Currency of the Heart: A Travers and Karpinski Novel

By C. Carl Roberts

Mason Bittner was arguably the best country singer of his time, respected and loved by music fans across all genres. Then he lost everything. Disgraced and mostly forgotten, Bittner was living in his car and playing music for meager wagesuntil he was murdered.

Masons daughter, Grace, is haunted by his memory, the loss of her childhoodand worst of allher harsh treatment of him when he needed her most. She wants nothing more than to clear his name. When Grace turns to a pair of unconventional private investigators for help, she gets far more than she expected. Using their unique style of personal intimidation and shady maneuvering, John Travers and Wally Karpinski address the unconscionable destruction of a good man. Questions abound, but answers are elusive. Meanwhile, Grace struggles to come to terms with her own extraordinary musical talent in the face of terrible pain.

In this suspenseful thriller, two unusual PIs help a young woman seeking to restore the legacy of her murdered father and accept the musical gift she possesses.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Sep 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781458220394

C. Carl Roberts

C. Carl Roberts is the author of three other Travers and Karpinski novels: Playing God, Identity, and Abreaction. He currently lives in Northern California.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

2011

Together Again

A vibrational energy echoed through the empty room as the man drew a plectrum—a plastic pick—across the six strings of what many people argued was the best acoustic guitar ever made. It was a Martin D-28, the dreadnought against which all others of its kind were judged. The rich tone of that particular instrument was so heavy and so thick and so melodic, some critic along the way said you could almost chew it. If an artist was good enough, he could coax nuances out of such a guitar, leaving listeners laughing or crying or simply wondering if Martin D-28s were what the angels carried, rather than harps. There was no doubt that the man holding it was good enough.

After he played the final chord, the man looked down upon the face of the guitar like he had once looked down upon his little daughter, with a love beyond description. He cradled his cherished instrument, admiring its smooth surface, its curving lines and its rich colors, marveling at its ability to weather even bad times without so much as an altered tone. Then he looked up at the three people still sitting in the dark, empty room. Two of them were clapping like their hands hurt and the other was looking at her cell phone.

He sighed, trying not to dwell on how radically life had changed. Then, stiffly, like an old man, he stood up. He brought the plastic pick to his lips and kissed it before sliding it between the strings near the top nut. Holding the guitar in his right hand, he made his way back to the small room where he left his belongings. After securing the instrument in its battered black case, he found his jacket and retrieved a small bottle of Old Crow from one of the pockets. At one time—in another life—he could afford much better bourbon. But back then he did not have to rely on it to help him get through the day. He was not an alcoholic, not like the stereotypical broken-down country singer, but occasionally he needed a swallow or two to wash away the remnants of his former life and its bitter aftertaste.

As he donned his jacket he thought the garment felt heavy, the sleeves too tight, the fabric oppressive, a vise squeezing his flesh. He fought his way into the jacket just as a harried, pear-shaped man walked in, sweaty and slightly out of breath.

Mason, I can only give you twenty-five dollars tonight.

Twenty-five, Mason Bittner said.

You know how it works, the man said, throwing up his hands. Everything is based on how many folks show up.

Yeah, I know how it works. The soft, mellow baritone of Bittner’s singing voice carried over into his speech. At one time he was noted for his smooth delivery—country velvet, somebody once called it—and in those days his name was mentioned with the best of the best. He had performed at the most highly-regarded venues, with the most revered sidemen, and huge crowds treated him with awe and respect. That night only three people were there at the end, listening. Country poison, he thought.

Three sets, fifty minutes each, for twenty-five dollars, Bittner said. That’s about ten bucks an hour. Minimum wage, plus or minus.

I’m sorry, Mason.

Yeah, but not nearly as sorry as me. Give me the cash and I’ll be seeing you some day, Randy. Maybe. Don’t hold your breath.

At one time this place would have been packed, you know what I mean? You’d be doing encores all night long.

Yep, I reckon that’s true. He had been around long enough to know that nothing in life was certain. But his fall had been so hard and so fast and so devastating that even now, years later, he still seemed to be spinning off kilter. Like a wheel out of alignment. Or a man stripped of everything he ever held dear.

When you’ve clawed yourself to the top, or near the top, you can’t conceive of how fast things can fall apart, he said, looking through the wall and into the past. He turned back toward the other man. I’m here to tell you, it don’t take long. A misstep along the way, a bad break, and all of a sudden it’s over. As fast as a snake bite. And once people get something in their head—right or wrong—you can’t displace it, no matter what you do. What’s that old expression, you can’t un-ring a bell?

Where are you going next, Mason?

Ah, heck, I don’t know. There’s clubs all over the place. Here, Virginia, the Carolinas. Even down in Tennessee. They’re always looking for cheap talent, and I guess that’s me now. I can probably get enough work to earn some meal money. I’ll get by.

But where are you living?

I have an Oldsmobile. An old one.

Yes, but where are you living?

Listen to me, Randy. I have an old Oldsmobile.

You’re living in your car?

There was no cheer in Bittner’s smile. Good, you were listening. It’s comfortable enough, and when it rains there’s running water.

Christ, Mason.

One of these days maybe I’ll find a little apartment somewhere. Who knows, maybe I’ll find a place where I can make more than twenty-five dollars a night.

But you have a daughter, right?

Bittner straightened up. What about her?

I’m just wondering if maybe she could help you out—you know—a little? Until you get on your feet again.

Never you mind about her. Bittner leaned over and picked up his guitar case. I’ll be seeing you, Randy. You take care, hear?

Bittner stepped out of the little club in Georgetown and started walking toward his restored 1957 Oldsmobile Starfire 98. With the exception of his guitar, the classic car was the last of his precious possessions. It was his home as well as his transportation, and he noticed its beautiful appearance was slowly being worn away, just like his skills. The car still ran, though, and that was really the only important thing. He put his guitar in the trunk and walked toward the driver’s side door. He stood still and gazed around at the dark surroundings, musing that the District of Columbia was the home of big dreams. Shattered dreams. Twenty-five bucks a night.

He pulled his keys from his pocket and was about to unlock the door when he heard a voice from behind.

Nice car.

Bittner’s only reaction was a slow turn, as if he were incapable of being surprised. He peered into the gloom and saw a man appear out of the shadows. At first the murky hues of his clothes blended with the darkness behind, obscuring his identity. But when he stepped far enough out to be partially illuminated by the nearby streetlight, Bittner could see who he was.

Haven’t seen you in a while, Bittner said. The rock you were under must have shifted.

The man forced a laugh. I hear things haven’t been going so good for you, he said.

It all depends on your perspective. I’m not making any money and I’m living in my car. But I’m not having to deal with people like you any more.

The man smiled as he pulled a gun from a pocket in his jacket.

Bittner saw it and shook his head. So this is what it’s all about, he said. "Tying up loose ends. I figured something like this might happen. Somebody showing up again. Kind of like a bad penny or a sorry lie. But I didn’t expect you."

Life is full of surprises.

I reckon.

You don’t look very concerned that I have a gun on you, Mason.

Nah, not particularly. Bittner took a deep breath and looked into the dark eternity above his head. He slowly returned his gaze to the man. I’ve been threatened before.

Maybe this time the threat is real.

Maybe.

I can tell you’re ready to see Claire again. Am I right?

Bittner stood perfectly still for a long few moments. Yeah, I guess I am. It’ll be damn sure nicer than seeing you again.

"What was that old Buck Owens song? Together Again? You sang it so well, Mason. It’s kind of like a premonition of tonight."

Kind of.

You know, Mason, the day she died, she—

Bittner’s body jerked upright. Don’t. You’re not entitled to talk about her. Do what you have to do and move on.

The man smiled and lifted the gun so it was pointed at Bittner’s chest.

I’m looking into your eyes, partner, Bittner said. And I’m going to keep looking until the light goes out. And if there’s a God in heaven, every time you put your head on the pillow you’ll be staring back into these eyes. And it won’t be pleasant. Sweet dreams, you sonofabitch.

An instant later a bullet ended the life of Mason Bittner: singer, songwriter and, at one time, among the most popular entertainers in all of country music.

ONE

2012

Daddy’s Girl

She entered our lives on the third day of a muggy heat wave. It was the sixth of August, and the oppressive, damp vapor covering Washington felt like a sodden woolen blanket and smelled nearly as bad. High temperatures and higher humidity generally meant sweat, discomfort and copious amounts of mold and mildew where you’d prefer they not be. But that day, along with the sticky heat, came a surprise that had an unexpected impact on my life.

I was sitting with my partner, Wally Karpinski, and we were in the beginning stages of our regular morning ritual. We were in our conference room and could hear our air conditioner whirring and coughing as it tried to do what living in northern California would accomplish: maintain the temperature at a humane level. The valiant efforts of our machinery made me think of the out-of-shape fat guy trying to finish a marathon. He was trying hard and had the right attitude, but a happy ending was probably not in the cards. I hoped our appliance would last the day.

In spite of the dreadful climate, we had fresh cups of coffee in front of us and we were settling into our own little worlds. I was reading about spoiled brats who played professional sports for obscene amounts of money and Wally was engrossed in the daily Sudoku puzzle. I heard a grunt and looked over at my dearest friend.

You’d think I could figure out how to complete this stupid goddamned puzzle, wouldn’t you? he said. I think kindergarteners could do better than me.

You’re stupid, Wally.

You really think so?

I really know so. I was about to jump into an amusing anecdote about a stupid person when our receptionist, executive assistant and all-around wonderful person, Andrea Davenport, came to the door of the conference room. She stepped in and quietly pulled the door closed. She was tall and nice-looking, with freckled skin, blue eyes and a long, slender neck. Her outfit was a summery sleeveless dress and, in contrast to Wally and me, she was not perspiring. She was pulling on her long reddish blond ponytail, something she did when she was nervous or troubled.

There’s a young woman outside who would like to speak to the two of you, she said.

I hesitated a moment before responding. Usually, Andrea simply brought people to wherever we were sitting. Formality was not something our business was known for. Okay, I said, is there a problem?

She’s carrying a guitar case.

I passed a quick glance at Wally. And the problem?

She’s wearing some sort of pearl buttoned cowboy shirt, jeans that look old and worn out and boots that have seen better days. Her shirt is long-sleeved, and we’re in the middle of a heat wave.

I again looked over at Wally and he shrugged. Like me, he knew all about heat waves, but the importance of a long-sleeved cowboy shirt was evading us.

I’m still in the dark, Andrea, I said.

She pursed her lips in an amusing display of exasperation. She looks like she came from some little backwoods town in the mountains. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun and she’s very nervous.

Well, let’s settle her down, I said. Bring her on in and we’ll see what she wants.

Maybe she’ll play us a song, Wally said. That would be a damned sight better use of my time than this goddamned Sudoku piece of shit. He threw the newspaper in the trash.

Andrea was back a few moments later, pointing through the open doorway and still looking troubled. A young woman followed Andrea’s finger into our sanctuary. Her small stature and innocent expression projected the image of a girl rather than a woman. I guessed her weight at somewhere around a hundred pounds. She had smooth, pale skin and dark hair. The pearl buttoned shirt hung from her slender frame like it had originally belonged to somebody who was slightly larger, and the frayed hems of her jeans made me think a small creature had gnawed upon them the night before.

I was as good at guessing a young woman’s age as I was at trying to calculate the national debt, but I thought she wasn’t many years past her teens. As Wally liked to say, the woman was tall for her height, which I guessed to be a couple inches over five feet. She stood as straight as a lamppost. I envisioned her sitting for hours by an old wood stove, engulfed in pine-scented smoke, a book perched on her head. Her bearing reminded me of an old-fashioned schoolmarm from the cowboy movies of my youth.

She was pretty in a simple, plain way. I had always been drawn to a nice complexion; hers was flawless and white as cream. Her oval face was well proportioned with brown eyes, full and very natural eyebrows and long thin lashes. She had brown hair pulled severely into a heavy bun, which made her forehead too prominent. What made her face particularly interesting were pretty lips framing a textbook example of buck teeth. They were not horrible, but you couldn’t help noticing them. Her smile was timid but lovely and, at that moment, I figured both Wally and I were smitten.

I’m John Travers, I said, jumping to my feet and offering my hand. Most people call me JT.

I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Travers. Soft, warm skin and a surprisingly solid grip met my hand. The ill-defined but pleasant accent curling around her tongue made her voice as charming as her smile. I was surprised she didn’t curtsy with her formality.

I’m Wally Karpinski, Wally said, moving forward with his hand out. Call me Wally. Just don’t call me late for dinner.

God damn, I blurted, the words crawling over my lips before I could catch them. The young woman had a delightful laugh.

My daddy always said the same thing, she remarked. She leaned over and put the guitar case on the floor, standing on its side. Then, like an English teacher at her blackboard, she stood up straight.

My name is Grace Bittner. You can call me Gracie if you like. When I was young my parents did, and I adored them.

I caught the use of the past tense and my eyes strayed to Wally.

Well, Gracie, I said, why don’t you sit down and tell us what we can do for you?

I pulled out a chair and she sat down rigidly, her legs together. Perspiration glistened on her forehead and she self-consciously wiped it away. She looked into my eyes, then shifted her gaze to Wally.

I read about you, she said. I was looking for somebody who might be able to help me, and I found some newspaper articles. Before I would meet you, though, I wanted to talk to the police in the area and ask about your character. Private investigators in the movies are sometimes portrayed as very troubled people and I wanted to make sure you were all right.

Oh oh, Wally said. His tight lips made me think of a gas pain.

Grace laughed again. "On Friday I walked into the police headquarters in Washington and told a very nice young man at the front desk why I was there. He had me sit down and wait. A little while later a detective came out to talk to me. I’ve only spoken to a detective once before. Heck, I’ve hardly ever seen a detective if you don’t count television shows."

Please tell us it was Art Franklin, I said. Art was our primary contact within the law enforcement community in the District of Columbia. He was a good cop and a good friend. Unlike some of his co-workers, I thought he would probably give us a positive recommendation.

Yes. Yes it was. Oh wonderful, you know him.

He’s a pal of ours, Wally said, around a sigh of relief.

And he speaks of you in very complimentary terms. So, this morning I rushed over without an appointment and hoped maybe you would see me.

Well, here we are, I said.

Yes, yes, this is wonderful. She suddenly got quiet and I noticed tears in her eyes. A moment later they spilled over. I reached for a tissue from a box on the table and handed it to her. She wiped her eyes as embarrassment blossomed on her cheeks.

I’m so sorry, she said. I thought I could stay in control. But I’m afraid I’m still very sad.

At last, we were getting to it. I didn’t move or say a word.

Do you know who Mason Bittner was? she asked. Then, like I had been slapped with a stick, I knew what it was all about.

Of course, Wally said. He wrote some of the best country songs I ever heard in my life.

Her lips quivered slightly and I thought about a sad goodbye. He was my father, she said. You know he was murdered here in Washington just about a year ago?

Yes, I said. We read about it and it was on the news. I’m sorry to say we haven’t kept up with it. Did they catch the mope who shot him?

No, they did not. The tears rolled again, but not like the first time. She sniffed, blotted her cheeks and maintained a neutral expression.

The police told me the case was cold because there was no real evidence and no witnesses, she continued. Daddy was living in his car and trying to make enough money to eat, so I think he was quite vulnerable. The police said it was most likely a random killing.

It’s hard to prove otherwise without any evidence, Wally said.

Yes, of course. She looked away for a few moments. Then she turned back and her eyes bored into mine as she continued.

I think I might have some evidence.

Wally and I exchanged a glance and I was wondering why she was talking to us and not the police. She must have been reading my mind.

As I said, I looked into you. You have taken on some very difficult cases, and solved them. Even when the police couldn’t do it. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.

Okay, what do you have that the police don’t? I asked.

She leaned over and put the guitar case flat on the floor. The scratches and dents and grime on the surface told me it was old. But it looked sturdy and, when she undid the latches, the resounding snaps and clicks reflected high quality. She opened the case and lifted out a beautiful guitar. Of course, I didn’t know much about that type of instrument, but the deep color and texture of the wood suggested to me it was expensive.

Do you know what this is? she asked.

A guitar? Wally and I answered, simultaneously. She threw her head back and gave us another of her throaty and very appealing laughs.

I’m so sorry. Of course it’s a guitar. But it’s a special one. This is a dreadnought. It’s a type of acoustic instrument developed by C.F. Martin and Company many, many years ago. It’s large, which results in bolder and often louder tones than other types of guitar. The dreadnought style is unique because of its square shoulders and bottom. The various models are given numbers along with the letter D for dreadnought. So there are D-18s, D-28s and D-45s.

See the square shoulders? she said as she gently ran her fingers over the area where the guitar body met the neck. Her eyes met mine.

Not everybody agrees, but a lot of people think the D-28 is the greatest acoustic guitar ever made. Especially the older ones, and by that I mean instruments that were produced in the forties. Some of them are worth over thirty thousand dollars, and they are highly regarded by musicians and collectors alike.

I whistled at the mention of the monetary value. I pointed at the guitar in her hands. Is that one of the older versions?

"No, it’s not. It is a D-28. But it’s a much newer model than the ones I mentioned. This guitar is wonderful, however, and sometimes just hearing the sound that comes out of it can take me away. I do that, sometimes. That is, I play something to transport me from where I am to whatever magical place I want to go. Where the music is perfect, the lyrics comfort my soul, and where my daddy is singing with the angels."

She abruptly stopped talking and began to cry again, this time with long, body-wracking sobs. Neither Wally nor I knew what to do, but a moment later Andrea appeared and, after aiming a scathing glare at the two of us, she leaned over and put her arm around Grace’s shoulder. The girl put her head against Andrea and, for a moment, I wished I instinctively knew how to comfort someone. Like Wally, my only instincts involved offering a troubled person a pint of Guinness.

It took a minute or two for her to settle down. She thanked Andrea with a pained smile and then, with a deep breath, she straightened up. I’m sorry, again, she said. This is far more difficult than I anticipated.

Then her eyes became intense, like a power or resolve had settled over her. Would you like to see? See how the sound can carry you off?

I glanced at Wally. We both shrugged because we didn’t know how else to respond. Sure, I said.

She positioned the guitar on her thighs and took a plastic pick from between the strings. She held it between her thumb and forefinger and looked up at me. Let me show you.

With her left hand she formed a chord on the neck and then she slowly ran the pick across the strings. A moment later she initiated a rhythmic pattern of picking and strumming and sound exploded from the guitar, filling the room as if there was an amplification system in place. What came next was something I hadn’t expected, and it took my breath away.

Out of that plain, shy, lovely young woman came a voice I think would have moved any god in the universe. I was not privy to many things that I would have considered perfect, but her voice seemed to fit the bill. The quality was soothing, reminding me of a high-pitched wind chime, and the nuances in her delivery were haunting and beautiful. She sang with her eyes closed, and the power of her voice hit me like a punch to the chest. The poignant lyrics made it one of the most moving songs I had ever heard. It ended far too soon and, when she made a final pass with the pick, I was disappointed, because I wanted more. She brought the pick to her lips, kissed it, and placed it under the strings. I noticed her eyes were glistening.

As usual, when I encountered something unexpected, I didn’t know what to do. I looked over at Wally, and he was just staring at Grace. I noticed some movement by the doorway and saw that all our associates were standing there. Andrea was with her husband, Chas, our computer man, along with our full-time investigators, Camilla Jorgensten, Bill Ferguson and Ed Macintosh. Chas broke the ice and started clapping. Then we all joined in. Grace blushed and pulled her lips over her generous teeth.

That was beautiful, I said. Absolutely beautiful.

Thank you, she said, lowering her eyes.

We introduced Grace to our team and everybody made some comment about what he or she had just heard. After a few moments, she spoke.

"That song is one of my favorites. It’s called Before, and it was the last song Daddy wrote for Momma. I can’t sing it without crying."

You see this guitar? she continued, placing the instrument on her thighs. It was in Daddy’s case, the one there on the floor. The police found it in the trunk of his car the night he was killed. They finally got it to me after six months.

It’s great that they got it to you, though, Wally said. At least you have something that was dear to him.

But this is not Daddy’s guitar.

Now I got it. Wally’s nod told me that he, too, recognized we were gazing upon the new evidence. I pointed at the instrument.

You’re sure of it?

Yes. On Daddy’s guitar there was a very unique swirl or imperfection in the wood grain on the back of the box. She turned the guitar around and tapped her index finger at a point near the bottom.

The swirl was right here. It was small, like the back of a hermit crab, and Daddy loved it. It was his good luck charm, he said. Nobody really knew about it except Momma and me. And there also was a small scratch near the shoulder. Again, she used her finger to indicate where the mark should have been.

When I was little, he was teaching me how to play and I dropped the guitar and it got scratched. Daddy didn’t mind because it was me who marked his instrument. When I cried over what I had done, he just held me and said every time he played the guitar and saw that little scratch, it would remind him of how much he loved me.

Grace took a deep breath and blew it out through puffed cheeks. This guitar is the same model as Daddy’s. I took this one to an authority on Martin guitars down near Nashville. I wanted it appraised, I told him. It was made in 1994 and is worth about five thousand dollars. Daddy’s was made in 1944 and was worth nearly forty thousand dollars.

Given its value, maybe your father needed some money, so he got rid of the fancy one and bought the one you’re holding, Bill Ferguson said.

Grace shook her head. No. Absolutely not. He once told me his guitar was tethered to his soul, and without it he would be lost and his skills would vanish. Of course that was not true, but that’s how strongly he felt about the guitar. He would never get rid of it. Never.

So whoever killed him snagged the expensive one and put this one in its place, Wally said. That’s very interesting.

Yes, Grace said. The person obviously knew the value of Daddy’s guitar.

I know people do crazy things all the time, but still, why kill somebody to swipe a guitar? I asked. Even an expensive one. There are other less onerous ways to get it.

Stealing the guitar was secondary, I think, Grace said. He killed Daddy for another reason.

And that was?

Because he destroyed Daddy’s life, and Daddy was closing in on him.

Huh? Wally said.

You see why I didn’t go to the police? she asked. They’d think I was crazy. I came to you, instead.

Because you think we’re crazy? I asked.

Grace Bittner smiled.

TWO

1984

Working Man Blues

The sudsy water swirled and vanished, like a bad thought or an unfulfilled dream. With a lifetime of fantasies involving little more than a warm bed, a full belly and an outside chance, the churning remains of somebody else’s dinner going into the disposal constituted just another symbolic reminder of where he was. As the debris slipped out of sight, he again thought of his terrible miscalculation and his eroding confidence.

Hey, Bittner, the head cook shouted. Get your head out of your ass and move a little faster. There’s folks out in the main room we have to seat, and we can’t seat them as long as the tables are full of dirty dishes. And we can’t bus the dirty dishes because you’re about as fast as my old lady when it’s time to clean the house. It’s not hard, my man. Wash, wash, rinse, rinse. Come on, get the lead out.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, come on yourself, Mason Bittner said. He submerged another pile of greasy dishes in the soapy water and picked up the pace, wondering if his current situation was any better than if he had stayed at home to help his mother. He thought leaving would make her life just a bit easier because it would reduce the number of mouths to feed. Maybe it had. But with no contact for all these months, he had no way of knowing. Certainly his life was not any easier, although he was becoming quite skilled at washing and rinsing dishes.

His other reason for leaving home was more practical. He believed once he got away from the closed little community he grew up in, he would have a chance to better showcase his talent. The opportunities to improve his skills or develop a unique stage presence could not really be realized at church socials, neighborhood gatherings or Saturday nights at the local Veteran’s Lodge. The people he sang to—his neighbors—disagreed with him and felt his stage presence was just fine. They said he was every bit as talented as the country music artists they heard on the radio every day. That was gratifying to hear but, while they meant well, his neighbors were not particularly adept at recognizing talent. They were people who thought monster truck rallies were state-of-the-art entertainment and the ultimate achievement was receiving the checkered flag at a NASCAR race. Leaving home seemed to be his best option, but that was before he realized he was only qualified for manual labor. Like washing dishes.

Mason’s memories of home were always bittersweet. The town he was born in, Accident, was nestled in the mountains of western Maryland and had a comfortable, old-fashioned appeal. It had a long-honored societal pace that was the antithesis of the hectic money- or politically-driven culture that existed just a few hours away. The people in town demonstrated historical ideals like honesty and fair play, and most favored close-knit relationships, long-term commitments, families and God. Except for Mason’s father, who knew most everything there was to know about how a tractor or a truck operated, but little else. Large-bodied and possessed of a rugged masculinity and an uncompromising prejudice against anything or anybody who was different, Bert Bittner was generally considered hard-headed. Sometimes, particularly when he drank too much, he was a bully. But he was the type of bully who was tolerated, because if you had a busted transmission or a balky carburetor, he was the man to see.

I told Milford, down at the tavern, how Mason was named after the town, Mason remembered his father saying one night at dinner. The other three children at the table squirmed and did not take their eyes off their plates.

Bert laughed as he watched a blush form on the boy’s face. He got a kick out of it.

Why do you have to be so cruel, Bert? Susan Bittner said, recognizing the pain on her eldest son’s face.

It was just for fun. Big goddamned deal. You know, Susan, you and Mason sometimes make me sick. You cover for him or make excuses for him and he don’t stand up for himself. You need to back off and he needs to toughen up. He’s fourteen years old for Christ’s sake. He has to be able to take a joke. Or if he don’t like it, he’s got to man up and do something about it. But all he does is write those silly-ass songs and play the guitar. My buddies are starting to wonder if he’s a fairy.

Oh God, Bert. What he is, is a sensitive young man.

Sensitive my ass. He’s a weirdo is what he is. He befriends the kids in town who everybody despises—even the retards—and I don’t think he’s ever shot a ground hog or drowned a stray kitten.

And that’s bad?

Well it ain’t good.

I don’t want to be like you, Dad, Mason said, refusing to make eye contact.

Oh? Well you best try, boy. You got to make a living in this world, and hanging around retards and acting like a goddamned faggot won’t cut it.

I hate you, Mason blurted.

His lip was split a moment later by a hard backhand.

By God, you finally showed some balls, Bert said. Now let’s finish this pot roast.

For a long time, Mason did not think Bert and his friends were inherently bad men. They were just uneducated, unskilled, unmotivated and completely unaware. Their priorities were rarely directed toward family, but rather to the men just like themselves. Mason remembered how his father made a big deal out of having a little extra money one month.

We’re living high, Susan, Bert had said, and, by God, I’m going to share our good fortune with my buddies. The beer’s on me tonight, baby, and I’ll be one popular sonofabitch down at the tavern.

What about the children, Bert? Don’t they deserve some of the good fortune? Maybe some extra food or a treat?

Shit. You and Mason would probably take extra food to that house downtown where all them disgusting and crazy old farts are kept. The shut-ins. No, I’ll not be sharing my good fortune with people like that. Maybe you ought to put the younger ones on your tit again. You do and they’ll be just fine. Then we got enough real food for everyone else.

As he recalled that particular incident, Mason remembered the profound pain that washed across his mother’s face. She shook her head and turned away, her eyes full of tears. Bert stepped over and grabbed her by the chin.

Don’t you dare shake your head at me, woman. I make the money and, by Jesus, I can spend it any way I want. He looked over at Mason. Ain’t that right, Sissy-Boy?

The single most important factor in Mason Bittner’s young life, and the one that allowed him to escape the reality of his oppressive father and his acquiescent mother, was music. It was an integral thread in the fabric of mountain society and was every bit as essential as bib overalls and John Deere caps. The Bittner family was well represented, with a long lineage of fiddle players, guitar strummers, banjo pickers and singers. In fact, except for tone-deaf Bert, the Bittner clan was influential in teaching Bert’s children how to play instruments, sing songs and perform in public. Susan Bittner was also an accomplished vocalist, so Mason and his three siblings were exposed to mountain music and its varied instrumentation from a very early age. The Bittner children were adequate, if not exceptional, musicians, and they were widely recognized and appreciated. They performed at family gatherings, bluegrass festivals, town picnics, and parades, and it was at such small gatherings that the gnawing itch of ambition inside Mason Bittner grew into a raging obsession. It also constituted yet another point of conflict between Mason and his father.

Well, I see you’re singing all that whiny shit again, hey Sissy-Boy? Bert asked one evening before joining his buddies at the tavern. Mason was singing with this mother and sister on the front porch.

It’s not whiny, Dad, it’s country music, Mason said, standing. And I don’t want you to call me Sissy-Boy any more. I’m eighteen years old and I’m sick of how you treat me.

Are you? Then why don’t you leave? You eat too much, anyway. And you don’t like how I treat you? Tough shit. I’ll treat you any way I want. And how about I just call you Faggot?

Bert, please.

Oh shut up, Susan. I’m sick of your whining, too. Maybe if you spent more time taking care of me, and less time making him a sissy, I’d be a happier man. It’s hard watching him sitting around trying to sing like a goddamned whippoorwill or something. It’s your fault he’s such a loser.

Stop talking to her like that, Mason shouted.

Well, well, well, Bert said, stepping toward his son. Showing some backbone, are we? Let me tell you something, you obnoxious little prick. You’re a man now, so I don’t have any problem knocking the shit out of you. You’re pretty good sized but you’re nothing but a pantywaist. An ungrateful little snot who eats my food, takes up valuable space and can’t do anything except write sappy love songs. Go get a real job. You ain’t worth a shit as a singer, so you best be learning how to do something useful. Faggot.

God damn you, Mason said, moving toward his father. Bert hit him three times in the face with his fist.

He left home two days later. He told his mother he was going to go to Wheeling, West Virginia. It was where a popular country show called Jamboree U.S.A. originated, and many famous country artists appeared on the weekend shows. He argued that since well-known people played in the Jamboree, it should not be too hard for him to meet some of them and maybe introduce them to his original music. Naiveté was not a word known to Mason Bittner.

The morning he left, his face bruised and swollen, his mother stood ramrod straight with dry eyes, because a woman from the Maryland mountains was supposed to be strong. It was her job to raise the children and, when they were ready to leave, to send them on their way. Mason was troubled that his mother was willing to simply say goodbye but, thankfully, she finally stepped forward and hugged him fiercely. His father was not even in the house because there was a Saturday morning fish fry down in town. Bert Bittner simply bid his son farewell on his way to breakfast. He stopped at the door and then came back. He leaned over and softly spoke into Mason’s ear so Susan wouldn’t hear.

You go, boy, and don’t you bother coming back. We’re just fine here without you. Bert’s callousness was not really unexpected but, nonetheless, the coldness just fueled Mason’s desire to start a new life.

But the new life Mason Bittner stepped into was not nearly what he dreamt it would be. Neither was it rife with opportunities. Like the trout in the cold streams around Wheeling, he was just one of many, all heading in the same direction, gasping for breath. He looked older than his age and, of course, he lied about it, so open microphone sessions at rundown drinking establishments were the only venues available to him. When he performed original songs, people screamed for him to sing something good, like a country classic. At one bar, a heavy fishnet covered the front of the stage and at least four bottles were thrown at him during his performance. The reality of trying to make it as a singer was as harsh as the winters in Accident. But he knew he could not go home again, even after two difficult years. Because it would be with his tail between his legs, and the people who thought he was too big for his britches—people like Bert Bittner—would revel in his defeat. So he washed dishes, rented a tiny room with a toilet down the hall, and sang for free, five nights a week.

They got a music contest this Saturday down at the Wheeling Center Park, a chubby young woman said as she brought in a stack of dirty dishes. Her name was Lois Sanford and she was one of the waitresses in the main room. Lois developed a crush on Mason the first day he walked into the restaurant. He was tall, gangly and handsome. With his long dark hair swept back and his chiseled good looks, he reminded her of the storybook heroes in her favorite romance novels. Lois was not very pretty but she was always happy and always kind. Mason liked her, and sometimes they would get together for lunch or take long walks around town. He hoped she did not misinterpret his intentions, because all he wanted was a friend. He was lonely, but he did not want or need a girlfriend, because he had already found out that emotional closeness was too often linked with terrible pain.

Sometimes when Mason and Lois walked along the river, she would talk about moving away from West Virginia and starting a family, and he would talk about moving away from West Virginia and becoming a star. During their long treks, neither fully realized how far away their dreams really were, and certainly not the price they might have to pay if those dreams were fulfilled.

What kind of music contest? Mason replied, immersing the plates in the basin of warm, soapy water.

The kind where people stand up and show what they can do. You need to go and sing.

I’m beginning to think nobody wants to hear me sing.

Oh Mason, stop feeling sorry for yourself.

Does it cost money to enter?

I think so. But first prize is like two hundred and fifty dollars. There’s also money for second and third prize. I believe it costs twenty-five dollars to sign up.

"I don’t have twenty-five dollars.