Cover-Up Story (7 page)

She fought like a wildcat, or whatever the local fauna was in the territory she came from. Sam tossed the hat away and used both hands to defend himself. He wasn't doing too well. Maw Cooney circled them like a stray bitch, watching her chance to get in there and sink her teeth where they'd do the most damage.

The best idea I could come up with was to throw a bucket of cold water over them, but there was no water in the room. Only a half-empty bottle of bourbon, and I couldn't bring myself to waste it.

Gerry stopped them. The flash of light from the camera halted them all. They blinked, and separated, dazed. Then Gerry stepped into the breach. He gave Lou-Ann his warmest smile. I had seen Gerry in action before. I could never copy his technique – I still didn't believe it. But it worked every time.

They have laws to protect poor fish. Dynamiting trout is illegal in all civilized countries. When civilization reaches a more advanced stage, they may get around to protecting people from onslaughts of sheer concentrated charm. (Or perhaps television will eventually prove an immunizing agent.)

Meanwhile, there is no defence. I watched Lou-Ann smooth her hair, pull down her jacket, and generally prove that a rag, a bone, and a hank of hair has the same reactions, no matter where in the world it originated. She gave Gerry a shy, hesitant smile.

‘I got some splendid shots during the performance,' he told her. ‘But now I'd like a few relaxed, natural pictures, for my own scrapbook – if nothing else.'

Lou-Ann still looked doubtful, but Maw Cooney dealt herself into the action at this stage.

‘It can't do any harm,' she advised Lou-Ann. ‘You jes' let the nice gentleman take any pictures he wants. After all –' she simpered at Gerry, who didn't turn a hair – ‘even if he takes them, that ain't to say he's going to pass them around, is it?'

‘Assuredly not.' Gerry nearly bowed. ‘I shouldn't dream of doing anything that didn't have your full approval.'

He had Lou-Ann's plaits piled coronet-style on top of her head by that time, and her jacket off. ‘Suppose we just try this,' he murmured. He turned the jacket back to front and swathed her in it, hiding the awful blouse.

Sam watched him with narrowed eyes. Maw Cooney's eyes were narrow, too, but I thought I recognized the look in them. I had seen it before, in other hopeful mothers mentally measuring Gerry for a wedding-ring. That was always before they knew him very well.

IF YOUR LUCK is in, you stand a good chance with an Award Presentation. Provided that no one declares war, assaults a photogenic female, or ingeniously murders a spouse, there's a sporting chance that some desperate editor will throw you into an empty space.

It took no effort at all, next day, to persuade Penny to gather a few friends into a Black Bart Fan Club and elect her President. Since Sam was ultimately footing the bill, we decided on a silver-plated miniature guitar – but big enough to photograph well – and I sent Penny off to find one and get it engraved.

I was on the phone, putting out the photo call, when Sam walked into the office. He sat down and breathed heavily for a few minutes.

‘Can't you afford a building with an elevator?' he finally wheezed.

‘You mean a lift,' I told him. ‘Since you ask, we can't. Apart from which, it's considered healthier for people to take gentle exercise – like climbing a few stairs or going for long walks every day. I thought your doctors over there were dead keen on the idea.'

‘Then let them climb the stairs!' Sam was recovering enough to sit up and take notice. He looked round the room carefully, obviously deciding that Nathan's investment hadn't been frittered away in pursuit of sybaritic luxury. The furniture was second-hand Utility, and even at the rate bygones were coming back into style these days, we weren't going to live long enough to see any of it make us a profit on the antique market.

‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or a cigar?' It wasn't much, but it was the best I could offer. He shot me an odd glance and shook his head.

Well, I'd done my best to be hospitable. I settled back and waited for him to make the next move. After all this time, I could hardly believe he had come here of his own free will. I still half expected him to vanish in a puff of smoke.

‘Nice little place you've got here,' he lied half-heartedly.

‘It isn't much, but it's home.'

He nodded glumly, still glancing around the room. Perhaps he'd had orders from Nate to come and inspect the place, but he looked more like a nervous man trying to spot the Fire Exit in case of an emergency. If there was a point to his visit, it didn't seem that he was going to let me in on it.

‘Sure you wouldn't like a cup of tea?' I pressed.

He shook his head again, and that was the last indication I had from him that he was aware of my presence in the room. After that, he just slumped in the chair, staring into space.

‘Try a cigar – they're improving with age.' I used it as an excuse to lean across the desk, holding the box out to him, so that I could look at his eyes. The pupils appeared to be normal. I hadn't really thought he was on drugs, but you never can be too sure these days.

But no, the trouble wasn't drugs. The trouble might just possibly be Trouble. Sam, the more I studied him, looked like a man with the Giant Economy-Size package of Trouble on his shelf.

He was still ignoring me, so I gave it up for a bad job and went back to telephoning. I sent out half a dozen more photo calls to newspapers and agencies before I looked up again to find him staring at me.

This time he knew I was there. And he seemed to wish I wasn't. Well, that was easy enough to remedy – all he had to do was get up and go away. It was
my
office, after all.

‘What's this about Fan Club kids?' he demanded.

‘You heard the call I was putting out. The Black Bart Fan Club of London will present Bart with a silver guitar tomorrow at 2.00 p.m., in honour of his first English tour.'

‘These kids –' there was a peculiar urgency in his manner – ‘how kiddish are they?'

I saw his point. I wouldn't like a bunch of impressionable kids to trip over Black Bart in one of his black moods. ‘Relax,' I said, ‘they're all in on it. My secretary is the President – she'll be presenting the Award. It
would
be nice, though, if you could keep the Great Man civil for the occasion. For the sake of the Press, of course.'

‘Oh, he'll be okay.' Sam did relax. He slumped again, but managed not to go back into his former trance. I felt we were making progress. It emboldened me to ask a direct question.

‘What the hell is going on, Sam? What the bloody hell is
really
going on with your bunch?'

He leaped a mile, then pulled himself together. He even managed a smile, but his eyes had resumed their restless inventory of the room. ‘I don't know what you mean,' he said doggedly.

‘Cut it out, Sam. You're not that dumb – and neither am I.'

‘Okay, Doug.' He faced me squarely. ‘I'll be honest with you.'

Automatically, I braced myself for a lie.

‘We've had our little problems. I mean, it's not just one big happy family – the way the act plays. Most of them aren't even related – you can't expect it. But they're good boys and girls, they'll settle down. They're a little out of their depth, being in a foreign country, too.' He laughed falsely. ‘To tell you the truth, so am I. That's why I'm so glad we've got you, Douggie boy, we're depending on you to see us through.'

Well, I could see through him. Perhaps that was a start. ‘Try it again,' I said. ‘I'm not buying that one. It's hollow when you thump it.'

That laugh of his was beginning to grate on my nerves. ‘Ah, you're too clever for us, Douggie boy. I'll admit there are wheels within wheels. It's an awkward situation.'

‘Then you'd better fill me in on it. You know it's as important for a public relations man to know what to avoid as it is to know what to publicize.'

‘Well.' He clawed blindly for a cigarette, avoiding my eyes. ‘It's like this.' He paused to light the cigarette, and I lost him again. He stared abstractedly at the match until it burned down almost to his fingers, then he shook it out and took to staring at the lighted tip of the cigarette instead.

‘Come along,' I prodded him, ‘you can tell
me.
I'm on
your
side, you know. I don't care if Uncle No'ccount runs an illegal still in his backyard down yonder – I'm not going to shop him to the Revenue men.'

‘Naw.' Sam shook his head impatiently. ‘Nothing like that. There's nothing wrong with Uncle No'ccount – he's clean as a whistle.'

‘And what's buzzing with the Cousins?'

‘You heard about Ezra?' Sam twitched nervously.

‘That was nothing, really – just kid stuff. Playing around with love potions. It could have happened to anyone.'

‘Not in
my
circles,' I said firmly.

‘Yeah, well, not in mine, either. But things are different way down South. So, when he got this wild passion for an older woman four or five years ago, he put some Spanish fly in her drink.'

‘My God! Isn't that stuff poison?'

‘Yeah, he found that out. He'd given her an overdose, too, to make matters worse. He was lucky she pulled through.'

‘The only reason the jury let him off, I presume.'

‘Hell, it didn't get
that
far. I told you she was an older woman – friend of his mother's, in fact. She didn't press charges. Soon as she was feeling better, she couldn't help seeing the funny side of it.'

‘All good clean fun,' I said weakly.

‘That's right. And it sure taught Ezra a lesson. We won't have any trouble with
him.
And the rest of the Cousins are A-Okay.'

‘Good. That helps narrow the field, doesn't it?' I had a fairly shrewd idea to whom the field was going to narrow down, but felt I ought not to rush Sam too much. He'd tell me, now that he'd started. It might take a while, but I hadn't any plans for the afternoon.

‘I mean, you've got to understand the background to this set-up before you can know how awkward it really is.'

‘Okay, fill me in.'

‘Sure, I'm going to.' Again he gave the imitation of a man wishing someone would yell ‘Fire' so that he could beat a fast, explicable retreat. No one obliged.

‘You see, it's like this.' He gave up with a sigh. ‘They – the Big Boys in New York – have kept their eyes on the Nashville Scene for a long while now. Some really big ones have come out of there since the days of Hank Williams. They may start out as Hillbilly, or Country and Western, but they can be turned into Folk – and that means International appeal today. The Madison Avenue boys keep an eye out for stars they can build, characters with staying power, who can capture the public and keep them. Preferably, ones who won't go off the rails with a bit of success and start blowing their brains out with LSD, or drinking a couple of quarts of com squeezings and then racing their sports car down a highway playing “chicken” with oil tankers.'

‘And so, with all those sterling qualifications in mind, they picked on Black Bart?' I said incredulously.

‘Well, uh, no,' Sam said. ‘As a matter of fact, they picked on Lou-Ann.'

‘Lou-Ann?' That was even harder to believe. ‘You can't seriously mean you think that that little –'

‘Cool it! ' Sam held up his hand, eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Just think it over for a minute. There's always a shortage of good female comics.'

‘
Good
is the word.' But I didn't say it too loudly. Something about Sam's attitude was beginning to proclaim ‘vested interest', even to my uncritical eyes.

‘Good,' he repeated, on firmer ground. These things go in cycles. We feel the public may be tired of pretty girls standing up and snarling protest songs at them. There's room for a comedienne who can also sing ballads and tearjerkers. There hasn't been one since Judy Canova – and look how big
she
was.'

‘I remember,' I said, treading cautiously. ‘But I don't think Lou-Ann is quite –'

‘And look at Dorothy Shay – the Park Avenue Hillbilly,' Sam went on enthusiastically. ‘You get some fast patter and some sophisticated material and –'

‘Now, I
know
Lou-Ann isn't Park Avenue Hillbilly material,' I said firmly. ‘Hillbilly, yes. Park Avenue, no.'

‘Okay, so the kid needs a little more polish, a little more class. But then, there's nowhere she can't go –' He broke off. Nothing I had said had been able to get through to him, but now something from the back of his own mind stopped him. He deflated like a punctured tyre.

‘Nowhere she couldn't have gone,' he corrected.

Here it came. He slumped in his chair, staring into space, his head turning from side to side in agonizing, unbelieving negation.

‘Then the whole thing blew up,' he said. ‘Right in our faces. After we had their names on the contract, but before we had time to start the star build-up.'

‘Bart?' I asked.

‘Bart,' he agreed grimly. ‘We'd been planning to phase him out of the act. You know the routine. A little less to do every few shows, then part of the background, then – pfft. He quietly disappears. And, all the while, Lou-Ann would have been coming to the fore, getting known, taking over the show.'

‘But it didn't work out that way.'

‘He got hold of the ‘Homesteader' song. They cut the disc. Nobody realized it was going to be that big a hit. Now, he's dead centre in the Public Eye, and we're stuck with him.' Sam got to his feet wearily, as though the effort of finally telling me the story had drained his last reserves of strength.