West Seattle Blues (3 page)

“Did you get the book sent off?”

“Yesterday afternoon.” The unauthorized biography of Mariah Carey was now out of my life, at least until the phone session with the lawyer. That usually took more time than the edits on the manuscript. But I wasn’t complaining, since the books were quick to write and paid well. A month from starting one to waving it goodbye. The only research involved was photocopying magazines and microfiche. No interviews, just cutand-paste and padding. Dustin had never read any of them. Once they went off to be edited, neither had I.

“I’ll just go and peek in on Ian,” Dustin said.

I smiled. He’d be gone at least fifteen minutes, just standing and watching our son sleeping. But I was glad. He hated being away for days at a time, checking in with me every evening for an update. He even had a cell phone, a big brick of a thing, so I could get hold of him in case of an emergency.

“Hey, can you watch Ian for a couple hours tomorrow?” I asked.

“I guess,” he said. “But I need to write up my report and I want to get the oil changed on the car. Why?”

“I have to go interview someone.”

“Anyone I’ve heard of?” he asked with a laugh. Music wasn’t his strong point. He liked some of what I played him, but his interest didn’t run deep.

“No. Some old country guy.”

“For just a little while, right? I have plenty to do.”

“Promise.” I felt a little resentful, nevertheless. I spent all day, every day, with Ian and I needed to get away on my own sometimes.

He sat down, looking serious.

“I had lunch with the main guy at Elliott Bay books today.” It was the best bookstore in town- and one of the biggest- down on Pioneer Square. It was also one of Dustin’s main customers and he regularly took the owners out for lunch on expenses. I waited. There had to be more. “He asked if I’d be interested in going to work for him.”

“What?”

“As a manager.”

“Wow.” I wondered what had prompted that offer. Dustin was good at his job, but it wasn’t on the retail end.

“I told him I’d think about it.”

“Seriously?” I looked at his face; he wasn’t joking. “Why?”

“Because I need a change. I’m tired of driving so much. And I want to be home at night with you and Ian.”

I didn’t know what to say. It would be a huge change for him. And for me. I’d grown used to him being on the road, his overnight stays here and there. But I’d love to curl up to him in bed every night, to have him here with me more.

“What about the money?”

“Not as good, but he thinks we can work something out.”

“If you want it, you know I’m behind you,” I told him.

“I know. And I’m glad. Just don’t say a word to anyone yet.”

Dustin spent the next morning at the computer, typing up his sales reports. The machine had been a big purchase for us; with the printer it had cost well over a grand and we’d spent days discussing it before spending the money. But it was worth it. Writing books was so much easier when all I had to do was delete the mistakes I made, and he could use it regularly for his work. We’d even splashed out on a modem - with its gurgling, spacey noises and a subscription to CompuServe - to be able to dive into the new world of the Internet.

Once he’d finished the reports, he bundled Ian into a coat and strapped him in the stroller for a walk around the neighborhood. It had become a habit; unless the weather was too bad, one of us took him out every day. People would stop to talk with us or wave. If we were feeling energetic we’d go all the way to Westwood Village to pick up a few things at QFC or look around Target.

“I’m going out in a few minutes. To see that guy I told you about last night.”

“I remember,” he said. “The country singer.”

“The country singer with a few bucks,” I corrected him.

He smirked. “Have fun with the rich hick.”

I had time before I needed to leave, so I used them to call the main library downtown.

“Information, this is Monica.” The familiar voice made me grin.

“Hi, Monica, this is Laura Benton. How are you?”

“Laura! How are you?” Her voice bubbled with pleasure. “How’s that little cutie?”

“Bigger and cuter than ever,” I told her. “Getting ready to walk soon.”

“You got to bring him in again.”

“You could always come over here sometime.”

“I might.”

I’d known Monica for years. Whenever I needed to know anything, I called or stopped in to see her in her nook at the library. Whatever I wanted, she found it in just a few minutes. Over time we’d become friends. She used to despair of me ever settling down and now she doted on Ian. She’d even given us a Tiffany piggy bank stuffed with pennies when he was born.

“I hope you do. Bring that husband of yours and the kids.”

“Lord, I wouldn’t take those boys around polite company, not the way they’ve become since they hit their teens.” She stopped herself. “Anyway, enough of that. I bet this isn’t just a social call.”

“Carson Mack.”

“What’s a Carson Mack?” she asked in amusement.

“It’s a he. I’d be grateful if you can find anything on him.”

“Five minutes,” Monica told me, and she was as good as her word. “Do you want the long or the short version?”

I looked at my watch. “Short, please.”

“Let’s see,” she began, and I knew she was quickly scanning through information from a book or three. “He was born in Idaho in 1933, parents moved to Boise when he was six. He was in the service in Korea, came back and settled in Tacoma.” She paused for a moment. “Worked on the docks and played music at night. By the Sixties he was able to make a living playing and singing, and he found himself a record deal in 1968. Moved to Nashville and had hit singles in ’71 and ’72. I’ve never heard of the songs. ‘Maybe Darlin’’ and ‘Idaho Sweetheart.’ Do those mean anything to you?”

“Yeah.” My dad had played them in the car when I was a teenager. He’d loved country music. That was why I’d even heard of Carson.

“Evidently he had a string of flops after that. Oh.” She suddenly brightened. “He wrote ‘Call You Sunshine’ and ‘After The Heart Falls’; I remember those. They were wonderful songs.” And they also explained why he could buy a place on Beach Drive. Both had been huge country hits for several singers at the end of the 1970s. “He had a few others that sold moderately well. But nothing like those two and no more since 1985.” She went quiet for a few moments. “He moved to Seattle twelve years ago. Divorced twice, four children…it
doesn’t give their ages.”

“Thanks,” I told her. “I’m heading down to interview him.”

“You tell him I loved those songs. And you make sure you bring Ian down here soon.”

“I will.” I meant it.

I parked on Beach Drive and walked down a set of steps cut into the hillside, leading down toward the water. It was quiet here, as if the rest of the world was miles away. At the bottom a thick mat of grass opened out, stretching all the way to the shore. The water was iron-grey, with low breakers out on Puget Sound. I could imagine sleeping soundly in a place like this, lulled by the sound of the waves.

The house that stood in the middle of the grass was nothing special, hardly bigger than a shack. The paint had been worn away by years of sand and wind, leaving the wood a faded, pearly grey. There was a small porch, just big enough for a couple of beat-up chairs and a table. The whole place looked as if it had been pulled out of Appalachia and then tossed down in western Washington state. The neighbors probably thought it lowered the tone of an expensive area.

I rapped on the screen door and heard someone moving around inside. The man who opened up wasn’t at all what I’d expected. I’d pictured someone looking old and running to fat. Instead he was stick-thin in that hillbilly way, like an older Harry Dean Stanton with a face that was weathered and creased, every plane cut sharp, and a narrow scar down one cheek. He was dressed in a clean Western shirt and new Levi’s, a shiny pair of working men’s boots on his feet.

“Come on in,” he said, emitting a wave of booze on his breath. “I’ve made a pot of coffee.”

The living room was small but neat, a woodstove off in the corner, a couch with a Navajo rug thrown over the back, and a Mission-style armchair. A dining table sat under the front window, looking out over the water, beyond which the mountains of the Olympic Peninsula were just a smudge on the horizon.

He brought a pair of mugs, not even asking how I took it, and settled back into the armchair. A half-empty bottle of Maker’s Mark and a glass sat on the coffee table, next to a pack of Marlboros and an ashtray.

“I’ve forgotten how all this goes,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’ll be gentle.”

We began to talk, as I took out the cassette recorder and microphone and set the levels.

“That’s quite a scar you’ve got,” I said.

His fingers moved automatically to his face, running along the pale ridge that crossed it.

“Long time ago now.” He lit a cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling.

“It kind of suits you.”

Carson laughed. It was a warm, hoarse sound.

“Didn’t back then. I was just back from the service, looking good, and this guy went and ruined it. Figured I’d never get laid again. Instead, it turns out the girls liked a little mystery.”

“What happened?” I pressed record and kept my eye on the dial.

“Just some shit in a bar in Tacoma.” He shrugged. “Someone said something, I said something back, and the next thing I know a guy’s coming at me with a switchblade.” He smiled. “He came off worse. You don’t mess with someone just back from Korea.”

Everything was recording fine. We were good to go.

“It’s been quite a while since you had any hits. So why do you want to tell your story now?” It was as good a place as any to begin.

“I guess I thought it was time.” I looked at him, not believing a word of it unless he was about to tell me he was terminally ill. “A couple of bands have covered some of my old songs in the last year,” he explained. “It got me to thinking.”

Now I was more interested. “Who’s doing the songs?”

He named them. Both had fans in the No Depression movement, the new country-rock revival that was beginning to take hold. Alternative country, they called it, and that pretty much summed it up. The spirit of old country welded on to the attitude of rock. Not that the two were that far apart, really. So Carson Mack could be riding a small wave, after all.

“Have you heard what they’ve done?”

“Yeah, they sent me a couple cassettes.” He shook his head. “Kind of surprised me. They rocked that stuff up; it was like hearing something completely different. You know, like it wasn’t mine.” He shook his head in amazement. “I can play them for you later, if you like.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “So what brought you out to Seattle? It’s a long way from Nashville.”

When Carson smiled, he looked his age, with sixty years etched into his skin, but he carried it gracefully. He wasn’t handsome in any conventional sense, but he had the look of someone who knew life and could withstand all its knocks as long as he had a drink or two inside him.

“Call it a long story,” he replied. “You ever been divorced?”

“No,” I laughed. “I haven’t even been married that long.”

“You take my advice and stay that way.” He sipped from the cup. “I split up with my second wife, and I just wanted out of Nashville. It’s a small place when you get down to it, all music and everyone knows everyone else. So people just take sides.”

“Seattle’s pretty small in a lot of ways.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he allowed. “I needed to get out of there. It was all getting on top of me. I grew up in Idaho, so out here sounded fine to me. That was back in ’82 and I’m still here. Haven’t found a good enough reason to move on.”

“Must have cost a lot to buy down here.”

“Nah, it was cheap back then.” He glanced around the room, a wry smile on his face. “Can’t say I’ve done much to the place.”

That was true. It was as battered as Mack himself, but it looked solid enough; down here it would need to be, with those winter winds and tides.

“You made money back in Nashville. You had hits. You wrote some for others.”

“I did okay. They dressed me up in those wide lapels and had me wear a pompadour. But what they did to my songs, I don’t know. It was like they took them and just covered them with sugar. That’s the music business. It’s a crock of shit. Sometimes you get something from it. But when it dries up, you’re out. And all this crap that passes for country nowadays… why the hell would anyone need to wear a cowboy hat?”

I certainly didn’t have the answer to that. I was warming to him, though. He wasn’t pushing a new album. All he had was his story. No, it would never be a book, but I was enjoying listening.

“Did you like Nashville?”

“Some years, yeah,” he answered after a little thought. “I liked being able to go into a bar and sit down with some other singers and just trade songs. That was always a blast. A couple drinks and music, and we’re all trying to impress each other. Or the time I went out for a drink with George Andersen.” He smiled at the memory.

“What happened?”

“I got home three days later. My wife had called the cops. She thought I was dead somewhere. She must have thrown sixteen plates at me in that kitchen. I couldn’t even remember where I’d been.”

“Bad?”

“Wasn’t too long after that she filed for divorce.” He rubbed a hand across his chin. “Probably the best thing for both of us. Hey, did you know that Willie almost recorded one of my songs.”

“Willie Nelson?”

“Yeah, he liked the tune. Man, he did it well. But it didn’t work out in the end. Story of a songwriter’s life - down there, anyway.”

I spotted the Martin D-28 acoustic guitar propped in the corner. It was a beautiful instrument, an old sunburst finish, well-polished, with years of scratches on the pick guard.

“Do you play much?”

“Some days. I still write songs, although they’re pretty much just for me lately. It’s not like anyone’s knocking down my door to buy. You know what’s strange?”

“What?”

“I was offered a gig the other day. First time since I moved here.”