Phantom Banjo (3 page)

"Depends on who was telling it, kiddo. But
no, that wasn't why. Hawthorne was young and strong then and very
smart and very dedicated. And then of course there was his magic
banjo, but I'm not going to say another word about that right now.
Bureaucrats and businesspersons you wanted and bureaucrats and
businesspersons is what you're gonna get."

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."