Many Idahoans who knew Paul B. Larsen knew him as a Realtor. Newspapers spell that word with an upper-case "R" because it's a trademark, but I'd do it in his case even if it weren't. He was an upper-case guy.

Larsen, who died Oct. 27 at 99, was a prominent Boise businessmen when I was growing up here. His name was on radio, TV, signboards. He was an officer in important organizations, a member of the exclusive Arid Club and was said to have sold more hotels and motels than any real estate broker in the country. He played golf with J.R. Simplot.

This was the formidable, no-nonsense businessman my father propositioned with what must have struck him as one of the most wild-eyed schemes ever to cross his desk.

The originator of the scheme was a teen-aged me. My life then was playing in a rock group, and we'd just been fired from our one regular gig in Boise for starting late. We'd driven halfway across Oregon in a blizzard to get there and were only half an hour late - which we thought was almost heroic - but there was no arguing. Our best job was gone.

I was moping around thinking the world had ended when an idea struck. It was bold. It was genius. It was perfect.

We would re-open the Fiesta.

A second-floor ballroom at 6th and Idaho, the Fiesta had been the most popular dance hall until until its closure a couple of years earlier. It was an old Arthur Murray Dance Studio, run as a teenage ballroom by a businessman named Mel Day.

The next evening found me in Day's living room, pleading with him to reopen.

Judging by level of his enthusiasm, you'd have thought I'd suggested a fun bus to Idaho Falls. He made it clear that there was no way in heaven or hell he was getting back into the dance business.

"But you might talk to Paul Larsen," he said. "He owns the building."

Paul Larsen? The real estate magnate? A big shot like him leasing to some scruffy rock group? Right.

It took several days to work up the nerve to call him. It was pretty much a one-way conversation, mostly involving stammering on my part, but it ended with a scintilla of hope.

"Ask your Dad if he'll sign the lease," he said. "If he will, make an appointment to see me."

Persuading Dad took some doing. He, after all, was the one who'd be liable if we failed to pay the rent, or some drunk got thrown through a window (this happened), or worse.

On the other hand, Dad was a businessman himself. I think he half-heartedly hoped it would launch me on a business career. Whatever his hopes, we met with Larsen, who couldn't have been nicer. The lease was signed; life was good again.

Dad's role ended with his signature, so we really were about to get an education in running a small business. It was up to us to sponsor and advertise the dances. We had to pay bills, hire cashiers, cops, a bouncer, clean-up crew and people to sell soft drinks. Not to mention endlessly practicing to have new songs ready every Saturday night. It was a big commitment for a bunch of high-school kids.

Life eventually teaches us that dreams seldom come true, and often only partially when they do. But this one exceeded all expectations. On opening night, the place was jammed. We paid the bills for the month and had money left over, a happy circumstance that lasted until weddings and draft notices ended the ride 18 months later.

It was the most money any of us had ever seen. We had dresser drawers crammed with it. But the money was secondary. For a band, nothing is like playing for a big, enthusiastic crowd on a night when the group is really clicking, which is why some of us are still doing it all these years later.

One of the more unusual memories from those days is of a distinguished-looking man standing near the back of the ballroom. He seemed ancient compared with the dancers around him, but then he would only have been in his late 50s.

My guess at the time was that Larsen had come to see whether his faith in us was justified. I prayed that no one would give our mercurial bouncer an excuse to throw someone through a window, but nothing bad happened. The man just stood there, saying nothing, wearing an enigmatic smile. Then he was gone.

Only after his death did I learn that as a young man he played in "Paul's Dance Band."

"It was a big band," his son-in-law, Ron Thurber, said. "They traveled clear up into Canada."

That would explain his surprising readiness to lease a valuable Downtown building to a bunch of kids. Maybe in us he saw himself in his youth.

I never saw him again, which is a shame because his faith in the boys we were led to one of the best times of my life. If it were possible to defy death and get a message to him, it would be simple and heartfelt: Thanks for saying yes.

Tim Woodward: 377-6409