Sing roses for me, p.1
Sing Roses for Me, page 1
part #1 of Max Allen Series
Sing Roses For Me
Ben Marney
Sing Roses For Me
A Novel
Written by
Ben Marney
Copyright © 2017 by Ben Marney
Published by: Ben Marney books
www.benmarneybooks.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Lyrics to “What Am I Doing Wrong” written by Ben Marney
What Am I Doing Wrong published by: Marney Media Group-BMI
This book is a work of fiction. All characters in this book are fictional coming from the authors imagination. Any similarities to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Dedication
For my brother Ron
You were right, there are no rivers too wide to cross.
I miss you
Dedicated to my wife Dana
Thank you for all the lonely hours you spent while I wrote this book. I know it was difficult for you. Even though we were in the same room, I know I really wasn’t there. I’ll try to be better and not completely disappear into my strange little writing world on the next one.
I love you
Contents
Special Offer
1. Max Allen
2. The Funeral
3. Edward Cecil, Sr.
4. Thomas
5. The Song
6. Amnesia
7. Coincidence
8. The Fall
9. The Discovery
10. Dr. Griswald
11. The Islands
12. Billy Dean
13. Gus Walters
14. The Search
15. The Truth
16. Woodland Park
17. The Game
18. The Escape
19. The Wrong Guy
20. Michelle
21. My Billy
22. The Fax
23. Proof
24. The Trial
25. DNA
26. Psalms 52
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Special Offer
Epigraph
The years have healed my wounds and the bleeding has stopped, but the scars on my life will never go away.
Max Allen
1
Max Allen
My name is Max Allen. Yes, “The” Max Allen–the guy in the news, the guy you think you know all about, but you are wrong, you don’t know it all–not the whole story…
This began, September 1, 1983. It was the worst day of my life, a memory so haunting, so horrible it’s hard to believe it really happened, but it did. Even now, 20 plus years later, the pain comes rushing back and still makes me cry every time I think about it.
It was an unusual day for Houston, especially for that time of year–a glorious morning, cool, around 70 degrees with very little humidity and not a cloud in the sky. I’d actually stopped in Memorial Park on my drive to work that morning to finish my coffee, eat my doughnut and admire the splendor of the day. As I sat there listening to music, watching the ducks swim in the pond, I had a feeling of euphoria running through me.
The planets had aligned, my life for the first time in a long time had some form of direction, but most importantly, I was finally, after thirty years, bonding with my older brother. For the first time in our adult lives, Dean was treating me with respect. We were actually working together, had become friends, and had somehow overcome our silly childhood sibling rivalries.
Dean had become a very successful real estate developer and had built several high-rise office buildings around the Houston area, as well as several apartment buildings and condo complexes. He was rolling in cash and finally had convinced me to give up my life long dreams of being a country music star and go to work for him. He would tell me, “Give me ten years little brother and we’ll buy Nashville.” Although I’d had some good luck and minor success in the music business, I certainly wasn’t a star. I was 32 years old and had finally come to the crossroads–I had to choose between possibly never making it in show business, facing a future barely scratching out a living doing what I loved, or give it all up, go in with my brother and make some serious cash. Reluctantly, I cut my hair, put down my guitar and moved from Nashville, Tennessee back home to Houston, Texas.
When I finished my coffee in the park, I cranked up my truck and headed to North Point Central–my office and our newest office tower under development. The traffic was horrible, as usual, backed up for miles, so it was almost 9:30 a.m. before I walked into my office. Taped to my phone was a message–Call Dean. He wants you to fly to Louisiana with him this morning. I tried to call him but he was on the phone, so I left a message with Peggy, his personal assistant, for him to call me back.
Things had picked up around the office and I’d honestly forgotten about Dean until the phone rang on my desk. It was almost 1 p.m.
“How fast can you get to Andrough Airport?” Dean asked.
“I don’t know. The traffic was hell this morning, maybe an hour or so I guess. Why?”
“I’ve got to go to Lafayette to take this dumb ass coon ass cash money to close the deal on a new quarter horse. Hey! What do you think about that? A dumb ass coon ass! Sounds like a country song to me. Write that down little brother it might be a hit.”
“You know... it’s a damn good thing you’ve got a shit load of money, because if you’re considering a career change to show business you’re gonna need it, other wise you’d starve your ass off.”
“Little brother you always were jealous of my singing voice. Seriously, can you make it to Andrough by two? I’ve got to take off by then to make it back in time.”
“Are we flying in the new one, the Merlin?” I asked.
“Nah, the damn nose gear is still out on the Merlin, my pilot’s coming to get me in a Beach Baron. I hate those damn planes, but he says this is a good one. He flies it all the time. It’s got six seats, so why don’t you leave now and head that way? If you make it, we’ll take a cab downtown and get some crawfish ettoufee’ or some gumbo while we’re there.”
“I’ll do my best to get there by 2, but it’s going to be close.”
“Ah, one more thing little brother.”
“What’s that?”
“I know your heart ain’t in this construction business, but stick with me on this for a while. As soon as we’ve got your pockets lined with a little gold, we just might ship your ass back to Nashville and see what you can do. Hell, we might even start our own record company one of these days. I figure you got a hit or two in you.”
I was so taken aback I didn’t know how to respond. That was the first time he’d ever said anything positive about my music. He’d always been my worst critic, but now out of nowhere he was talking like this? “Be careful what you’re suggesting, big brother, I just may hold you to it one day.”
“I think it’s something we need to talk about. “ Dean said. “Look, get your ass to the airport and we’ll talk about it on the plane. See you there. Hurry up.”
I rushed out of the office and started working my way to southwest Houston through the bumper-to-bumper traffic. I looked at my watch, it was 1:45 and I wasn’t even close, so I took the next exit and tried to call his car phone. There was no answer. Back on the freeway, it was obvious that I’d never make it in time, so I gave up, took the next exit and began driving down the side streets to Dean’s office complex near Gessner and Westheimer. His office suite took up an entire floor of a beautiful, three-story, mostly glass building he’d built a few years earlier. I had a small office there, so I figured I’d finish out the day there rather than fighting the traffic back to North Point Central.
At 2:15, I heard a special announcement over my truck radio. A local businessman and his pilot had been killed in a crash at Andrough Airport. The reporter said the crash happened as they were taking off at 2:05 P.M. Both were killed instantly. A wave of fear came over my entire body as I wondered if it could be Dean. I began pondering all the horrible consequences of his death. How could I tell Mom and Dad? What would happen to his company? His kids? How could I go on without him–without his wisdom and guidance? His love? If this was true and it was his plane, suddenly I’d be working for Camille, his wife. Oh, God! What a horrible thought.
Camille was Dean’s second wife, not the mother of his children. Their relationship was a real life cliché, the same old story–married boss, hot secretary... you know the rest. Camille was an absolute knock out. She had a beautiful face, a tiny waist, huge tits, but definitely was not a dumb, blonde. She was smart, real smart, but a conniving kind of smart that was obvious to everyone who knew her, but Dean.
For whatever reason, she didn’t think much of me, so I did my best to just stay out of her way. I assumed that she’d heard one too many dumb little kid stories about me from Dean, because she always treated me with aloofness–not rude, just a total lack of respect for my intelligence and complete disregard for anything I had to say.
She was one of those obstacles you try to side step in life. She had few redeeming qualities, but she was Dean’s fairy princess. He loved her and because he loved her so much, he was completely blind to her faults, so I just kept my mouth shut and tried to avoid her.
If this horrible scenario was true and Dean w
It had taken me another thirty minutes to reach the office, so the thought of the plane crash was far from my mind. I was in a great mood, winked and said “Hey there,” to the receptionist as I walked past her desk. She didn’t respond to me–nothing. She just sat there staring forward. It was a bit strange, but I didn’t think much of it and walked on by her down the hall to my office.
When I sat down behind my desk, I overheard Peggy, my brother’s personal assistant, talking to Camille. “I don’t think Max knows,” she said. “Someone’s got to tell him.”
The moment Camille and Peggy walked into my office, I knew. They didn’t have to say a word. My brother was dead.
2
The Funeral
A Houston motorcycle cop told me that it was the longest line of cars he’d ever led. The parade stretched for almost two miles and created a major traffic problem on the Katy Freeway backing traffic up all the way to the 610 loop as we crept along working our way to the gravesite. Soon the nightmare I’d been living the last three days would be over. Dean would be in the ground and the rest of us would have to figure out how to go on with our lives without him. We all knew that wasn’t going to be easy, but we had no choice.
I’d been quiet, not saying much to anyone since it had happened. The last person I’d talked to was my father and I’m not sure those were actual words. My dad and I have always been very close and as long as I can remember, we’ve had a slight telepathic communication between us. I never really had to go into deep detail about anything with my father. He just always seemed to know what I needed or wanted. When I knocked on his door only hours after Dean’s plane crash, my father took one look at me and instantly knew.
At the gravesite, I sat on one of the small green chairs reserved for the family and listened to the preacher pray for my brother’s soul. It seemed like an eternity, but it actually only took a few minutes. When it was finally over and everyone moved out from under the small canopy cover, I just stood there with my hand on his casket. To this day, I can still see it clearly. It was made out of beautiful dark mahogany wood and was so highly polished I could see my reflection.
As I stood there with my hand on that cold wood, the memory of the last time I’d seen him alive flashed through my mind. It was only a few days earlier at a party at his ranch. Dean loved throwing big Texas size parties and this was one of his best. One of Dean’s side businesses was racing and breeding quarter horses. The purpose of this party was to celebrate the success of one of his horses that had just been named the Aged Champion Stallion. It was a big deal and lots of people, dressed up in all of their finest boots and hats, showed up. Dean had asked me to put my old band back together for the entertainment, so I did and we were a big hit with his friends. It was one of those magical musical nights for me; things had gone especially well. During my breaks, everyone was coming up slapping Dean on the back talking about what a great singer his little brother was. Although he never said it, I know he was proud of me that night.
When the party was over and most of the guests had left, he came up to me as I was packing up my guitar. “Would you do one more song for me little brother?” he asked.
“Sure.” I said, “What would you like to hear?”
“Sing Roses for me again,” he said, smiling. “I love that song.”
He was talking about a song called Run For The Roses, by Dan Fogleberg. I’d already sung it three times during the night, always at his request. “Hang on a second, I’ll round up the band.”
“You don’t need the band. Sing it for me here at the table. Just you and your guitar.”
I pulled up a chair and sang it for him one last time. Every time I’d come to the chorus, he’d lean back in his chair and join in, singing at the top of his lungs. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was a monumental three minutes in my life – a performance forever imprinted in my brain.
When the gravesite service was over, I went back to Dean’s house. Within an hour, the place was packed with some of Dean’s closest friends and everyone had a story to tell about him. Some were about his generosity, some were about his intelligence, but all were from the heart. After listening to one story after another, I soon realized that I didn’t really know Dean at all. He had so many dimensions, so many layers. I only knew what he chose to expose to me. The more I learned about him, the more I felt a little cheated. I’d missed out on so much of his life, knowing who he really was.
The biggest surprise of the day came when four of his closest friends came to me and said, “Come with us, there’s something we have to do.” I had no idea what they were up to, but I could tell it was important, so I went with them without hesitation.
They took me upstairs to Dean’s library and sat me down in his favorite chair. Bob Hugley opened the bar and poured five tall scotches, neat. Randy Woodham opened the doors to the stereo and began searching through the albums. To my surprise, he pulled out one of mine and put it on the record player. Before I could protest, my voice was blaring out of the speakers. It was almost as if they’d rehearsed what to do next. Bob handed me a scotch and sat in the chair next to me. Randy, Howard and Sidney sat on the couch. For the next hour, no one said a word; we just sipped our scotch and listened to my music, all three albums.
I was very confused at all of this, but didn’t question it, because for whatever reason his friends were enjoying it. Each one of them lost in deep thought, no doubt memories of Dean. It was all very bizarre and surreal.
When it was over and my music had finally been turned off, I asked them, “What was that all about?”
The four of them looked at me with shocked expressions. “You’re kidding right?” Howard Stone said.
“No, I’m not kidding. Why did you guys want to listen to my music?”
“Because that’s what Dean loved to do,” Bob said. “That’s what we always did up here: drank scotch and listened to your albums.”
“My albums? You listened to my music?” I asked.
“Of course, your albums. Max, he loved your music,” Randy said.
I had to sit down. My legs felt like rubber and my head was spinning. I tried not to cry, but I couldn’t hold it in. “I didn’t know,” I said, wiping my eyes. “He never told me.”
Sid sat down next to me and put his arm around me. “He knew every word of every song. He thought you were brilliant. It was all he ever talked about.”
“Yeah, he drove us all nuts with it.” Randy added. “I can’t tell you how many times he made us sit here with him and listen to your damn albums. To be honest, I’m a little sick of hearing you sing.” He broke into a loud belly laugh. Soon everyone was laughing, even me.
That experience was a true revelation in my life. It made me realize something I’d hidden away from myself for over thirty years; I’d been living my life not for me, but for Dean. Everything I’d ever done I did hoping that it would garner his acceptance and somehow meet his standard of excellence. Until that day, I thought I’d always missed the mark somehow. I was sure that everything I’d ever accomplished was not quite good enough; just slightly sub-standard. That day I found out that I had done something Dean approved of… my music. He loved my music.
