BEHIND THE CURTAIN BEHIND THE CURTAIN BEHIND THE CURTAIN (13 page)

“You don’t seem the type.”

He was suspicious, but I was standing on solid ground. “Didn’t you ever hear of Dave & Pete, my bluegrass band in college? Or Bobby Williams and the Loco-Motives? I was a Loco-Motive,” I said.

He never questioned the Garth Brooks
’ invitation but was instead skeptical about my country music credentials. I felt confident because on this point I was actually telling the truth. Besides, how could I have made up a name like Bobby Williams and the Loco-Motives? So I moved in to close the deal. “Maybe we can hang out in Nashville,” I said. I was hoping against hope he would ask me to join Dennis
and him for something—dinner, lunch, breakfast, the CMA rehearsal, the CMA show itself—anything.

Yet another long pause.

“Dennis
and I are flying to Nashville on a charter jet. It’s an eight-seater. Plenty of room. You should come with us.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I had to force myself not to overreact by accepting too quickly: “You’re too generous. Are you sure?” I asked.

“I’m not being generous. The CMAs are paying for the jet. Besides, Dennis
likes you. It’ll make our trip more fun.”

“Well, if you insist. . . .” He told me to show up at noon the next day at the AMR-Combs Terminal at John Wayne Airport in Orange County. I was familiar with that airport, as I had booked many helicopter flights there for Dennis
.

Then I hung up the phone and sat there in a stupor. I wasn’t really sure what had just happened. I couldn’t have made up a better scenario. And just to be safe, I didn’t cancel my flight to Nashville.

Now it was time to deal with Debbie
. I wasn’t sure she would like my new plan, but Mr. Gut was. He reminded me she was usually cheerful on Monday mornings before the crises of the week started piling up.

Debbie
had a larger-than-life personality, even though I don’t think she was taller than five foot four. She was a sharp dresser. Uniquely classy, never flashy. A little country, actually: cowboy boots, high-end jeans, and western shirts. We had a lot in common. She was from Kansas, born and raised in Wichita and a graduate of the University of Kansas. I attended graduate school at Kansas State University and once was a television farm reporter in Wichita.

My relationship with Debbie
was complex. She was both a friend and a boss. Great as a friend: caring, protective, lovable. Intimidating as a boss: tough, demanding, smart. She yelled at people as loudly as she laughed with them, sometimes all in the same conversation. A perfectionist, she was hard on people but harder on herself than anyone else. Everyone, including Jay, knew she was just as responsible for the show’s success as Jay.

The Hollywood trade magazines have annual articles on the hundred most powerful women in Hollywood. There are many similar lists (most powerful men, directors, agents, producers, etc.), but everyone in town understands that you don’t get on a top-100 list unless your people have lobbied for it. In other words, you only get on the list if you put yourself out there. As the executive producer of the number-one late night program since 1995, Debbie
never made that list because she never sought the limelight. There’s no question she merited a spot not only
on
the list but at the top.

When I got to her office, she was in a Monday-morning mood and immediately embraced my new game plan. She thought it was funny. I was the token conservative among the producers, and I think she was amused that I was spinning a web that had the potential to get really tangled. She told everyone about my Nashville scheme. Mr. Gut was gloating and reminding me that I should listen to him more often. But I had a different take because I knew no matter how much scheming I had done, I couldn’t possibly cover every base. Something was bound to go wrong.

The next day I showed up at the hangar on time. Dennis
and Dwight
were late. I expected that, but half an hour later I started to get concerned even though the charter company assured me I was in the right place. Okay fine, but after an hour I was feeling queasy. Did they charter another flight? Did they decide to call it off and not tell me? Would I be waiting for Godot all day? They finally arrived an hour and a half late with no apologies.

I had been on charter flights before, but this one seemed strange. Three guys on a Learjet with eight seats, yet still I felt cramped. Dennis
was six foot eight inches tall. He looked like a giant, and I felt like a Lilliputian. Dennis
and I were friends, but he’s not much of a talker, so a five-hour flight with him had me feeling a bit out of my element. This was the extent of our conversation:

“Hey Dennis
, you doing okay? Are you cramped?”

“No.”

“Thanks for letting me come with you. This should be fun.”

“Yeah.”

Okay, now what? About an hour later I noticed Dennis
was reading about the NBA in the sports section of the
Los Angeles Times.

“Hey Dennis
, what’s going on with the Bulls?”

“Not much.”

“You guys should have a great season this year. How are the negotiations going?”

“Okay.”

Dennis
had not yet nailed down a contract with the Bulls for the 1997-98 season. In fact, it would be his best year ever. He was part of a basketball dynasty coached by the Zen master Phil Jackson
. Dennis
was the biggest name in basketball behind Michael Jordan
and was recognized worldwide. He was a great player to be sure, but his fame had as much to do with his bad-boy image and all its accoutrements, such as tattoos, nose rings, changing hair colors, and numerous outrageous outfits, including a wedding dress.

The Bulls would win their third consecutive NBA Championship that season. Not bad for Dennis
since it was his third straight year with the team. At the end of the season, he would have five rings and seven consecutive rebounding titles.

As an NBA superstar, he seemed to have everything the world had to offer. Yet there was a sadness and vulnerability about him, as well. In his book,
Bad as I Wanna Be,
released in June 1997, he admitted, “From the outside I had everything I could want. From the inside I had nothing but an empty soul and a gun in my lap.” I worried about Dennis
, but at the moment I was more concerned about myself. We were about to land, and I didn’t know what to expect next. I was . . . ah . . . flying by the seat of my pants.

“Where are you staying?” I asked Dwight
.

“The Renaissance Hotel. The CMAs are picking up four rooms, and we’re only using two. You can have one.”

Not bad for my first time as a spy, I thought. Plus the Renaissance wasn’t too shabby. After we checked in, Dwight
invited me to join them for dinner: “You amuse Dennis
. He really wants you to come with us.” Dennis
smiled.

“Okay,” I said instinctively and with Mr. Gut’s tacit approval.

Then Dennis
spoke up: “After dinner we’re going to a titty bar (strip club) and you’re coming.”

“That’s not really my style, but thanks for the invitation.”

“Oh no, Bro, you’re coming with us.”

“No, I don’t do that,”

“You do now,” Dennis
insisted.

“You heard what he said,” Dwight
said.

I have to admit, for a moment I was tempted. Mr. Gut loved the idea of going to a strip club with Dennis Rodman
.
You’ll never get this chance
again
, he insisted.
Besides, Mary would have to understand the demands of the job. Wouldn’t she?
But I was a guy who at least tried to do the right thing in my own flawed way. Dennis
and Dwight
knew that. If I had followed them to a strip club, they would never let me forget it.

“Let’s talk about it at dinner,” I said. I didn’t want to risk getting myself uninvited.

“All right,” Dwight
said. “Come to our room in fifteen minutes.”

When I got to my room, the first thing I did was call Mary to tell her what happened, and well, to bask in her expected adoration of my noble sacrifice as a husband. But she actually suggested in a teasing way that I accept Dennis
’ invitation.

Mr. Gut:
You idiot! She’s okay with the idea. I told you so.

Me
: No, she’s not. She was just joking.

That’s where I put a stop to Mr. Gut’s rants. That day, September 24, also happened to be our wedding anniversary. Not a good day to go to a strip club.

I called to update Debbie
and my fellow producers, who urged me to go even though they knew I wouldn’t. They thought this whole adventure was pretty funny. I, however, wasn’t amused at all. Dennis
could still pull any number of stunts, which I tried to impress upon Debbie
. She just laughed and told me she expected a full report on the strip club in the morning.

The story took a new twist when I knocked on Dennis
’s door and he didn’t answer it. Then I tried Dwight
’s door. Still no answer. So I called Dwight
. No response. “You have to be kidding me,” I said out loud. I knocked again, and called again. Nothing! I had lost control of the situation in fifteen minutes and felt completely helpless. Mr. Gut told me not to worry. Dennis
had a very short attention span and probably didn’t feel like waiting around for me, so they went to dinner. Sure, but Dwight
could have let me know. Red flag!

I updated Debbie
, who couldn’t believe I let them get away. She advised me to check every nice restaurant in town and, if that didn’t work, the strip clubs. I called my Nashville friend for help. “Impossible,” she said. Nashville had way too many nice places to eat, and even more strip joints. She recommended that I go to the Sunset Grill and at least try to enjoy myself. So I did.

It turned out to be a very homey place teeming with Nashville luminaries. I recognized many faces, and people were calling me over to their tables. I loved it. I finally settled in with a group of songwriters who had all heard Dennis
was in town and wanted to know why. I figured the more people who knew my “secret mission,” the more eyes and ears I would have to help me find Dennis
. Some of them even volunteered to go to the strip clubs with me, including the women.

Their curiosity
seemed inexhaustible:
Was spying part of my job?
No.
Who else had I spied on?
No one.
What was Jay
like?
Great.
Who was the best guest I ever worked with?
JFK Jr.
Who was the worst?
Lots of competition. Then someone asked me if I wanted to meet the people from Sony Records who were there in a private dining room. Duh!

I felt like I was being escorted into the holy of holies. There were about thirty people, all seated at a long table. I was introduced to everyone from the president of Sony to several of the company’s biggest artists. But one person captured my attention: the late Harlan Howard
, perhaps the greatest country songwriter who ever lived. At age seventy he looked fragile. With a shock of pure white hair and a big nose full of veins, he was sitting slightly stooped over. His years of hard drinking had taken a toll. I could tell the “Irving Berlin of country music” was a larger than life guy, and I wanted to meet him.

Most people outside of Nashville have never heard of Harlan
, but they knew his amazing songs, which totaled about four thousand. His hits included Patsy Cline’s classic “I Fall to Pieces,” Ray Price’s “Heartaches by the Number,” the Judds’ “Why Not Me,” and Ray Charles’ “Busted.”

When I was finally introduced to him, I froze. My mind was racing: What could I say to impress him? Should I bring up Dennis Rodman
? If he didn’t know the background, the story would be too complicated to explain. Should I say I was a big fan of his ever since I was a kid in Chicago listening to the Grand Ole Opry on WSM in Nashville? Or that I wrote and played country music? That would seem like I was kissing up. Then a story came to mind that I thought would really impress him, so I forged ahead: “I heard something about you that I have always wanted to know.”

“Shoot!” he said.

“A while back I was listening to Don Imus on the radio. He’s a big country music fan, as I’m sure you know.” Harlan
seemed interested, so I continued. “Imus was talking about divorce and how messy it can be. He’s been divorced twice. He said you had been divorced four times and claimed it wasn’t all bad. That you had also gotten four hits as a result,” I said, laughing.

But I soon stopped because Harlan
wasn’t laughing. Nor was anyone else. There was an uneasy silence that lasted an eternity. Where was Mr. Gut when I needed him? Drinking beer with the songwriters? That’s when I noticed the beautiful young woman sitting next to him. “Son, I would like you to meet my fifth wife, Melanie,” he said with a slight, wry smile.

“Nice to meet you, Melanie,” I said, uneasily. She smiled politely, but that didn’t make me feel any better. I had just made the biggest
faux pas
of my life, and there was nothing I could do about it. An apology would have been insulting. I wished I could just disappear.