CHAPTER 2

 

The President was greatly troubled and he called his advisors to join him at his ranch for barbecue so they could talk things over. "Boys," he said, "oh, and ladies too," because the President, who didn't really think a lady's place was in the cabinet unless that was where she kept the dishes, sometimes forgot he had a few yes-women along with his yes-men, "despite our valiant efforts, this country still seems to be going to the dogs. Rampant socialism and liberalism still flourish within our boundaries. In spite of what I tell them is good for them, people keep whining about the environment and socialized medicine. They cry because there's not enough money to go around but have repeatedly backed our enemies in Congress in thwarting our efforts to start a nice long profitable war that will let us annex lucrative mineral rights in a few two-bit countries that are going to the Reds anyway. Damned cowards are afraid of the bomb. As if the Reds had the guts to use it."

"No way, Bruce," said Secretary of Defense General Mortimor Boron. "Look, boss, you shouldn't get yourself in a sweat trying to please those civilians. They wanted a space program too and when we gave them one that would not only get our people out there but give them a little firepower, look how people acted."

"I know, Mort, I know, but we have to at least keep up appearances."

"Exactly," said another voice from the hot tub. "That's why we picked you, Bruce. Who better than a former model to keep up appearances? And you mustn't be so discouraged. You've done a very good job. We've learned the power of communication these days and with your help most of the people can be convinced that we know what's best for them. Even the media has stopped being so damned critical. At least the ones who don't want trouble with the FCC or the IRS."

The President smiled his engaging, sincere grin. "Well, the people did want to see Big Business taxed. I thought threatening to make all cameras and recorders count as taxable recreational equipment instead of business expenses would bring the networks around and it did. Your average journalist may be an egotistical jerk, but the people who are really in charge are reasonable, responsible citizens."

"As I say, good work," said the man in the hot tub. "But there is one troublesome area, mediawise, that we still need strong measures to cope with. There is a certain kind of musician in this country who stirs up trouble, criticizes our best efforts, spreads liberal commie ideas, leads the opposition with sarcastic songs that lead to slogans and buttons and picket lines. These people have been free to cross borders from one country to another, a lot of them coming through Canada, bringing foreign doctrine and criticism of U.S. foreign policy, industry, you name it, with them. Our people pay to have their government insulted."

"We've suspected as much for some time, haven't we, Sam?" the President asked the head of the CIA, who nodded and watched everyone through his sunglasses.

"We suspect that may be one way drugs are coming into this country," said Sam, who strongly resented anyone interfering with a CIA monopoly.

"Right. Well, not only do these foreign nationals enter our country and spread their poison, but there are people born and raised in these United States, many of whom do not pay their fair share of taxes, if you ask me, who travel freely from city to city stirring up trouble and discontent."

"Who are these low-life bastards?" the head of the FBI growled over his cigar, which drew frowns from the Surgeon General.

"They're your so-called folksingers, Mr. President. Though, of course, a lot of the crap they spread isn't even folk music. They just make it up whenever they have a new party line."

"Why aren't these degenerates in prison?" the President demanded.

"They enjoy it too much," said the General. "Why, remember when they raised so much hell that they lost us the Vietnam War, back in the sixties? Hell, a criminal record was as important as a guitar, back then."

The First Lady cleared her throat, "In all fairness, dear, I have heard some very persuasive antidrug songs from these people."

The FBI man shook his head, "No good, ma'am. The drug problem originally started with these people. Why, if white folksingers hadn't glamorized nigger—excuse me, ma'am, black—"

"I think we can all speak freely here, Ed," the President said.

"Black junkie blues, schoolchildren would not today be endangered."

Not from the competition anyway, the CIA man thought. They'd be supporting America instead, just like they were buying bonds.

"What do you suggest, Nick?" the President asked the man in the tub.

"Actually, Bruce, I suggest you leave it to me. I'll put together a task force and I think I can safely promise we'll keep these people out of your way from now on so you can continue with your important work."

"Fair enough," the President said.

 

* * *

 

Julianne and George Martin had come to the end of their road—at least for two weeks. They pulled their van into a parking place behind the Trendy's Pizza Parlor in Odessa, Kansas, and climbed out. Julianne ran a comb through her tumbled blond hair and hauled fifteen pounds of hammered dulcimer out of the back of the van so she could get at the microphone stands. George picked up the PA and an amplifier. She twitched a finger loose from her load and pried the screen door open a crack, inserted a toe to widen the crack, and bumped the door back with her hip. A man wearing a bowling shirt and carrying a double pepperoni pizza almost ran George down as he hauled the amplifier through the door.

Julianne set down her load and wiped the sweat off her face with her forearm.

"You think this place is wired for electricity?" George asked.

"This is the back way, silly. Come on, let's find the manager." They threaded their way through a short hall with worn linoleum and piles of boxes, cans of tomato paste, into a room even hotter than the outdoors. A ceiling fan kept the flies circulating nicely.

George looked at the Formica counters and tables, the metal chairs, and the plastic hanging lamps with Trendy's written in red plastic across the shades. "What kind of gig is this anyhow?" he complained. He was not at his best at the end of two-day drives. He'd developed a pain in his right shoulder and had a headache from the sun.

Juli shrugged. "It's the kind of gig that's between Denver and Tulsa is all I know. Lettie Chaves said Mark Mosby made a hundred in tips here besides the fifty they're paying. And there's a trailer with a bed and free beer and pizza."

"We don't drink beer," George reminded her.

"That's not their fault," she said. Julianne was annoyingly fair sometimes. "It'll be a place to spend the night, a new area, and gas money. Look, I'm perfectly willing for you to do the booking but—"

"Okay, okay. I give. It's the Carnegie Hall of western Kansas. I think that's our man over there. The one in the Trendy's tractor cap." George doubted they would do as well as Mark Mosby, though Julianne's sparkle sometimes brought out generosity in people who looked as if they didn't have an ounce of energy or a penny's worth of fun in them: people who looked like he felt now.

Tractor Cap answered Julianne's smile with a grunt. "You the Martins?" he asked.

"That's right," she said.

"I'm sorry. I tried to phone but I couldn't reach you. We can't use you after all."

"What?" George asked.

Julianne said, "But why not? I'm sure if you put up the pictures we sent you in our promo packet you'd increase your business tonight and—"

"I put those pictures up okay, and I had to take them all down again. They're back in my office if you want them. That guy saw them and that's why we decided not to have music."

"I don't understand," Julianne said. "What guy?"

"The man from SWALLOW. You know the—"

"We know," Julianne said wearily, sinking into a chair and resting her clenched fists between her knees. "Good old SWALLOW—the Songwriters and Arrangers' Legal Licensing Organization Worldwide."

"That's right. They said they license all the songs sung all over the world and if we hire live musicians, they'll be singing songs whose writers or arrangers are protected by SWALLOW so we have to join up with their licensing service to be entitled to have their songs sung here. Then he told me how much the fee is. Do you know how much he wanted?"

Julianne and George nodded grimly. "We know," George said.

The Trendy's manager shrugged. "Well, I'm sorry but our profit margin is too narrow for that."

"Ours isn't really terrific either," George said, "and we just drove a hundred miles out of our way to play here."

"I'm sorry about that, Mr. Martin. And I'll be glad to give you supper to pay for your time. People did enjoy that fellow we had here last month. But we just can't afford trouble. That SWALLOW man said if you played here and we didn't pay, he'd sic the organization's L.A. lawyers on us. It's hard enough keeping in business. You know how it is."

"Yeah, sure," George said, but Julianne, who wanted to salvage something out of the situation, jumped in, "We understand, sir. And as you can tell, we're familiar with this particular problem. But the fact is, we don't do any material that SWALLOW represents. Ours is all either in the public domain or original stuff we've written ourselves."

He shook his head. "I brought that up and the guy said that maybe that was okay when the organizations were just the two that used to exist for this country, but since licensing has gone international it takes in a lot more territory. He said for one thing, if we even want to have a jukebox in the place, we can't have anyone doing original stuff not licensed by SWALLOW, and that even with traditional songs, lots of people use arrangements made up by SWALLOW artists. And I guess, from what you folks say, you aren't licensed by SWALLOW, huh?"

George and Juli shook their heads.

"Like you say," George told him. "The fees are very high. Also, they won't take everybody. If they don't like a song, they won't license it."

"Is that so? Well, I'm sorry about you going out of your way like this, folks, but I can't risk losing my franchise. So how about that free pizza? You like pepperoni? That's the special tonight."

It was okay, once the Martins, who were both vegetarians, picked off the pepperoni. George was so mad he drove all the way to Tulsa that night after all. The van overheated two miles from their friend Barry Curtis's house and they had to call Barry at three a.m. to come out with his pickup and get them and the instruments while AAA towed the van into the nearest service station.

Barry and his wife Molly were both at work by the time Julianne woke the next afternoon. She pulled on a T-shirt and padded into the kitchen, trying to remember where the Curtises kept the coffee. Her name jumped out at her from a stick-it note on the refrigerator door.

"Juli and George. Call Poor Woody's," and listed the number. Juli had a bad feeling about that message. What had happened to them in Odessa had happened to friends of theirs in other places. SWALLOW was scaring a lot of potential small gigs out of hiring live music.

Sure enough, three hours later the manager of Poor Woody's hung up in Juli's ear. George went back to bed, and pulled the pillow over his face. Barry patted Juli's shoulder. "Sorry, Jules. Maybe something will turn up."

"It was a three-week gig, Barry. We needed that money."

"Why don't you call Lettie and see if she and Mic have heard of anybody who's hiring hereabouts?"

"Someone SWALLOW hasn't scared off first?"

"Worth a try. Anyway, if you tell Lettie what's happened to you, by the time she finishes saying what she'd like to do to the bastards, you'll start feeling sorry for them."

Her mouth tightened in what he had to take for a smile. "Thanks, Barry. We'll pay you back for the call as soon as we get work."

"No problem. We get to hear you play for free often enough," Barry said, and settled into a threadbare platform rocker with a new fantasy novel and a scruffy gray cat on his lap.

Julianne dialed the Chaveses' number, expecting to hear Lettie or Mic answer by the third ring. Instead, the answering machine clicked on. "If you have an urgent message for Lettie or Mic, dial 206-555-4444."

She dialed. A woman answered. "Hi," Juli said. "Is Lettie Chaves there?"

"No, sugar, I'm sorry. Lettie and Mic are up to Vancouver pickin' up a friend. I'm Lettie's mama, can I help you?"

"Mrs.—"

"Call me Gussie, sugar, everybody does."

"Okay, Gussie. I'm Julianne Martin. Just tell Lettie and Mic George and I are at the Curtises in Tulsa and sure would like to hear from her."

"Julianne Martin? Why, I'm so pleased to talk to you, hon. Lettie and Mic are always goin' on about you and George. How you doin'?"

"Oh, fine," she said and then, prodded by the interest and warmth in the woman's voice, "well, not exactly. Three weeks worth of gigs just fell through and we were hoping maybe Lettie knew of an opening someplace around here close enough we could get there on five bucks worth of gas."

"I'll have her call you back the minute she gets here. Now don't you worry. Everything'll work out. You wait and see." Trust a friend's mother to come up with platitudes.

Oh, well, at least they had friends, Juli reminded herself. She'd been taught by her mother, the expensive child psychologist her mother had sent her to after her father died, and her guru to count her blessings so, dutifully, she did. She lit the gas jet on Barry's old stove, made herself a cup of chamomile tea, carried it with her to the living room where she scissored herself onto the floor. She did ballet stretches as she'd been doing since her dancing days, then rolled her head in circles and rotated her shoulders. Two weeks of riding across country, eating goopy truck-stop nachos and peanut butter sandwiches, drinking too much caffeine to stay awake when they couldn't stop for the night due to the highway regulations of one state or another. George had the right idea going back to bed.

Her forehead throbbed and she knew that pretty soon a tight band would close around her scalp and she'd have one of her headaches again. But then nobody ever said it was easy.

Barry read on, totally absorbed, but the cat uncurled from his lap, stretched one paw at a time, and hopped down in front of Juli, its calm little face upturned, waiting for her to make a lap. She obediently did so, hoisted it onto her thighs, and petted its lumpy fur. Poor thing was allergic to fleas, she remembered Molly explaining. Its name was Pyewacket, or was it Helva, or was that Lettie's cat? No, Lettie's cat was Tan, Satanna, or one of them. It was hard to keep straight all of their friends' cats and dogs, there were so many of them. People like the Curtises and the Chaveses were always taking in strays, cats, dogs, musicians.

First they'd come to the club and grin all through your set, clap hard, and chat a little at breaks. They might be the only ones all night to leave any kind of a tip, though it was always only a dollar or so, but they came back every night of a gig. Long about the third night they'd ask what the accommodations were and after that there was a bed, a bath, a stove, and foster animals instead of a sleeping bag on the floor of the van and a spit bath in the John at whatever restaurant or bar they were playing that night.

Of course, some of the people who were attracted to musicians were kind of weird, wanting to nose into their private lives and live vicariously what seemed to be a more glamorous life-style. But the friends she and George had made and kept weren't like that. They were great. Most of them, like Molly and Barry and the Chaveses, were considerate of the musicians' privacy and gave them plenty of space. George tried, for purposes of both friendship and publicity, to write a newsletter every once in a while to let people know what was happening on the road. And Juli usually loved to talk anyway, and to hear about other people's lives, about the day-in-day-out troubles and triumphs that she'd thought were so boring when she first went on the road.

One day she and George hoped to be able to afford to drive a mobile home or a bus around the country, but in the meantime they were lucky to have people like the Curtises, who were always glad to see them but who treated them as casually as if they were roommates and took little notice of their coming and going. When Barry and Molly or some of their other friends went on vacation, sometimes Juli and George got to house-sit for them, and had a place all to themselves. It was like playing house. But God, she got tired of playing house in other people's houses. Still, it just made no sense to maintain a place of your own when you were never in it.

Once upon a time, she had heard from older veteran musicians, gigs had come with room and board. But that hadn't been the case most places for a long time. So friends across the country, the Curtises and others, who worked straight jobs and had an extra room were godsends. And then there was Lettie, who had a small record distribution business for privately produced records, which she not only sold but promoted to the few folk radio shows and all the festivals she and Mic could attend, kept club lists, and wrote reviews for folk music journals. Her husband Mic was willing to drive all night so he and Lettie could attend a festival, where he introduced everyone to everyone else whether he knew them or not, was quickly on first-name terms with all of the luminaries at any given event, and was just as quick to turn them on to the music of less celebrated friends. Other friends were musicians themselves, but not on the road. Some helped friends with bookings or were willing to type newsletters. Then there were people who organized concerts and festivals, open mikes and referral lists, printed newsletters or journals. Several folks she knew of were involved in that in Chicago and Lettie said her mom knew of a guy who did that kind of thing in Tacoma too.

Juli's reverie was interrupted when the door banged open and Molly Curtis jogged in, her dark brown hair escaping from its braids to cling in damp wisps to her sweating face. Her legs were bright red under her blue running shorts, her tank top soaked. She thrust a paper bag into Julianne's hand, "Here, girl. You looked like you needed this and they had your favorite flavor at the 7-Eleven." Inside were two plastic cartons of vanilla almond frozen yogurt with a couple of plastic spoons.

Juli grinned up into Molly's dripping face. "You're wonderful," she said, but her gut was in knots from exhaustion, tension, and caffeine and she knew she couldn't eat a thing.

She pulled the plastic spoons from the bag and tapped them together idly, then deliberately arranged them between the fingers of her right hand. "Hey, you know, I was working on a story to tell about magic spoons while we were on our way down here," she told Molly. "What do you think of this rhythm?"

Tapping the spoons across her left hand and clicking them against her thigh and forearm, she ticked out a rhythm. They didn't make as much noise as her metal or wooden spoons. "Well, you get the idea. It goes like this, ba da da, ba da da, ba da dad dad dad dad da, ba da da, ba da da, ba da pow pow POW!"

"Amazing what that girl can do with frozen yogurt," Barry observed.

Molly threw a stack of letters at her. "Here, girl, stop playing with your food and read your mail."

Juli tore open the letter from their accountant, a friend named Pete Zimmerman in Chicago. This must be the tax refund they'd been waiting for since April. But it wasn't. It was a letter. "Dear George and Julianne, Don't get upset. I'm sure we can work things out and there has been some misunderstanding. But you need to be back here by July 10 for an IRS audit. They claim you owe $30,000 in back taxes and fines from 1987 on. Unless you can show you maintain a permanent home, they're disallowing your travel expenses as business deductions. Call me ASAP and we'll work out strategy. Love, Pete."

Without a word to the Curtises, Juli threw the opened letter on top of the pile of mail, left the yogurt melting in the cartons, and strode back to the spare bedroom, where she threw herself on the bed next to George and buried her face in the pillow.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, the Chaveses had been having a good time driving another musician friend down from Canada.

Mic drove and Lettie sat in the back seat while their guest, Hy MacDonald, regaled them with bawdy stories of his travels from Scotland through Australia and New Zealand, and his previous successful tours in the U.S. Hy did not look like a man who wrote and sang romantic, mythic ballads full of Celtic folklore and imagery that made sensible young women with good careers in banking want to climb into his lap and light his cigarettes. Short, thin, and balding with limp sandy hair covering only the back two thirds of his scalp and his front teeth yellowed from nicotine, he looked more like a particularly nervous banker himself, Lettie decided. But she and her husband were the last ones to judge by appearances.

Mic looked more like a Scottish folksinger than Hy did. With his first name and his freckled face and red hair, he was often mistaken for a kid of Irish or Scottish lineage whose mother had married a Mexican. In fact, the Chaves name, which dated in Texas from before the Alamo, was pure European Spanish and Mic, whose full name was Miguel Alejandro, was the heir to generations of Texas's aristocratic Spanish heritage—no money, but plenty of pedigree. But now he talked as rapidly and enthusiastically as the most verbose Celt, swapping Hy yarn for yarn.

Lettie was the shy, seemingly aloof, intense one of the pair, the more compulsively creative. And who knew where she'd gotten that from? Well, her mom had been a dancer when she was younger. Lettie had seen the pictures. But ever since she could remember, Gus had worked as a barmaid. At least she was finally out of the oil fields, able to indulge her lifelong ambition to get the hell out of West Texas now that her little girl was secure with Mic. She'd moved her cats and her shoe collection to a little rental house in Tacoma and tended bar across the street from the place where Craig Lee's Triumph Music cooperative held open mikes. The pickers all came in to the bar to jam after the open mike shut down, and to be spoiled by Gussie. Even the Seattle city slickers who thought Texans were all oil-rig bums and hicks had thawed to Gussie's West Texas drawl and down-home warmth. And Gussie had adopted Washington and especially the musicians as matter-of-factly as she took in stray cats.

Which was how Lettie and Mic got acquainted with Craig and had gotten drafted as "roadies" for Hy to bring him across the border for the Triumph Concert that would kick off his cross-country tour.

"And then there was Roger in this foolish puce spandex jogging suit—" Hy was saying as they drew up to the customs window. It was late, so the lines weren't too bad, but they'd already swapped three stories and Hy had sung them a piece of his new song while they waited.

"Where are you going?" the customs man asked.

"Tacoma," Mic said.

"Where you coming from?"

"Vancouver."

"Place of residence?"

"Amarillo, Texas, for us," Mic said, indicating Lettie with a wag of his fingers.

"Aberdeen, Scotland," Hy said, and handed over his passport for inspection.

"Your business in Tacoma?"

"We're visiting my wife's mom," Mic said. "And we're taking this gentleman to a concert he's performing."

The customs man ran his flashlight across Hy's passport and peered at it more closely, then flashed the beam inside the car, where it picked out the guitars sitting in under the hatchback. "Will you pull in over there by that white line, sir, and you and your passengers get out of the vehicle and enter this building through that door?"

"Yes, sir," Mic said, and as he pulled away, he rolled his eyes at Lettie in the rearview mirror. Oh, well, they'd expected a little hassle since Hy was neither American nor Canadian. They were unprepared, however, when a uniformed man with a lug wrench and crowbar demanded the keys to the car and began popping hubcaps.

"Had some problems tonight, have you?" Mic asked the customs official behind the desk casually.

The man ignored the question. "Which of you is Hyslop MacDonald?"

"That would be me," Hy said.

"We'll need to retain your passport for a while, sir. Meanwhile, if you and the other gentleman would step into that cubicle and remove your clothing and hand it out. And you, ma'am, if you'll use that other cubicle and do the same."

"What's the problem, officer?" Mic asked, although he doubted that it would do any good and would probably make the customs people nastier.

"The problem, sir, is that you're attempting to assist a known political subversive and probable drug trafficker into the United States."

Mic and Lettie looked at Hy, who shrugged. "Maybe they think I'm Irish."