The walking death of pari-mutuel racing in Tennessee, Part 12

by Frank Cotolo

Part 1 is here.

Part 2 is here.

Part 3 is here.

Part 4 is here.

Part 5 is here.

Part 6 is here.

Part 7 is here.

Part 8 is here.

Part 9 is here.

Part 10 is here.

Part 11 is here.

I tried to put the pieces together and be far ahead of anyone else who might report a foreign company’s plans to bring pari-mutuel racing to the Volunteer State. My hopes were high for a crescendo of inside information to present the facts and figures I needed to write an award-winning story; the plan that would end one state’s famine of pari-mutuel horse racing.

But my sources began to disappear. I called Conrad at the Tennessee State Racing Commission’s office for an update on the Memphis mechanical-horse project.

“Nothing new, my friend,” he said.

“Is the track still under construction?”

“No word on that. No word on anything.”

“What about the British bookmaking company?”

“That comes under the no-word-on-anything column.”

I paused. The scrambling of shuffling jobs and genres over the past month rattled my brain and I said, “Then what are you doing? What does a race commissioner do with no racing industry in the state the commissioner rules over?”

“Right now, I’m just about to get some lunch.”

“Then what?”

“Then I expect I may be looking for another job.”

Next, I phoned my secret source Ernie. He said, “You know how much detectives get an hour to hound legislators and multi-millionaires and probables involved in controversial projects they do not want to be quoted about?”

“I get it, Ernie. Sorry to bother you. Do not go out of your way. Just promise if you hear anything…”

“Right.”

Meanwhile, back at Nashville’s country-western ranch there were sour notes playing for everyone involved with the Nashville Network’s radio campaign. The object to reach a wider audience was in peril. The country music side of the business always came first for the family business running its media arm so it needed to be getting immediate attention. The problem? The Jack-inspired Nashville Radio Network was not pulling the numbers expected. And as with any entertainment media project the engine to keep it afloat was money. Success is measured by profits. It was nothing different with media coming from Tennessee than it was in the Hollywood business world.

When I caught wind of the radio crisis, I called Conrad and left a message. A few days passed without a response. Then I called Ernie and his answering machine made note of his absence with no further contact information. My Nashville agent gave up on the book project according to his office. There were rumors around the studios and in the corporate offices at The Opry Hotel and there was no particular buzz around the broadcast studios; a bad sign.

One thing was apparent. It was a bad time to implore the Nashville Network to enter the gaming world; no less to join forces with a foreign entity’s visions of capitalizing on an area challenging the high morals of the state’s history.

“What does any of this mean for us?” Natasha said.

I told her as many details as I knew. And there we sat going through the motions of being Tennessean citizens. We had a one-family rented home (with a quaint old-fashioned screened porch) and a decent car and state drivers’ licenses and two dogs and southern-hand-crafted furniture and Natasha’s healthy garden and some possible plans for a future together (including marriage and children). But not one of our positive advances to settle in the state made us feel like we belonged in the deep South.

My fate as a southerner and the lynchpin broadcast producer/writer for TNNR’s Wolfman Jack’s popular-music crossover program was already written when my Tennessee manager Joe Slevin dropped by the house on a typical southern-scorcher of a day.

“Afraid this is not a social visit,” Joe said.

I knew it. The “button man” arrived to do the dirty deed. I smiled and sighed before he said a word.

“You want to share some Kentucky Bourbon with me?” I said.

In the Italian lingo of metropolitan New York Joe was what was known as “a good egg.” Meant well and worked hard at what he did. And he was as loyal a manager as anyone in the entertainment world could want to stand up for a client. Good timing, too. Natasha was enjoying digging up dirt in her garden without the slightest notion I was about to be “clipped” of my TNNR life. He did not say a word for the next 30 seconds.

“Maybe you ought to have that drink,” he said.

I poured a shot and poured it down my throat. “Shoot,” I said.

“TNNR is dropping the whole Wolfman project.”

I nodded. He told me the only good news; that he worked out a financial settlement that awarded me payment for a month or so after the lights went out. A good egg, indeed.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve a tip on a racetrack project. Looking for a seasoned publicity director with extra duties.”

“Where?”

“Mississippi.”

I missed racing but I would never miss the South. It was time to move on.