded again toward the lady in the jumpsuit. "Tammy Vaughn's manager. She's going to demand some rights to the radio broadcast. She'll blame the booking agency for overlooking that when they signed the contract. Sheckly's going to tell her tough shit. Tammy will end up playing the gig anyway because she needs the exposure.

Here comes the contract."

Sure enough, just at that moment Sheckly produced a piece of paper and held it in the woman's face, like he was inviting her to find any line that supported her demand. The manager brushed the paper away and kept arguing.

"Every damn week," Leena told me. "He'll spend half the night arguing with her, the rest of the night trying to get in her pants."

"Suppose I just left a note in his office," I said.

"Upstairs annex, past the bull ring, next to the studio." She pointed toward the double doors, far off to the right, where the neon bullrider was flickering back and forth on his neon bull. Leena leaned across the bar, gave me a friendly smile. "Now you're gonna have to buy another drink, honey, or I need to quit talking."

I told her thanks, put a dollar in her pitcher, and got up to leave.

Leena sighed. "The night goes downhill from here."

The bull riding arena was dark. Seventeen or eighteen empty rows of seats sloped down toward the circular pit. Nothing there but some red plastic barrels, rodeo clown props, two metal chute gates on the north wall hanging open apathetically. The dirt was scarred and streaked from the last round of boot heels and hooves that had pounded through it. Nobody had raked since then. Sloppy.

A man and a woman were sitting in the top row, arguing about somebody named Samantha. When they saw me they stopped, annoyed, and got up. They moved their conversation back into the dance hall.

The noise of the music and the crowd sounded tinny and far away, like it was echoing from the bottom of an oil tanker. I walked around the perimeter of the arena to a metal door with a sidebar and a white sign that read EMPLOYEES ONLY. I looked for an alarm wire. None. No surveillance camera. I pushed the door open.

Inside was an empty office with cheesy walnut panelling and pink carpeting. There were three metal desks. On the wall were framed posters of Tilden Sheckly's The Widower's Two it Step 65 washedup Bgrade artists, Julie Kearnes among them. There was plenty of blank space on the wall for Miranda Daniels a few years down the line. Probably several others, too.

Two doors led out of the room, left and right. The left one said STUDIO and the right said SHECK. I looked for surveillance equipment on the SHECK door and found none.

Okay.

The handle turned.

One look at the layout of the office and I was tempted to close the door and try coming back in again, just to make sure I was seeing correctly.

It looked like a cross between a safari hunter's tent and a Hard Rock Cafe. A huge zebraskin rug took up most of the floor. A mounted tiger's head glared at me from the wall behind the desk. The ceiling was decorated with deer antlers like stalactites. On the east wall a padlocked gun display glowed from inside, showing off all sorts of rifles and shotguns. On the west wall an identical case was filled with musical instruments-a fiddle, two acoustic guitars, a black electric. I looked closer at the instruments. The fiddle had Bob Wills' name on it, set in motherofpearl.

I went to the desk.

After five minutes rummaging I hadn't learned much. The few personal records Sheckly kept were all done by hand, scrawled in a thirdgrade cursive with all the b's and d's slanting backward and none of the i's dotted. He was a doodler? little stars and curlicues adorned the margins of his notes.

Sheck had been making some calls recently about a trucking company he owned that had apparently been losing stock value. He also had notes on phone calls he'd made with Les, among other agents, discussing the terms of various deals with performers scheduled to play the Paintbrush. As Leena the bartender had indicated, there were several notes about managers and agents protesting Tilden's unstated rights to his radio broadcasts of the headliner shows. Apparently the artists got no percentage of the syndication money and had no say over the mix or content of the show that was recorded.

There were also airline receipts for trips to Europe dating back several years-mostly to Germany and the Czech Republic. Some were made out to Tilden Sheckly. Others to someone named Alexander Blanceagle. On two of the itineraries from early last year Alexander Blanceagle was listed as travelling with Julie Kearnes. I took those.

Last was a folder with a schedule of artists' names next to dates they had performed over the last two years. Some of these names had checks, some stars. There were no notes about Miranda Daniels. No pictures of Les SaintPierre with dart holes in his forehead.

I walked back into the main office and tried the second door, the one labelled STUDIO.

It opened easily.

The room on the other side was about twenty by twenty, brightly lit, and completely quiet. The walls and ceiling were white acoustic tile, the floor tan industrial carpet.

Clumps of boom microphone stands stuck up here and there like oversized toothpick sculptures. The left wall was covered with milk crates, towers of expensive stereo equipment, and speakers all stacked together haphazardly, many topped with collections of old McDonald's soda cups.

Against the right wall was a tenfootlong mixing board. A man sat sideways next to it in a battered easy chair, turning control knobs and listening through Walkmanstyle earphones.

He was oddly built, muscular but gangly, his face angular and goofylooking with freckles in a raccoon pattern across his nose and ears that, if not pinned back by headphones, would have made perfect little radar dishes on the sides of his head. A standardissue Hayseed. The only thing not comical about him was the bulge under his beige windbreaker, right about where a shoulder holster would go.

He was most definitely drunk. A nearempty bottle of Captain Morgan's sat next to him on the console. His eyes were heavylidded and his fingers were having trouble with the sound board controls.

I stepped into the room.

When Hayseed finally noticed me, he took a few seconds of blinking and frowning to decide I wasn't just another stack of musical equipment. He brought the easy chair into upright position and spent some time trying to connect both his feet to the floor. He got his hands working, groped up the side of his head until he found the earphones and removed them.

"Evening," I said.

He looked at me more closely and his ears turned red. "Goddamn Jean-"

He said Jean the French way, the Claude Van Damme way.

I was about to correct him when he stood up and began staggering toward me, reaching for the now exposed black butt of his gun with one unsteady hand.

That pretty much decided me against the diplomatic approach.