Woody
By Claude Hall
He called himself Scooter King on the air and all of the listeners to the radio
station in the Deep South – and the station was always flooded with phone calls
when he was on the air – called him other things and most of these were not very
nice because he was not a very nice guy. He was not pleasant on the air and he
was even more unpleasant off the air. He never smiled nor even showed the
slightest grin. Just about every word that came out of his mouth was an insult or
very close to a dirty word. Matter of fact, he wore a constant snarl and this had
permanently disfigured his face so that he looked like a weird monster such as you
see on ancient buildings in the old part of towns in Europe.
Woody Fellows, the program director, intended to fire Scooter King just as
soon as the audience ratings came out. He hated to fire people, but it was part of
his job and quite characteristic of radio. Especially when a disc jockey didn’t mesh
with the format. Woody was actually a nice guy. Family man. He and Michelle
already had a cute little girl baby and intended to add to their family with a boy
soon.
So Woody was very surprised when the ratings came out and Scooter was
the No. 1 radio personality in the market.
“I can’t figure it,” he told Charlie G. Murdock, the general manager of the
radio station.
“I guess people need someone to hate,” Murdock said. He grinned. Frankly,
he’d intended to fire Woody and hire that new hotshot program director over in
Wichita Falls. Then the ratings had come out and the station was No. 1 in the
market. You don’t fire a No. 1 program director.
“Kids!” said Woody by way of explanation. He was just guessing, of course.
“They’re listeners, too,” replied Murdock. “Anyway, his listeners are up across
the board. Our young adults are really big and he’s big especially with women.”
“I just don’t understand it,” said Woody and shook his head. “Must be some
kind of fad. And fads, as you well know, come and go in radio. Remember the
Nehru jacket? The medallions we used to wear?”
“Well, you’re absolutely the program director of this radio station, but I can’t
let you fire Scooter. Not right now. We just landed one hellofa timebuy for his
show. Beacon is coming aboard big time and I’ve been trying to sell Beacon on
this station for more than a year. Golf, golf, golf. And it turns out that this Beacon
fellow actually listens to Scooter King.”
“Okay,” said Woody, “but I, for one, am completely mystified.”
“It’s just radio,” said Murdock. “You can’t take radio seriously, you know.”
But, of course, Murdock did take radio seriously. Very seriously. So did
Woody. Radio was the life of just about everyone in the radio business. And they
were passionate about it. Usually, wives and children took second place. This was
not so much in Woody’s case because he had dreams of becoming a college
professor and, concerning Michelle, he always figured he’d married above himself.
She had a master’s in fine arts from Columbia University, she was pretty in blue
jeans and absolutely gorgeous in an evening gown, and she loved Shakespeare.
You could not go wrong with a wife like that. In addition, he’d fallen in love with her
at virtually first sight. At a party thrown by a friend in New York City.
He taken this programming job with WFOL in Memphis because there was a
university in the town and, in fact, just a short bus ride from the radio station. And
Dr. William M. Randle, head of the communications department at the university,
had talked him into seeking his master’s degree “right here and right now.” A
former radio personality at WERE in Cleveland, Dr. Randle could be extremely
persuasive when it came to education. Not only did he have a Ph.D. in American
Studies from Case Western Reserve, but two master’s from Columbia University
and two master’s from the New School in New York City. In addition, he was a
legend in radio. He was also thinking about going for a law degree.
Dr. Randle certainly possessed the “merit badges” that were virtually a
requirement in order to teach at the college level. And one of these, without
question, was academic publication. An article requiring not only research, but
which was “judged” by your peers before print. In this particular case, your peers
were supposed to be in the academic world. The problem was that very few
professors knew the slightest thing about radio. Sometimes, they thought they
knew about it. One or two had actually worked in the medium. But radio was
constantly changing and it was different from what they thought anyway. Woody
was hard at work on an article that he hoped to submit to the Journal of Pop
Culture.
The idea for the article had originated with Scooter King. It involved the
so-called “shock jock” and, of course, Scooter would be only a small part of the
article. The major focus was on Joey Reynolds. Woody talked with the legendary
disc jockey superstar over the phone for a great deal of his information for the
article. Bill Randle had also provided several pages of facts, all corroborated with
the specific sources as required in the academic world.
The material from Joey Reynolds, whose real name was Pinto, was
fascinating. Evidently, he’d referred to the mayor of Hartsford, CT, as a “dumb old
broad” and been suspended by the head of programming of the radio station,
Charlie Parker. Shortly after returning to the air on the radio station, he stated,
“she’s still a dumb old broad” and promptly was fired. That seems to have been
the birth of the so-called “shock jock.” And it certainly added fuel to the growing
fame of Joey Reynolds.
Joey Reynolds had recently been honored with a two-part series on the
Oprah Winfrey show as the father of the shock jock by a bevy of radio announcers
who practiced that approach in radio. More than a dozen radio personalities
appearing on the show paid tribute to Joey. At one time in the 60s, he was “Peck’s
bad boy of radio.” Now he was an icon and an idol and faster with a quip than
John Wesley Hardin had been with a sixgun.
The funny thing was that Joey had changed as he grew more mature. Today,
he was Mr. Warm and Wonderful … he related more to the people who guested on
his overnight show on WOR-AM in New York City. Among his frequent guests was
Les Paul, the inventor of the electric guitar that opened the pathway to modern rock
and roll as well as a performer with Mary Ford of the million-selling “How High the
Moon.” Today, media personalities such as Don Imus carried on the “shock” image
to a great extent. Of course, Imus would claim that he was strictly original. And he
most certain was that!
Regardless, Scooter King was more plain filth than shock, as far as Woody
was concerned. And, frankly, he had absolutely no appetite for that kind of radio.
As he told his wife Michelle over scrambled eggs for breakfast one morning, “there
must be more positive things one can do with one’s life.”
She knew about his daydream of teaching English at some small university,
preferably in Texas or California … maybe Oregon not too distant from the ocean.
“Firing Scooter is not the best answer,” Michelle said. “Firing him would be
only a temporary solution to his foul mouth. Probably end up getting you both fired.”
“Well, I’m not going to fire Scooter,” he told her. “The general manager put a
definite kibosh on that the other day after the ratings came out. Scooter, my love,
is a giant in the market.”
“And if you keep shaking the boat at the station,” she said, “you will soon be
out of a job. No one likes a trouble maker.”
“I’m not going to get fired,” Woody told her. “I’m too good. Program directors
of my caliber may be offered a job in a better market or a job selling real estate, but
seldom, if ever, fired. Regardless, very few people in this business know this
business as well as I do.”
As you can tell, Woody was just a little egotistical about his ability. Most radio
men are. They exude confidence. They are usually damned good radio
personalities and, along with top ratings, came the promotion eventually to also
program the radio station where they were on the air. Then some general manager
in a larger radio market hired them away. With a larger market job came better pay
and better benefits. And, naturally, even greater confidence. Sometimes, the ego
even run rampant.
But, as much as Woody appreciated Woody’s knowledge and ability, some
people more than likely had a different view.
“You aren’t that good on the air,” Dr. Randle told him one morning as they
talked radio after his class.
Woody was slightly offended. They had become fairly good friends these
past few months in Memphis. In fact, other than his wife Michelle, William M.
Randle Jr. was the only real friend Woody had in the city. Woody liked Charlie
Murdock, general manager of WFOL, but Charlie was merely a business associate,
not a close friend.
“Number one in young adults, my target audience with this adult
contemporary format,” Woody responded. “And everyone older. I’m a cottonpickin’
star!”
“Big deal,” Dr. Randle remarked. “Memphis?”
“What’s wrong with Memphis?”
“It’s Memphis.”
Then he patted Woody on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t all
that great on WCBS in Manhattan … I just made everyone think I was. I guess you
could say the same for WERE in Cleveland. Just FYI, I always knew quantitatively
and qualitatively where I was in the market. Personal research. Why wait for
Hooper or ARB?”
“Will you please tell me how you do something like that? Magic, I suppose?”
“Nyah. Ask questions.”
“But listeners always tell you what they think you wish to know. And that’s not
always the case.”
“You’ll know the correct answers when you hear them. Ask more questions.”
“First question: How can I be a better disc jockey?”
“Don’t try. If you’ve got it … whatever it is … it will be there. Don’t try to be
better. Try to do your job better.”
“Gee, thanks,” Woody said. And he hoped his voice carried enough sarcasm
so that the esteemed Dr. Randle would notice. It evidently did because Bill Randle,
son of a union organizer, who’d once told him that his ambition had been to be the
world’s most deadly weapon, laughed and said,
“Would you teach Friday’s class for me? I’ve got to do a project for John
Huston.”
“Sure. The John Huston?”
“An old friend. And I’d like to point out that it’s difficult to make friends such
as that in Memphis.”
“What about Elvis?”
“I promoted one of his early shows out of the deep south and west Texas. At
a high school in Cleveland. And then I put him on his first TV gig. He was on a
summer TV replacement. I introduced him on the show and predicted he was
going to be big … really big.”
“I’m curious about something,” Woody said. “Why do you mess with me?”
“I enjoy finding talent. Found Jim LaBarbara in Cleveland. Helped Johnny
Ray’s ‘Little White Cloud That Cried’ become a hit. Same with ‘Battle Hymn of the
Republic’ by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’.”
“I don’t believe that last one.”
“Look it up. I was instrumental in many records. It was sort of, you know, the
thing to do in those days. I even produced the Crewcuts. Had a couple of
million-sellers with them. If you ever run into Peter, Paul and Mary, ask them about
me.”
“When and where, pray tell, am I going to meet a group like that in Memphis.”
“Precisely,” said Randle. “That’s why you aim for Los Angeles or New York.
Maybe Boston or Chicago. Howard Miller did well in Chicago. Not so sure about
San Francisco, though Don Sherwood became pretty big in the bay area and Tom
Campbell was a huge name along the West Coast. You need to make a lot of
noise. Hard to make noise in Memphis.”
“George Klein did pretty well.”
“He’d have been a fence post except for Elvis. Same with Dewey Phillips.
Anyway, Klein pulled a year in the federal pen. I don’t exactly call that doing well.”
Being around Bill Randle was like taking a history lesson. Especially when it
came to music and radio. He was, without question, the brightest person Woody
had ever met. Woody realized that he was just another project with him. However,
whether he actually benefited from the association or not didn’t really matter to him.
Woody loved radio and he loved music. All kinds of music from blues and country
to rock and classical. Randle might associate with John Huston and Lena Horne
and Peter, Paul and Mary, but Woody associated with Bill Randle. He was much
more famous to Woody. True, Woody’s first goal was to teach English. Thus, radio
and music was sort of secondary. Not a hobby, you understand. Much more
serious than that. But one had to look to the future. One day all too soon he would
be too old to play music on radio. Only a very few disc jockeys went into station
ownership or management. For some reason, many went into real estate. Guys
like Mikel Hunter. Long John Silver ended up owning a couple of restaurants.
Shock is one thing, but the big problem developed when Scooter insulted a
radio station client on the air. And Murdock called Woody on the carpet about it
just as Mr. Beacon was leaving the office one day. A true gentleman of the Old
South with a small tuff of beard and nice friendly eyes. A week ago, he’d come by
the radio station to receive a small tour.
“I need to see where my advertising money is going,” he said.
“Makes sense to me,” Woody said.
They watched Scooter King for a few moments through the sound-proof glass
window.
“So that’s what the great Scooter King looks like,” Mr. Beacon said. “It’s true
that radio personalities seldom look like they sound on the air.”
Woody laughed. “They tell me I sound like some big time game hunter.”
“I’ll get back to you on that,” said Mr. Beacon. “But, quite frankly, I’m pleased
that you hired this King fellow.”
That statement caused Woody to choke a little. He caught himself,
swallowed.
“Well, he’s definitely interesting, I suppose.”
“Also,” said Mr. Beacon. “I’m nudging at the age of retirement and I needed
something to do.
“A hobby of listening to Scooter King? That surprises me immensely,” Woody
said.
Mr. Beacon laughed. “Yes. A sort of hobby.”
But it wasn't exactly a hobby for Woody. Woody had known that it was more
then likely going to happen – a confrontation with the general manager about. The
shock jock was like a volcano that rumbles and spews smoke before beginning to
throw out boulders and lava. Trouble with Scooter King had been growing. Bill
Randle had warned that Scooter King could become a problem.
“Scooter King is trouble. He disturbed the last radio station where he worked
something terrible. The program director got fired as well as the general manager
and the station came very close to losing its license. In addition, one firm in the
market … Little Rock, I think … almost went out of business.”
“Look, I know that he made a big mess on his last job. But I needed
something to shake up this market.”
“True, you still need to shake up the market. But not wipe the entire market
completely off the map.”
In his previous job Scooter had tried to get the program director fired and
then wrote personal letters to that radio station’s major clients badmouthing the
general manager of the radio station as well as the program director.
He’d already said several derogatory remarks about Woody on his program.
Woody didn’t particularly mind, since he wasn’t using his real name on the air. His
paycheck was written using his real name, but Scooter King never saw those
checks.
“For god’s sake,” shouted Charlie Murdock, “can’t you control this guy?
“I’ll try,” Woody said.
“You’d better do something more than just try,” warned Murdock. “Or this radio
station may end up playing country music.”
Woody knew what that meant, of course. A new program director and more
than likely a different set of disc jockeys on the air.
“I’ve always appreciated Ermest Tubb,” he said.
“I’m talking about Garth Brooks,” he said.
“Modern country?”
“Yes.”
“Never touch the stuff.”
“Frankly,” said Murdock, “I knew that.”
“I’ll see what I can do to tame Scooter,” Woody said.
“I would appreciate that,” said Murdock. And he returned to his phone.
Obviously, he was attempting to arrange a golf date with the offended client. The
radio station had a deal with the country club. Woody was attempting to learn the
game just in case he ended up in radio station management.
After Woody left Murdock’s office, he returned to his office and typed up a
memo to Scooter King about radio station policy regarding clients. He placed the
memo in an envelope and slid the envelope into Scooter’s mail slot. There were
three other envelopes in the mail slot. Evidently the man drew considerable fan
mail.
His own fan mail was on his desk, stacked there by the lady who was actually
Murdock’s secretary, but doubled in chores when he needed secretarial help. She
was blonde, fortyish and married.
One of his letters was a larger envelope that contained an aircheck from a
disc jockey searching for a position on the air with the radio station. He placed it in
a cardboard box that was on the shelf behind his desk. He received three or four
airchecks a week, all of them from disc jockeys currently working in smaller
markets than Memphis. On Tuesdays, he listened to new records that had arrived
at the station during the week. On Friday, he listened to the airchecks. On
Saturday over coffee he mentioned the threat of being fired to Dr. Randle.
“And don’t tell me I told you so,” Woody finished.
“If so, it would probably be the best thing that ever happened to you. Of
course, no one likes to be fired.”
“Were you ever fired?”
“No. I had a contract after I got big. And I should mention that I owned part
of the radio station.”
“Part of WERE in Cleveland?”
“A percent of the profits. True.”
“I'm even more impressed.”
“To tell the truth, so was I,” he said. “I’ve often wondered how I became so
big. Tried to analyze everything. To some extent, I think it was because I worked
so hard. I was always busy. Producing live shows, producing records, writing. Do
you know that I was in the Six Day War?”
“No. I’ve read somewhere, maybe in Billboard, about you playing those Mitch
Miller sing-a-long records. They say Mitch gave you acetates of the songs.”
“Nope. I paid a guy at the pressing plant for copies right off the press …
before they even had the album jackets printed. Nothing criminal about it. Just a
methodology of doing business. As I recall, I listed it as a business expense on my
income tax reports. Whatever business you’re in, it’s a business. A way of doing
business. Nothing wrong with it.”
“Are you trying to tell me that I should handle Scooter as merely a way of
doing business?”
“Why not?”
“Well, what should I do?”
“That’s your business,” Randle replied. And he raked his finger across his
throat, the universal sign of cutting bait. “But let me point out that they fight fire
with fire.”
“Doesn’t sound much like radio to me,” Woody said.
“Radio is serious business,” Randle said as he waved Woody out of his office.
What do you do when your manager says that radio isn’t serious and a good
friend and mentor and one of the legends of radio says that it most sincerely is
serious? A day later, Woody met Scooter King in a nearby bar for a beer and some
friendly advice.
Right off the bat, Scooter King grinned sardonically at him and snarled,
“Five dollars a week.”
“For what?”
“Insurance for me not mentioning your name on the air. For the general
manager, it’ll be ten dollars a week.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Woody replied.
“Me? Kid about money. How do you think I got the Mercedes?”
“Quite frankly,” Woody said, “I don’t give a damned whether you mention my
name on the air or not. Go ahead if you want to. Make me famous.”
“Famous is not quite what I had in mind,” Scooter said. He slurred the word
“famous” to give it an evil meaning.
Woody immediately raised his hand and signaled the waitress to bring him
another Coors. He was going to need it.
“You ever heard of the Memphis Mafia?” he asked after guzzling down his
first bottle of Coors.
“The Elvis group?”
“Yes.”
“Elvis is dead,” Scooter said. “I don’t care if someone saw him in a drugstore
in Omaha, he’s definitely dead.”
“But some of his friends are still around,” Woody told him, using a very casual
tone of voice. “Marty Lacker and George Klein and others.”
“So what?” Scooter sneered.
“They don't like you badmouthing the King.”
He frowned.
“I’ve never said one harsh word about Elvis.”
“Someone told them that you did,” Woody said.
“Not me.”
“One of them … I suppose I should warn you … I can’t recall his name …
called up this afternoon to ask for your license plate number.”
“On my Mercedes?”
“Yeah.”
“I hope you didn’t tell him.”
“I don’t even know it,” Woody told him. “But the secretary went out and
checked and told him. It was the only Mercedes-Benz in the parking lot, of course.
Me and Murdock drive tradeouts.”
Woody had often wondered about that Mercedes. Most disc jockeys didn’t
earn that kind of money. True, Dr. Bill Randle was a millionaire … he said he was
… but he was something unique in the world of the radio personality. Woody had
never heard of another disc jockey receiving a percentage of the profits. Anyway,
Randle drove a Chevy.
“Oh, my god,” Scooter exclaimed. “Why did she do a stupid thing like that?
First thing you know I’ll find my tires slashed and you know what those tires cost!”
“How was she to know?” Woody asked him.
“That dumb broad ought to be fired. Big time!”
“I can’t fire Doris. You know how Memphis is, she’s probably the cousin of
someone important in the market. Hell, her cousin many even own a part of the
radio station.”
He was silent for a moment. Stared down at the table. Then, suddenly, he
lifted his head and grinned.
“Doesn’t matter, I guess,” Scooter said. “I’ve just decided that the price is too
low. It’s now ten dollars for you and twenty-five dollars for this Murdock guy. To
keep your names off the air. And I would sincerely recommend that you take my
offer. It would even pay for you to take out some insurance on my car. Something
happens to it … like that program director who sliced up the tires of the competition
in San Diego … I’m going to demand a new set of tires all the way around … and
maybe even a new spare, too!”
Woody tried to switch the topic of conversation to the weather. That didn’t
fare well. Scooter King didn’t enjoy the weather in Memphis. And you could forget
the topic of politics. Everything was met with a snarl or a grunt.
He finished only half of his second Coors before announcing that he had to
go home. And Scooter even snarled at that.
When he phoned Murdock with the news, all Murdock said was, “Pay him,”
and hung up. It turned out that Beacon, now the major advertiser on the station,
had made it a condition that his contract lasted only as long as Scooter was on the
air. And had recommended the hiring of Scooter in the first place.
“It’s payola,” Woody said when he explained everything to Dr. Bill Randle.
“More like blackmail, but I suspect also a highly efficient methodology of
making payments on a person’s new Mercedes.”
“You ever do this sort of thing?” Woody asked on the spur of the moment. He
knew that Randle had once possessed considerable wealth. Was this still true?
“I drove a Chevy most of the time,” Randle said. “And while I got a very nice
discount on the car, it’s also true that I owned considerable stock in the car
dealership. It’s also true that after a few years in Cleveland, I was a millionaire, but
mostly from producing records such as those Crew Cuts million sellers and music
publishing. Paul Ackerman, music editor of Billboard magazine for many years,
once said that music publishing was where it’s at. Meaning the real money of radio
and music. He was absolutely correct.”
It also turned out that Randle had owned an MG which he often raced at
sports rallies. “For a while I also owned an airplane. Just a single-engine plane.
You could say that I’m a sunshine pilot. I just fly in the daytime now.”
With the plane, he’d run guns to the Israelis during the so-called Six Day War.
“Anything for kicks in those days,” he said. “But radio has changed a great
deal since the days of Howard Miller and Jack the Bell Boy in Chicago and Joe
Smith in Boston.”
“The Top 40 format came along,” Woody said. “Todd Storz in Omaha and
Gordon McLendon in Dallas certainly changed radio. And, for that matter, also
changed the world. Of course, you have to include program director Bill Stewart,
who worked at one time or another for the both of them.”
“Without Top 40, there wouldn’t have been the Beatles. Nor Elvis Presley.”
“Think so?”
“Positive.”
Randle was correcting term papers.
“I just read the hook,” he said.
Looking over his shoulder, Woody saw him write a note of comment on one paper
and give the student a B grade. “It’s the same with songs. Good songs have a
hook of one kind or another. Most are fairly obvious.”
“But how can I give my good friend Scooter King the hook?” Woody wanted
to know.
“You’ll find it,” Randle promised.
A few days later, the situation with Scooter King grew worse.
‘Fifteen dollars for not badmouthing a client,” he announced to Woody as they
stood momentarily in the hallway before Scooter was to do his show.
“That’s robbery!”
“Call it what you wish. I’m number uno in this market and I’m hosting the
barbeque.”
“A most-fitting description of it,” Woody said. “I’ll have to talk to the manager.”
“Better hurry. I go on the air in five minutes. And by the way, don’t bother to
try putting someone else on the air with my name. I’ve got it copyrighted.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” Woody said.
“That’s playing it smart,” he said. “Because I’ve got a really good lawyer.
And, quite frankly, I’m a huge tattletell. The other day, I sneaked a peek at this
station’s list of clients. Got them all up here.”
And he tapped his forehead with a finger.
Woody just nodded.
“Sounds as if you’re set for bear,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“That you’re eager to make trouble.”
“Big time,” Scooter said. He opened the door and entered the studio to do his
show.
Shortly thereafter … just a few minutes after Woody had checked his phone
messages and sat down behind his office desk … Scooter came thundering into his
office without bothering to slam the door as usual. Woody was just attempting to
return the phone calls of Don Graham and Morris Diamond, the nation’s
better-known independent record promotion men.
Scooter, like a couple of the air personalities on the radio station, preferred
his own brand of earphones.
He now dangled the set of earphones in Woody’s face.
“Grease!” he shouted. “Someone fouled up my cans with grease. Gobs of it!”
“Tsk, tsk,” Woody said. “I wonder who would do a thing like that.”
“The price just went up,” screamed Scooter King. “It’s now $20 for you and if
you don’t pay you’re going to be mighty sorry, I’ll guarantee you!”
Woody felt like laughing. But he tried to keep a bland expression on his face.
“Wasn’t me,” said Woody. “I have no idea who would do something like that.
By the way, who’s doing your show? I hope you have a replacement on hand.”
“I am!” shouted Scooter King. “I put on ‘El Paso’ by Martin Robbins.”
Woody looked quickly at the approved list of oldies. The record was there. It
had been a million-seller some while ago.
“Good record,” Woody said.
Scooter King shook his earphones at Woody.
“What are you going to do about this?”
Woody paused. Scooter’s face was like a horror image in a tent show. You
could almost see flames coming from his ears.
“I don’t know. I’ll ask around,” Woody said.
“Is that all?”
“What would you suggest?” Woody asked. “It was, of course, a childish gag.
If and when I discover the culprit, I’ll lecture them severely.”
“I’ll bet you will,” Scooter said and whirled and left Woody’s office, again
slamming the door on his way out.
Woody checked. Yes, Scooter had returned to the studio and was rapidly
donning another set of earphones while trying to clean his own.
Woody watched him for a moment. He wondered who had clobbered up
Scooter’s set of earphones. Murdock, the general manager? Not likely. Big
mystery! Maybe Bill Randle was trying to do him a “favor.”
“Not me,” Randle said. “I’m enjoying the barbeque here and the music over
on Beale Street. I’ve always had a fondness for the blues.”
A few days later, the Mercedes-Benz that Scooter owned was missing from
the radio station’s parking garage after he finished his shift on the air. Scooter
burst into Woody’s office. He was literally crying. But it was difficult to tell because
he was also screaming. Obviously, he loved that car. It was one of his proudest
possessions.
“You’re going to pay for this!” Scooter yelled.
“Pay for what?”
“My car. Someone stole it!”
“I swear to you, I don’t know anything about it,” Woody said. And the truth
was, he didn’t.
The car was found three days later in a drainage ditch just beyond the
outskirts of the city. It had been effectively destroyed and set afire.
Worse, Scooter King had not made his insurance payments on the car for two
months.
Meanwhile, another problem seemed to be developing. Woody overheard
hallway gossip that Murdock, the radio station’s general manager, had been talking
with someone in radio working over in Wichita Falls.
When he mentioned this to Dr. Bill Randle, the college professor laughed.
“You never established your absolute necessity to the radio station,” Randle
said. “And the best way to do that is know your clients. This includes gathering
information about them, but also some kind of personal relationship. For example,
how good is your golf game?”
“Not very good, I’m afraid.”
“Good,” Randle said. “And it pays to know quite a bit about football all of the
way through the Super Bowl. The same with basketball. Fishing and hunting, too,
here in the Old South.”
“Thanks, Dr. Bill,” Woody said.
And that very afternoon, he stopped by Beacon’s furniture store, a
high-quality chain that had been launched in Memphis more than a generation ago.
The major store was located in virtually its own shopping mall and the clerk who
came to wait on him was well dressed and wore even better manners.
Woody explained that he wasn’t exactly there to purchase anything at the
moment, but he thought he’d say hello to the manager and learn about the store.
The manager of that particular branch was none other than Miles Rudolph
Beacon himself. He tugged on his tuff of beard, eyes sparkling in delight as he
came forth to greet Woody.
“It’s true, I guess, that radio personalities often do not look like they sound on
the air, Mr. Beacon, but I do believe that this store and its products reflect the
excellent quality and character of its owner,” Woody said.
Mr. Beacon’s eyes gathered even more of a sparkle.
The next few minutes involved a quick tour of the store and a brief discussion
of a coming golf tournament in the city.
“I’m sincerely glad you dropped by,” said Mr. Beacon.
“It was a mistake not to visit sooner,” said Woody.
“Yes. It most certainly was,” said Mr. Beacon. “I’m pleased that you
corrected the error.”
Although the adage of WFOL was that the station’s personalities should not
say anything “unless they have something to say,” Woody mentioned meeting
Beacon on the air on his next show. And plugged the coming golf tournament.
Murdock complimented him on his show the next day. By then, Woody and
his wife had dined at Mable’s Barbeque and left a generous tip as well as
complimented the owner on the food. He also mentioned the “phenomenal
barbeque fit for a mud-slinging Tennessee horse thief” and “I’m kidding, folks …
you’ve got to try this barbeque” on the air.
That’s when Michelle complimented him on his show.
“It’s more personal,” she said. “I like you like that. It’s better.”
Dr. Bill Randle had also listened to that particular show and praised it. The
golf tournament came and went and Woody didn’t fare well, but Mr. Beacon treated
him to a beer after the first round and they talked about trees. The kindly old
gentleman knew a lot about various kinds of wood.
“I got my nickname,” Woody confessed to him, “because I loved to play in the
woods near where we lived when I was a child. Mostly pines. But there was this
phenomenal ancient and very large oak tree that I loved.”
“Great wood for quality furniture,” Mr. Beacon assured him. “Seasoned, of
course.”
“Naturally,” said Woody.
Mr. Beacon dropped by the radio station one afternoon and they discussed
Elvis Presley on the air and played “Don’t be Cruel.” Mr. Beacon had attended one
of his concerts years and years ago.
“Fun music,” he said. “Difficult to get enough Elvis.”
Several days later, Murdock gave Woody a small raise and a dinner for him
and Michelle on tradeout at one of the city’s premiere restaurants. To celebrate his
birthday.
“Elvis was something else,” Murdock said at the time he mentioned the raise.
It was a sudden change in the topic of conversation. They had been discussing a
Beacon ad that Woody had produced.
“You ever meet him?”
“Sure. Marty Lacker invited me out to the mansion a couple of times. When
Elvis died, it was indeed a savage blow to music. No telling what might have
happened.”
“I think you’re absolutely correct,” Woody said.
“I’m going out on a sales call tomorrow,” Murdock said. “How would you like
to go with me?”
“I’d like to do that very much,” Woody said.
However, the sales call went astray almost immediately.
“You that radio station where a guy named King works? He tried to threaten
me three days ago on the purchase of a new car,” the manager of the firm said.
“Threaten you?”
“Said that if I sold him a car at a cheapie price he’d say some nice things
about the car on the air. You know, build it up. The problem was that he didn’t
have much of a down payment and I couldn’t discover whether or not he had a
decent credit ratings or not. But I don’t think so. I felt more as if he were trying to
pull some kind of scam.”
“It does smell rather fishy,” agreed Woody.
“More like a skunk,” said the manager.
And that was the end of the sales call. The manager said he was extremely
busy.
“And I can’t blame him,” Woody said as they drove back to the radio station.
“I thought you were going to handle this creep,” Murdock said and his tone
implied that the reason they hadn’t sold a flight of advertising to the
Mercedes-Benz dealership was because of Woody.
“And perhaps he’s right,” Woody confided to his wife Michelle later that
evening.
“Forget it,” Michelle said. “We’re not buying a Mercedes.”
“That isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Woody told her.
A couple of days later, nevertheless, he stopped by the car dealership on his
way to work.
“I’m not here to buy a car. Nor sell you an ad on my radio station. I just
thought that I ought to know a little bit more about car dealerships in this town.”
The manager was more than pleased to give him a quick tour and hand him a
pamphlet. “My father started this business.”
It turned out that the manager’s father played golf now and then with Mr.
Beacon.
A day after that, someone shot at Scooter King as he was leaving the radio
station. Three quick shots. All missed. The disc jockey, half in a rage but with
eyes full of fright, gave a list of people who might be agitated with him to the police.
“These are the people I’ve mentioned on the air,” said Scooter King.
Woody was surprised that Mr. Beacon was on the list. So was the manager
of the local Mercedes-Benz dealer and the entire staff of a nearby Dairy Queen.
And Woody Fellows.
But the police chief said it couldn’t possibly have been Mr. Beacon. “Old man
Beacon is a fantastic shot. A first-class marksman. Wins all of the competitions. If
he’d taken a shot at you, you’d be dead. However, I don’t think he’d purposely kill
a man. He’s a deacon in one of the local churches. What we call a Bible-toting
man.”
“Don’t look at me,” Woody said. “I don’t even own a gun.”
“And the entire staff of the Dairy Queen?” asked the police chief.
“They made me stand in line,” said Scooter King.
“Who does this guy think he is?” demanded the police chief in an aside to
Woody, “…some kind of demigod?”
“I think that’s about it,” Woody said.
“We’ll check it out,” said the police chief.
Two days later, the window of Scooter King’s rental car was found with a neat
little bullet hole right over the steering wheel. And Scooter, without bothering to
resign, disappeared from Memphis.
Bill Randle congratulated Woody Fellows on “handling the problem.”
“Not me,” insisted Woody. “But you seem to know everything.”
“Yes. I’m pretty good with a rifle. Pistol, too. But, no, I wasn’t trying to help
you out. Not that I have any pity for a radio personality like that. Not my kind of
radio.”
“You wouldn’t like to go back on the air, would you?”
“There comes a time in a man’s life when radio has moved on. It’s a different
kind of radio today. I wouldn’t fit.”
“I’m thinking about hiring a disc jockey over in Wichita Falls. He’s program
director over there and supposed to be a hot shot.”
“The man that your manager was thinking about hiring?”
“You do know everything, huh?”
“Just because I’m not doing radio doesn’t mean that I don’t love it. I think
radio was one of the greatest things that ever happened to me.”
“I guess you’re right. Best thing that ever happened to me. That’s for sure.
And since you know everything, I’m letting you know that I didn’t handle, so to
speak, the Scooter King situation.”
“I knew that already,” Randle said. “Next time you’re playing golf with Mr.
Beacon, ask him how the branch in Little Rock, Arkansas, is doing these days.”
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