Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders (42 page)

First Jimmy had to assume Eddie wanted Tammy dead.
 
And so far he’d heard two possible reasons for
that.
 
Second, since Eddie knew Tammy was
hypersensitive to MSG, Jimmy figured that after bringing some Chinese food home
from Memphis, Eddie dosed the
leftovers with Uncle Randy’s Meat Tenderizer before leaving to play the
Coast.
 
He knew Tammy would eat it while
he was out of town, would get a terrible headache, and take the only headache
remedy in the house, which Eddie knew was poisoned because he had poisoned
it.
 
It was nice and neat except that
Eddie would be considered the prime suspect notwithstanding the fact he was out
of town at the time of her death.
 
So how
would he get around that?
 
The answer was
simple, if macabre.
 
What if Eddie killed
the others to make it look like there was a serial killer roaming the South and
that Tammy was just one of several unfortunate victims?

“Jesus H. Jones,” he muttered.
 
“This is fabulous.”
 
Not only did this give his theory a good
shape, but Megan was sure to leave the bastard when she heard this.
 
She might even look to Jimmy as the guy who
saved her life.
 
How could she not come
crawling back after that?
 
Jimmy looked
at his calendar.
 
The Mississippi
Coliseum in Jackson was the last
stop on the
Long Shot
tour.
 
If Jimmy couldn’t reach Megan sooner, he’d be
able to tell her then.

Jimmy wheeled over to the computer to start writing up his
conclusion but, with his fingers poised over the keyboard, he suddenly realized
there was still a flaw in his argument.
 
It was about the size of the hole that .22 left in Tammy’s head.
 
Where
the hell did that come from
, he wondered.
 
Eddie couldn’t possibly have done that.
 
Jimmy thought of the Robert Altman film
Cookie’s Fortune
and considered the possibility that someone (Mr.
Teasdale?
 
The mystery
lover?)
had
fired the shot for reasons Jimmy
couldn’t fathom.
 
But he quickly realized
the reasons didn’t matter except as a bizarre side note since he knew,
according to the coroner’s
report, that
Tammy had died
from the poison.

But the gunshot wound was only one of the problems.
 
There was also the matter of the sodium
fluoroacetate.
 
It wasn’t exactly a
commonplace product and Jimmy had never been able to show Eddie had access to
the stuff.

Jimmy put his hands over his face.
 
Shit.
 
He just wanted to prove it.
 
Or
disprove it.
 
He didn’t care which.
 
He just wanted something definite instead of
all the circumstantial stuff leading to all the maybes.
 
Jimmy started to rub his temples.
 
All this crap was giving him a headache.
 
He got up, went to the bathroom and looked
for an aspirin, an Advil, Tylenol, anything but a Dr. Porter’s Headache Powder.

71.

While back in Nashville Big Bill met with
the people from the Country Fanfare Awards.
 
They agreed to make the presentation of the
Tall Cotton Award at the midpoint of the show.
 
Prime time network television exposure was expected to boost record
sales by 250,000 units.

Franklin would
have been at the CFA meeting except that he was busy negotiating a million
dollar endorsement deal for his hot young client.
 
The next day it was announced in the trades
that Eddie was the official spokesman for a new Internet company specializing
in MP3 file protocol management emulation software, whatever the hell that
was.
 
Everywhere Franklin
went these days, he was getting the respect he craved, and not just for the
deals he was negotiating.
 
He was
beginning to get some credit for his association with the record itself and he
loved it.

After being back in Nashville
for a week, Big Bill and Franklin packed their bags and headed for Los
Angeles where Eddie was scheduled to play the Greek
Theater.
 
It was show number twenty-five
and it had been sold out for weeks.
 
The
special services departments at all the major talent and literary agencies had
pulled all available strings to get every last ticket for their VIPs.
 
It was the toughest ticket since the Lakers
were in the championship.

Big Bill put on the dog for the show at The Greek.
 
He knew the place would be slithering with
celebrities, so he stepped out of the limo wearing his thousand dollar black
cherry brush-off full-quill ostrich boots with the black cherry brush-off goat
top, the thirteen inch full scallop, and the #1212 stitch.
 
He had a special pair of jeans, tailor made
to give him the ‘relaxed’ fit his big round ass required.
 
He wore a leather fringe vest over a brightly
colored Brushpopper bib shirt with pearl snaps.
 
He topped the whole ensemble off with a silver belly El Patron from
Stetson.
 
He looked like the Pillsbury
Doughboy dressed as the Grand Marshall for a cartoon rodeo.

And he didn’t even stand out.

The whole crowd was a spectacle of western raiment.
 
Stars from the television, film, and
recording industries were there in full country regalia, from thousand dollar
Stetsons to boots made from rare Speckled Burmese Lizards.
 
Back in the cheaper seats the fashions were
more authentic among L.A.’s vast population of displaced dust bowlers, bible
belters, and Texas panhandlers, most of whom were working on screenplays
featuring hard-luck bull riders, struggling farmers, or legendary SEC football
players.

Backstage, Franklin
was strutting around in his favorite pair of natural marked Tejo lizard boots
with the black
kidd
top along with his usual dark
slacks and sports coat.
 
He wore a gaudy
silver and turquoise medallion over his black turtleneck.
 
Though not normally a hat guy, he was
sporting a black Resistol Lancer with a custom red and green feather
headband.
 
The boots hurt his feet, so he
had turned to vodka to get him through the night.
 
He was enjoying a Bloody Mary while talking
to a young agent.
 
“Well, as of this
afternoon,” Franklin said, “the
thing had sold nearly 3 million units.
 
It’s an answered prayer, no other way to characterize it.”

“That’s fabulous,” the young agent said.
 
He gently took Franklin’s
arm, leading him away from other ears.
 
“The reason I ask is
,
I have a client, very
talented singer songwriter.
 
He’s not
working out in pop music and I think it’s because he’s too country.
 
Now, I think with the right producer, and by
that I mean you — no offense to Big Bill, he’s a certified giant — but I
think your sensibilities might be perfect.”

“I’d love to get a tape,’ Franklin
said coolly, “because it happens that I’m looking for a project to work on
right now.”

72.

Megan and Eddie were off in a corner talking to a
development executive from one of the studios.
 
“Let’s see,” Megan said, “‘Potholes’ is still at number one.
 
‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way’ was down
to number six or seven this week, but it tied the record for most weeks at
number one.”

“That’s fabulous, congratulations,” the development
executive said.
 
“Listen, I know I should
probably talk to Herron and Peavy first, but I just have to ask, have you
considered film?
 
Your smile is pure
cinema, and I’m not just saying that.”

“Actually,” Megan said, “Herron and Peavy just manage
Eddie’s recording career.
 
I’m his
manager for all other media.”

“Terrific!
 
The reason
I bring it up is I just read coverage on a wonderful script about a kid who
gets a football scholarship to the University
of Georgia but he has to leave the
struggling family farm to do so.
 
Unfortunately he loses a hand in a combine accident his last day on the
farm, so he loses his scholarship and ends up on the rodeo circuit as a hard
luck bull rider.”

“Interesting,” Megan said.
 
“Sort of
North Dallas
Forty meets
The Grapes of
Wrath with a little

“Absolutely,” Eddie agreed.
 
He glanced over the film executive’s shoulder.
 
“I’m
sorry,
would you
excuse us for a minute?
 
We’ll talk more,
but I just saw someone I have to speak to.”
 
Eddie put his arm around Megan and led her away, whispering in her ear.
 
“It’s time for a toot, sweetie, I’m starting
to flag here.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” she said.
 
“Listen, you want me to pick up another eight
ball for the rest of the tour?”

73.

Big Bill was watching them from across the room.
 
He stepped over to Franklin who excused
himself from his chat with the agent.
 
Big
Bill gestured at Eddie and Megan.
 
“My
little speech didn’t seem to take,” Bill said.

“Yeah, well he’s handling it okay for now.
 
Has he written anything since Oregon?”

“Two songs, both filler, and weak at
that.”

“Damn.”
 
Franklin
gulped some bloody Mary then let out a sigh.

The two men stood there, silently contemplating their
situation.
 
After a moment Franklin
noticed Big Bill’s expression brighten.
 
“You know,” Big Bill said, “it just occurred to me we have a great song
for Eddie.
 
A big hit
in the mid-seventies.
 
Perfect for him to cover.”
 
He smiled broadly and slapped his hands together.

“And it’s ours?”

Big Bill nodded.
 
“Remember ‘Good Old Daze’?”

“The Carson Fletcher song?”

“That’s the one.”

Franklin looked
vaguely confused.
 
“I thought we only had
half the publishing on that, with what’s his name, uh, Buddy Glenn.
 
Whatever happened to him?”

“Buddy hit a rough patch,” Bill said.
 
“I understand his wife passed away a couple
of weeks ago.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, tragic.
 
But the point is we got all the publishing
now and
it’s
good damn song.
 
Perfect for Eddie.”

All the
sudden Franklin
could hear it in his head.
 
“I think
you’re right.
 
The thing was never too
twangy.”

“It was really just a pop song with country lyrics and a steel
guitar,” Big Bill said.
 
“Always reminded me of Pure Prairie League.
 
Country radio’d probably jump on it.”

Franklin
nodded.
 
“Well,
good
.
 
We got a song.
 
Now all we need is about nine more.”

“Excuse me.”
 
Herron
and Peavy turned to see a beautiful young woman.
 
“Hi,” she said.
 

“I’m Heather Brown with Country Weekly Magazine.
 
Could I ask you two a few questions?”
 
Big Bill and Franklin kindly obliged,
answering the usual questions about how the tour and record sales were
going.
 
They also lied about the great
songs Eddie was writing for the next record.
 
“I really appreciate your talking to me,” Heather said, wrapping up her
interview.

“Our pleasure, ma’am,” Franklin
said with a tip of his hat.

Big Bill looked around cautiously then subtly gestured at
the young reporter.
 
“Heather, can I ask
you something off-the-record?
 
I figure
if anyone knows about this, it’s someone with connections like yours.”
 
He leaned toward her and lowered his
voice.
 
“Have you heard anything about an
unauthorized biography on Eddie that’s about to be published?
 
I heard it was coming from one of the big
houses in New York.
 
Supposed to make some wild
allegations.”

Heather looked surprised.
 
“I haven’t heard anything, but I’ll definitely look into it.”

“If you hear anything,” he said, handing her his card,
“please call me.
 
I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll let you know,” Heather said before turning to leave.

Franklin and Big Bill slipped away from the crowd to
continue their private conversation.
  
“Where’d you hear about a biography?” Franklin
asked.

“Rumor somebody asked me about a half hour ago.”
 
Big Bill gestured across the room at no one
in particular.
 
“Some guy over there, I
forget who he said he was with, said he’d heard something about a book on
Eddie.
 
It was bound to happen.”

“I suppose.
 
So how
much time should we give Eddie before we go outside?” Franklin
asked.
 
“For songs, I mean.”

Big Bill shook his head.
 
“I hate to do it, but why don’t we listen to some tapes, if we find some
things we like, we can put a hold on them.
 
If Eddie comes up with something in the meanwhile, we’re not out all
that much.”

Franklin slugged
down the rest of his drink.
 
“God, I hate
not having the publishing.”

74.

It was late Tuesday night.
 
The last customer settled his bill and slipped into the dark Nashville
night.
 
Estella had gone home, leaving
Otis to close the place.
 
He was in the
kitchen, making his dinner.
 
He dipped
his hands gently into the big bowl of milk and paprika to gather the
shrimp.
 
He let the liquid drain through
his fingers, waiting patiently so gravity could do its job.
 
He laid the soaked shrimp onto the big board
with the spicy flour and carefully dredged each one, like tucking them in for
bedtime.
 
When they were ready, Otis put
them into the wire basket and lowered them into the fat.