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Musicians,
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Ghost,
Devil,
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folksingers
President's request for an increased
defense budget and there was a brief mention of Sam Hawthorne's
funeral back in Boston.
The channel flipped once more, though again,
he didn't notice Lulubelle doing anything to flip it, and a blond
female announcer said, "Tonight's top headline is the crash of a
U.S. Airlines commuter jet from Los Angeles to San Francisco. The
plane carried over two hundred passengers and crew, many of them
performers and music lovers bound for the San Francisco Folk
Festival. Among the confirmed dead are Josh Grisholm, and Nedra
Buchanan, best known for her collaboration with the enemy during
the Vietnam War. The ill-fated festival was also to have featured
the late Sam Hawthorne, who died two days ago at a concert in
Austin, Texas, and fiddler Bill Beresford, who died in the
mysterious fire bombings that destroyed the lower levels of the
Library of Congress buildings."
Willie guessed that would have pretty well
wiped out the headliners, okay. He shook his head, wonderingly.
Weird how so many people in the same profession were dying off all
of a sudden. And what about the snotty way the newscaster sounded
when she told about it, as if she was saying "good riddance"? Even
to Willie, who was a fairly conservative man politically, the
dismissal of Nedra Buchanan as a traitor seemed unduly harsh.
Buchanan was a gifted singer from a long line of Scottish
historians and folklorists and she had also marched for civil
rights and world peace and nuclear disarmament and a number of
other liberal causes. Willie didn't usually agree with her, but he
respected her for her determination and strength of purpose, as he
had respected Sam, who he also thought was crazy as a bedbug.
"Well, well," Lulubelle said, "looks like you
were smart to get out of that business. Not only is it
unprofitable, it's getting dangerous."
"Sure seems that way, don't it?"
"No seems about it, honeybun," she said, and
the channel flipped again.
"Police are seeking a ranch hand today in
connection with the death of an Austin man. The body of Mark Mosby,
thirty-eight, was discovered . . ."
"Well, they make it sound like they think I
killed Mark! He just died—somethin' from that accident. I've been
tryin' to get to a phone to tell somebody when that damn fool horse
ran away with me and—" Willie broke off suddenly, wondering just
how much trouble he might be in and just how much he ought to be
telling this very strange hooker about it all but Lulubelle was
paying him no nevermind at all.
"The ranch hand is also wanted for the theft
of a horse bearing the Bar B Bar brand of his employer."
"Now, goddamn it all, that's it! I mean, that
just takes the cake!" Willie said, pacing as furiously to and fro
as his sores would let him. "Hell, I didn't steal that horse. It
stole me!"
"So, you're a wanted man," Lulubelle said as
the screen went blank. "My, my, a real desperado. I always knew you
were a bad one, you devil you."
"It's all a mistake. I can straighten it out
as soon as I see the boss," he said with more confidence than he
actually felt. Nothing seemed very straight at the moment. "Jesus,
it seems like the whole fucking world is fallin' apart. First Sam,
then Mark, then Josh and Nedra and what with the destruction of the
Archives and all—god damn, that's most of everybody and everything
I've stood for . . ."
Lulubelle giggled. "Aw, c'mon, sport. What
did those big shots ever do for you anyway?"
"Mark was no big shot. He was my friend."
"Yeah, and look how he paid back your
friendship! Did he try to help you when he was getting the
gigs?"
He appreciated the sympathy for a few minutes
before he realized that she shouldn't have known about any of that.
"Wait a minute. Just how closely have you been following my musical
career anyhow, lady?"
"Musical career? Hell's bells, darlin', I
don't care nothin' about your musical career . . . except for the
sentiment in your drinking songs and the way it boosts business.
I'm tone deaf. Can't
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