The Pyramid Club

White Elephants! That's what they were, Van Dyke thought. Block after block of empty elephant eyes staring out at the wind-borne gutter trash, in what had once been the cotton capitol of the whole goddamn world. And one of the biggest elephants was sitting on the shoulders of Roger Van Dyke, owner of the nearly empty Jeffersonian. The Jeffersonian Hotel, at the corner of Jefferson and Main, was in a great location...once upon a time. But now, the handsome neo-classic architecture irritated Van Dyke as much as the burnt edges of the hot Reuben sandwich in front of him. He sat in a window booth at the Yellow Star restaurant, looking out on Court Square. The Yellow Star was one of the few businesses on Main Street that had refused to give up the ghost. He decided he wasn't hungry and called for the check.

Downtown Memphis, Tennessee was in the throes of trying to reestablish itself as a viable community in the wake of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King and riots that ripped thru parts of the city, especially around Beale Street.

Van Dyke decided to walk back to his hotel office, just a couple blocks away, while he sorted through his thoughts about what had been happening to his beloved city. The white flight to the suburbs had been accelerating and whole blocks of
Main Street had become like a ghost town. But the city fathers, and the banking establishment and investors were not about to let their real estate become white elephants one after another.

So serious plans had been drawn up, putting lots of tax dollars into developing Mud Island as something to attract folks to the Mississippi River. Main Street was redeveloped more than once as a "Mall" eventually with streetcar lines once again coursing from the Pinch District to Beale Street and so forth. What a waste, Van Dyke muttered to himself. Nothing was working. But the schemes kept coming.

And then the idea of a pyramid shaped building was put forth. This was to be reminiscent of the pyramids of Egypt, eventually to have a 12 foot tall fiberglass replica of the Egyptian God Ptah standing on the Front Street side of the edifice.

An extended period ensued in which the question of where to locate the building was discussed. Finally, a firm decision was made: The Pyramid would be put on land between the Wolf river and the Pinch District on the north edge of downtown. It would be a huge structure which would provide a venue for all kinds of entertainment. And it would serve as the new home for the Memphis Tigers basketball team.
There was just one problem. The land was not owned by the city. "Well," one city councilman said “that’s no problem! We will just take the land by our

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powers of eminent domain. We've got some people in real estate who can give us a figure we can live with; tell the owner that's the market value, and take the damn site. The guy will have to take our deal."

This councilman, who shall forever remain nameless, hadn't reckoned with the fella who owned the subject property.

Enter landowner Charlie Faro. He had come to the Council hearing, having heard it was interested in his land. Charlie was a man who loved a good fight. He was the head of the local private detectives trade association and had dealt with lawyers and investigators all his life. Charlie stood up and told the city council, "Well, you know I'm not a lawyer, but I know a little bit about the law and you can't take this piece of property under your 'eminent domain' power. Why? Cause you ain't got a good and sufficient public purpose. So I'll see you in court."

And that's just where the whole thing ended up. Charlie hired a couple of lawyers to argue his case and in the end the judge said to the city, "Mr. Faro's land is not for sale -- even at a fair market price. And I'm not going to force him to sell it
to you."

Charlie Faro was tickled pink. He had whupped the city powers at their own game. "You know what," he groused to his secretary Helen, "now that I've beat 'em, I no longer have this great urge to hold onto the property.” Helen Beasley had been his secretary for 25 years.

She interrupted, “You've been fighting over this thing for nearly 3 years. It's been in your family for close to a hundred years. Your granddaddy farmed it and then you leased the land to that concrete making outfit, as the city grew up around it.” She got quiet. Charlie was quiet too for a few moments. “Awww... Hell, Helen, I would just about let them have it if I could work the right deal."

That was the question: What would be the right deal? Charlie thought about it for a few days, meanwhile taking care of the private detectives trade association business in their little bitty old office in a rundown two story structure on North Main in the Pinch. He looked out the window toward the river and scanned the land his daddy and granddaddy had owned. He glanced around his office at the peeling wallpaper and the bare patches on the ceiling that looked like white puffy clouds where the plaster showed through. Stain spots from a leaky roof made it clear this building would not survive many more years. Scuffed wainscoting
around the room bore evidence of hundreds of chairs bumping up against it over too many years to count.

He was getting frustrated with the cramped space and the detectives coming in at the end of the day, after they'd quaffed a few brews downstairs in the local bar.

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They would stumble up the creaky stairs, and bolt into the office. The half-glass door would rattle when the door slammed shut. These guys were entitled to blow off some steam about their cases, he figured, but a few of them had a pretty good drinking habit, and some even ended up sleeping it off on the office sofa. He felt some empathy for their kinda work. He'd done a lot of it himself when he was younger. But he was 65 now, and trying to coast his way to a comfortable retirement. He didn't have a lot of money set aside, but he did own that piece of land. Then it hit him. He'd go back to the city's real estate people and offer to sell them the property on two conditions.

"Here's the deal," he told Farley Huddleston, "I'll sell you this land free and clear for $10 million, and when the Pyramid is finished you'll give me office space -- about two thousand square feet, and space for a clubroom for my detectives group -- another two thousand square feet. And I'll have a 99-year lease on that space for $1 a year!"

Well, you could have heard a pin drop in that real estate office. Then there was a hearty guffaw from Huddleston, the head honcho there, followed by muted chuckles from the others in the office. "You son of a bitch," said Huddleston. "You

didn't want to sell us the land and now you will -- just so you can provide a home for that bunch of wayward wannabees. Ok, we'll take the offer to the Council and see if we can make it work."

And they did. The Council bought the package. After all, Faro had them over a barrel. They couldn't force him to sell -- even at a fair market price. That's what the judge had ruled. So, they went along with the idea.

A couple of years passed and the Pyramid was finished. Everybody in town celebrated. Especially the private detectives. They now had a nice spacious office in which to conduct association business. And they had their own private clubroom and bar where they could enjoy each other’s company and spin their tall tales 'bout their fantastic cases.

Charlie Faro was pleased. He had some real privacy in his new office. He had enough money to enjoy his retirement now. But, even more, he had set up things for his compadres so they could live, if not a life of luxury, at least a setting where they could get some well earned R ‘n R. Part of the deal Faro had
negotiated allowed his members to invite guests in -- typically the visiting entertainers who would be performing in the Pyramid. They could even allow selected locals to stop in, like judges and city or county officials who could do them
favors as they worked their cases.

The detectives informally called their clubroom "The Pyramid Club" and

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soon it became the place to be seen. But it was a private club and you had to be invited as a guest. Soon the name was made official, and the association became officially "The Memphis Pyramid Private Detectives Trade Association."

One evening, a couple of members were sitting at the bar, and Frank Entrou, a detective with a creative flair, was leaving a tip for the bartender and said "Hey, see the back of this dollar bill. Look at that pyramid on the back. It's got a 'private eye' on top. That's what we ought to use as the logo for our group." This was not a bad idea. They could incorporate it into their association letterhead, and use it on their business cards. And they could tell their would be customers to think of them every time they saw the logo on the back of a dollar bill.

There was a guest at the bar that evening -- a local radio talk show host named Jim Jade. "I got an even better idea,” he blurted out. “I know some people in the tv business out in Hollywood. We could get them to produce a TV private
detective series focused on a group of real private detectives and their interesting
cases."

"Whatdayou talk?" said "Chief" Billy Barlow, a Choctaw Indian who moonlighted as a PI, and was visiting the bluff city from his base in Florida. "How's that gonna work -- I mean what's in it for the guys here -- for Memphis?"

Jim waxed on "Hey -- the show would start with an aerial shot of the Memphis Pyramid, then zoom in and dissolve into your logo. The camera would cut to some of you fellas sitting here in the bar talking about cases you were on, or had handled in the past. Then one of you would begin to tell the story of an interesting case you'd worked while the show did a flashback to that case. See it wouldn't have to be just about Memphis -- although that would get lots of nice, positive exposure every week. A given case could be in Canada or Germany or Los Angeles...places you go to routinely in the course of your assignments. But of course, it would always wind up back here in Memphis as you gave your report to your client. The Chamber of Commerce would love it. The Convention and Visitors Bureau would love it. And it would generate lots more business for the Memphis cadre of private eyes."

John Barlett, one of the private detectives, popped up "You know, I just had
a case here locally that might be a good one to kick off the series. And it involved a city employee, a painter named -- I think it was Bill Smith -- who did building maintenance and repair for the city. He had developed some real low back pain
over the years, and sciatica, and they finally kinda retired him on disability. But it was like, only good for a year. And then they were going to retest him and see if he could go back to work. Well, they came to me and wanted me to investigate what he was doing. They thought he was maybe faking it. So I was supposed to follow him around with a video camera, on the sly, to try ’n catch him lifting a bunch of heavy

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stuff. Like the ladders and big cans of paint he worked with on the job. That way they could charge him with something, and fire him, or get back the disability money, you know. Here's the kicker: I spent two whole months working the case and never could find him picking up heavy stuff. In fact, if he went shopping for groceries he always had his wife along and he had her carry the groceries out to the car and from the car into the house. I gave up. This guy had a real back disability. And I put that in my report to the city. They finally gave him the permanent disability he should have gotten to begin with."

"Damn! That's a good tale, Johnny." Jim said. "The TV show could have you out on the road following him around with your video camera, showing how the city was persecuting this poor fella. The audience would really identify with him -- and you. We could use that in the pilot episode. You know, they usually do a pilot
episode as a 2-hour tv movie. Then if they go forward, they'll order up maybe half a dozen shows. In the 2-hour pilot we could tell two or three stories, highlighting several of you private eyes."

Jim mulled over the idea and even began to mention it on his talk show. A few folks called in and commented on it. One caller, who used the handle MoneyMan, asked Jim "How much money do you need to produce this pilot?" Jim knew MoneyMan in real life. He was Manny Monroe -- one of the city's sharpest fundraisers. Monroe worked with venture capitalists in Memphis -- and elsewhere. Jade said "Hell, I don't know. It would have to be done right. There's some local writers, production people and actors who might qualify to be involved. But I don't wanna do it on the cheap. I would get the best help I could from the professionals in Hollywood, along with using the best locals I could get. But the cost? I guess it would cost half a million bucks, maybe more."

"I bet you I could find a few angels right here in the bluff city," Manny said. And he and Jim agreed to get together that evening over dinner to explore the idea further.

When Jim got off the air that day, he called Johnny Barlett and Charlie Faro and invited them to join him and Manny at Anderton's, an old but well-known restaurant in Midtown. It was getting kinda seedy looking, hadn't been redecorated
in twenty years, seemed like. But this was still the place for lots of establishment civic club luncheons and a good place to run into public figures. Even the city and county mayors were occasional diners.

That's what happened when Jade's dinner party got together; they ran into County Mayor A. C. Wharton and City Mayor Willie Herenton. The two mayors were dining together. A bit unusual. But, they had both been guests on Jade's show from time to time so he was greeted warmly. Jade's party settled in a couple of tables away and began their planning.

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As the discussion continued, the mayors were, apparently, getting ready to leave. They stopped by Jade's table. "You fellas are getting kinda noisy," joshed Herenton, "so AC and I decided we'd go elsewhere to continue our chat. But we couldn't help overhearing you talking about some plans for the Pyramid and a TV show. We'd both like to learn more but don't have the time right now. Call my office and we'll sit down together." With that, the mayors took their leave.

Barlett was excited. "Geez, that's great. If we could get the head honchos behind this deal, that would be fantastic."

Jade said "Well - maybe. Government money's hard to come by these days.
But they might get us a grant of some kind to help it along. We'll see."

"The problem is ... me," interjected Charlie Faro. "There's no love lost between me and those guys. I got in the way of their plans to build the damn
Pyramid in the first place. But, I'll just stay in the background for a while and, Jim,
you go on and meet with them and do your dog and pony show."

Jim agreed and told the others he would fill them in after meeting with the mayors. It took a little time for the mayors to fit Jim into their schedule but about two weeks later he met with them, told them about the idea, and got their verbal support. They especially liked the idea that visiting performers in the Pyramid might be invited to the club before or after their performance, and would end up having a cameo on the private eye TV show. That would give nice added national exposure for Memphis. They would see if the Council and County Commissioners could be brought on board and cough up at least a modest amount of money to move things forward.

Meanwhile, Monroe was calling some of his venture capital friends soliciting the money to produce the pilot. And Jade flew out to Hollywood to learn more about the business and how to get some real pros involved.

Charlie Faro got a phone call one-day. "Charlie, this is Jeff Bailey. You don't know me but I heard about this TV show you and Jim Jade are cooking up and I think I can help you. I'm a friend of Cybill Shepherd and she's always looking for good ideas to keep her career going. I can get her to sit down with you guys and
maybe she'll provide some front money. 'Course she'd want to be an Executive Producer, and have a role in the show. You remember she even played a private
detective in that ‘Moonlighting’ series?"

Faro said "How come you know her?" "That's between me and her," Bailey joked. "No, seriously, she and I just bumped into each other at a party here. And you know she's the kinda gal I really like bumping into. Anyway...we got very close to each other for a while and we're just friends now. So, you wanna have her in the

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mix?
"You're damned right I do. Is she in town now?"
"No. But she will be next week."
"All right. Jim will be back from Hollywood then, we'll all get together."

That settled, Faro relaxed and called Manny to update him, then ran into Barlett in the bar and filled him in. Things were working out!

In Hollywood, Jade was learning how creative things worked. It was tough.
The big studio bosses, the powers-that-be, resisted new ideas, scared they would some day be accused of stealing another person's work product. So, he returned to Memphis with a different approach in mind.

He needed someone who knew Hollywood up close and personal and when he heard that Cybill might be involved, he cried "Eureka! She's just the gal we need," he told Faro. "She can get in to see the right people. Darn right she can be
Executive Producer. Hell, we can have 3 or 4 of them. That's the way they do it these days."

Cybill met with Jim and Charlie and Johnny and Manny. They had a long conference at the Peabody up on the Executive Suites floor. Cybill was working on her fourth Margarita holding it smoothly in her perfectly manicured hands -- Jim thought -- if he was still counting right. She was handling booze like a vacationing Shriner. After his fourth scotch on the rocks, he leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, feeling his butt go numb. It tingled like he'd been sitting on a heating pad with a faulty ground wire. He knew when he stood up that he'd have to take it easy until the blood returned. Unless he wanted to fall on his face in front of everyone and get razzed about drinking more than he could hold. It reminded him of the first time he drank a big bottle of Olde English 800 ale while having dinner at home with his wife. She had to pour him into bed. Anyway, everyone had too
much to drink. But they thrashed things out. Cybill was on board.

The project went swimmingly from then on. Between Manny's venture capitalists, a few bucks from the city and county, and Cybill's checkbook, enough
money was provided to produce the pilot.

All the stories they'd heard about Cybill being a diva bitch, very much like Martha Stewart - whom she'd played in that TV movie - turned out to be totally
untrue. She was regal, sure. But she had earned the right to be. And she was smart! She knew where all the bodies were buried in LaLaLand. Miss Shepherd shepherded the pilot through to completion in just a few months. Well -- 9 months actually. "Kinda like giving birth to a baby," suggested Johnny. "Oh, no." replied Cybill. "That's a lot tougher!"

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They held a preview screening at the new Malco Paradiso theater in east Memphis on Labor Day that year. Pure coincidence. But those in the know had a private laugh. And the show got rave reviews from all the locals. Then it got on the air on the Showtime Channel a couple months later.

The national TV reviews? Charlie Faro sat back in his new office reading them. And smiled. They were just as good.

The "Pyramid Club" had arrived.

-- end --


copyright 2004 david f. diamond

An Ode to a Christmas Fulfilled

I'm alone. It's Christmas night. Some family members will be coming tomorrow evening for a few day's visit. I'm flipping back and forth between "The Sound of Music" and "American Perspective" on C-Span featuring CBS's Don Hewitt of 60 Minutes fame and Benjamin Bradlee of the Washington Post talking about the rather sad state of news today -- in both print and broadcast.

I'm reminded of the soldiers questions about why the media doesn't cover the good things our guys are doing in Iraq. And I know the answer. It doesn't bleed -- so it doesn't lead. And usually it doesen't even make it to the inside pages. Or the tail of the newscast. Where are the editors and news directors heads? Don't they realize the responsibility they have to help us solve this problem with the Muslim world? We may have to spend a couple of decades dealing with this. It's not just some crazy Bush idea. We can't just walk away from it. Think about it.

Then I'm listening to Julie Andrews singing "These are a few of my favorite things." And I'm reminded of the goofy doggerel I sent to our local newspapers a week ago as a letter to the editor -- which they haven't used yet. I wrote:

Bagels and bongos and bright shiny baubles
Kiddies and girlies and drunks with the wobbles
Radio Flyer red wagons and blings
These are a few of my favorite things.

Prayers to heaven and good news each morning
An officer stops me and gives me a warning
People who love me and cars with no dings
These are a few of my favorite things

When the dog barfs, when the cat bites,
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember the good things I've had
And then I don't feel so mad.
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Our town is now graced by the presence of David Gest, the promoter who was married to Liza Mnelli -- but is now involved in an ugly divorce and they're suing each other I believe. He has moved to Memphis 'cause he loves the town and promoted a concert here a couple weeks ago as a benefit fund raiser. He promised to use the proceeds to provide senior citizens or homeless folks with Christmas Dinner at their choice of half a dozen restaurants around town. The media reports he's had an inquiry from the Tennessee Secretary of State's office wondering why he didn't apply for a permit to raise money for charity.

Well, as an old time talk show host and skeptic of all things, I had to test his bonafides. So I went today to one of the eateries -- the world famous Corky's Barbecue place. And said the magic phrase "I'm David's Gest!" Voila. They served up a platter of baked beans, spaghetti and a sandwich piled obscenely high with pulled pork and coleslaw. A diet Coke and a brownie for dessert. It all tasted fine, though the spaghetti and barbecue were on the cold side. Even that was ok, as there was too much to eat. So I asked for a to-go box. Which was provided. For some strange reason I had imagined I would get Turkey and dressing, cranberry sauce and the usual trimmings. But then, I realized Corky's had their specialty and -- that's what they served.

One other recent story about Gest added to my skepticism about him: A contractor who did a couple hundred thousand dollars of renovation on his river-bluffs home is suing Gest 'cause David won't pay. Well, we will see.
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I like Steve Allen's mind. He wrote so many books. I am just now reading his "Vulgarians at the Gate." The subtitle is "Trash TV and Raunch Radio. Raising the Standards of Popular Culture." I think it was his last book. And since he wrote it, the vulgarians have gotten through the gate and are sitting in our livingroom nightly. I think the only way to persuade the corporate types who care more for profit and rising stock prices, than for their own children's culture and safety, is to shame them publicly. And repeatedly.

For example, there needs to be a cadre of fearless concerned citizens willing to pay the consequences for throwing a cream pie in the face of the CEO at some public event. Making sure good quality videocams are recording the action, and a news release is at the ready to explain this shameless/shameful conduct. I'm not suggesting that we need a Taliban-type society. But, clearly moral values have gone by the wayside in the quest for the almighty dollar. And shaming these corporate leaders over and over may be the only way to get it into their thick skulls! Remember this is just a "For example." Maybe you have some better ideas.

Diamond Digest Add #1 -- 12-25-04