Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders (44 page)

In his twenties, Jimmy started attending events there as a
member of the press.
 
Consequently he
knew just about everybody who worked the shows.
 
As soon as he heard Eddie’s tour was wrapping at the Coliseum, Jimmy
flashed his credentials and received a backstage press pass.

He got there about two hours before the show was scheduled
to start.
 
With the tour buses parked in
the back, Jimmy wandered around chatting with old acquaintances, taking photos,
and waiting for Megan to show herself.
 
He was talking to one of the concert promoters when she entered his
field of vision.
 
She was barking at a
roadie and she looked great doing it.
 
She wore a Wrangler shirt unbuttoned at the bottom and tied in a knot to
reveal her pierced belly button and hip-hugging jeans.
 
She had half a dozen shiny Montana
Silversmith bracelets on both wrists, and her wild red hair was just visible
under a Stetson Caldwell.
 
Jimmy couldn’t
help but stare.

The moment he saw Megan, Jimmy felt the surge of whatever it
was she always triggered in him, like the involuntary secretion of some
powerful hormone.
 
He wondered what the
hell was wrong with him.
 
She treated him
like crap.
 
Why couldn’t he get over
her?
 
She was an addiction.
 
He had a Jones and he wished it would
stop.
 
A possible title for his unwritten
song popped into his head: Doesn’t anyone have a cure for this?

When she finished with the roadie, Megan turned and saw
Jimmy.
 
She stopped dead in her tracks as
if she was about to pretend she hadn’t seen him.
 
But then she perched on her tiptoes, faked a
surprised smile, and called out his name.
 
“Jimmy!
 
Haaaay!”
 
She rushed over and gave him a little hug and
an air kiss.
 
“How
are
you?
 
You look
great.
 
Have you been working out?”
 
She acted like Jimmy was someone she had
dated twenty years earlier instead of being the guy she’d snuck out of town on
in the middle of the night not too damn long ago.

“I’m good, thanks.”
 
Jimmy paused.
 
He wanted to let
her know how much she’d hurt him but all he could think of was that day in Vicksburg.
 
And suddenly all he wanted to do was find a
way to make that happen again.
 
“How’re
you doing?
 
You look great.”

“Ohmigod, you wouldn’t believe.
 
This has been the wildest tour,” she said as
though she’d been on a dozen others.
 
“Thirty-five shows in forty days, sound system problems in Spokane,
Teamster problems in Bakersfield,
blahblahblah.
 
It’s endless, but it’s
been great fun.
 
But
what about you?
 
What have you
been up to?”
 
Megan suddenly put a hand to
her cheek.
 
“Ohmigod, are you still
working on the book?”

Jimmy told her he had spoken to Big Bill about it.
 
“He made it pretty clear he’d never let Eddie
sign a contract to let me do the official biography, so I decided to go the
unofficial route.”

“That ass.”
 
Megan indignantly stomped one of her cowboy
boots.
 
“You wouldn’t believe that
fucking dinosaur.
 
I can’t
believe.
. . you want me to talk to him?
 
I bet I could—”

“Too late,” Jimmy said.
 
“I’ve already got a publishing deal for the one I’m writing.”
 
He looked at her lips and remembered the
sweet bourbon kisses.

“Ohmigod!
 
Congratulations!
 
I knew you’d do it.
 
Didn’t I tell you you were a good
writer?
 
That’s great, Jimmy.
 
When’s it due out?
 
I can’t wait to read it.
 
Can we get an advance copy?”
 
She sniffed slightly and discreetly pinched
her nose.

The depth of Megan’s insincerity finally crushed Jimmy’s
fond memory.
 
He folded his arms and
looked her in the eyes.
 
“You know, I
tried to call you after you moved, but your number’s unlisted.
 
I wanted to tell you about the book.”

Megan looked to the ground.
 
“I know, I’m sorry, Jimmy, I just, well, I got the job in Nashville
and we were, well, you know…”
 
She
reached over and gently touched his arm, as if confirming her sincerity.
 
“I should’ve called, but, I know, I’m
terrible.”
 
She looked up to see if Jimmy
had a forgiving look on his face.
 
He
didn’t.
 
He was looking at her as if he
thought she ought to continue talking about how terrible she was.
 
But Megan didn’t have all day and she sure
wasn’t going to stand around groveling for no good reason, so she returned to
her perky showbiz demeanor.
 
“But tell me
about the book and your deal, I am so
excited
for you.”

“I found out some things about Eddie.”
 
He paused.
 
“And about how Tammy died.”

“Really?
 
What kind of things?”

“I think he killed her.”

Megan looked at Jimmy blankly for a second.
 
“What?”
 
Like she misunderstood.

“And two or three other people.”

Megan looked at Jimmy in all seriousness.
 
“Are you crazy?”

Jimmy went through all the evidence, piece by piece.
 
“I tried to come up with alternative
explanations, but nothing else works.
 
I
think you should leave him.
 
He’s not the
guy you think he is.
 
He’s not the guy I
thought he was.
 
And
its
a pretty safe bet if you dig Tammy up and ask her, she’ll say he’s not the guy
she thought he was either.”

Megan looked genuinely shocked.
 
“I don’t believe you, Jimmy.
 
I mean, I can understand you being jealous,
but this?
 
This is what’s in your
book?”
 
She looked up at the ceiling for
a moment then back at Jimmy.
 
“Nobody’s
going to publish a bunch of, I don’t know, it’s
all.
.
. coincidental evidence.”

“Circumstantial.”

“Whatever.”
 
She
lowered her voice and wagged a finger at Jimmy.
 
“Nobody is going to publish a book accusing a major star of murder based
only on circumstantial evidence.”

“I got the contract,” he shrugged.
 
“Deal’s done.”
 
He couldn’t help it.
 
He had to say it.
 
“Got a six hundred thousand
dollar advance.”

Megan’s face went slack.
 
First she learned that she might be sleeping with a murderer,
then
the boyfriend she left for the murderer announced he’d
signed a six hundred thousand dollar book deal.
 
Talk about your bad judgment.
 
“Jimmy,” she said disapprovingly, “I am so disappointed.
 
After what we had, all we shared, this is how
you pay me back?”

“I didn’t realize we’d been engaged in a transaction.”

She rolled her eyes.
 
“First of all, Eddie’s a killer?
 
Puh-lease…”
 
She shook her
head.
 
“You know you’ll get sued all over
hell and half of Georgia
if you published that nonsense.”

“You’ll have to talk to Atlas Publishing about that,” Jimmy
said.

Megan’s face suddenly softened.
 
She seemed to be thinking,
then
she smiled.
 
“Wait a second.”
 
She put her hands on her hips and cocked them
to one side.
 
“Ohhh, this is so sweet,”
she said.
 
“You want me to leave Eddie so
bad you’re willing to come in here with this silly story?”
 
She made a ‘tsk’ sound with her tongue and
teeth.
 
“You are so adorable.
 
You’ll find someone else, don’t worry.”
 
Megan glanced at her watch.
 
“Listen, I’ve got to go check on some stuff,
but it was great to see you again.”

As Megan turned to leave, Jimmy grabbed her arm and fixed
her with an incredulous stare.
 
“Exactly
what part of ‘serial killer’ don’t you understand?”

77.

There were a couple of things Big Bill didn’t
understand.
 
One was how Eddie had lost
the ability to write a decent song.
 
Forget about great songs, Big Bill would have been satisfied with a
pretty good one, something that didn’t stink would’ve been nice.
 
For the last thirty minutes he’d been sitting
on the bus listening to Eddie’s two newest songs, both co-written with
Megan.
 
He put his finger on the ‘stop’
button of the cassette player and pressed so hard the plastic snapped.

The other thing he didn’t understand was a recent ruling in
a Nashville civil court tripling
the monthly amount of alimony and child support he was required to pay.
 
His ex-wives had banded together to petition
the court for higher payments in light of Big Bill’s recent windfall.
 
The court handed down the ruling faster than
you could say
just when I was getting
ahead
.

All things considered, Big Bill knew he was a lucky
man.
 
He’d produced a hit record late in
his career — and a huge one at that.
 
He
had his name on the best selling debut record in history and even if Eddie
never wrote another decent song, it looked like Big Bill would have a little
money for his Golden Years.
 
At least
that’s how it looked before the lawyers showed up.

While it would be nice, Big Bill thought, if his three
ex-wives suddenly died, he didn’t think the odds favored such an exceptional
event happening without his involvement, and he just wasn’t up to that.
 
But was there something he could do to get a
good song out of Eddie?
 
The publishing
money on the next record alone, well, Big Bill hated to think about not having
it.
 
But he knew he’d rather go out with
a good record he didn’t control the publishing on than a bad one he did.
 
It was a close call, but that’s how he felt.

Still, he thought
,
if he could get
Eddie to write at least one good song for the second album, Big Bill would be
satisfied.
 
Then no matter how much money
his ex-wives bled him for, he’d be fine.
 
All he needed was to figure out a way to make that happen.
 
He thought about it.
 
First of all, he knew time was an issue.
 
Between the tour and the brutal media
schedule Megan had arranged, Eddie hadn’t had time to write.
 
With the tour over, that problem would be
solved.
 
Next, Big Bill knew he had to
get Megan out of the room while Eddie worked.
 
As a songwriter, Megan was somewhere between useless and a complete
idiot.
 
But Big Bill knew that trying to
remove her from the process would lead to conflict and maybe to a power
struggle that he could lose, so the remaining question was how to solve that.

Something in the back of Big Bill’s mind started to push
forward.
 
He began thinking about the
conversation he had with Eddie the second night of their recording
session.
 
They were in Big Bill’s kitchen
talking about the difficulties of songwriting in general when Eddie made a
comment about what had led him to write ‘
It Wasn’t Supposed
To
End That Way.’
 
Big Bill
remembered Eddie saying the song came to him as a result of the tragic death of
his wife.

Big Bill squinted as he considered the implications of
Eddie’s comment.
 
After a few moments,
Big Bill’s pinched, pug-like face settled into a smile.
 
In fact, he almost chuckled when he had the
idea.
 
It was a
kill-two-birds-with-one-stone idea.
 
He
knew it was appalling but at the same time it was perfect, or close to it.
 
He mulled it over for a moment and decided,
what the hell, I’m only gonna get one superstar client in this life.
 
I have to protect it.
 
Of course I’ll have to be careful.
 
But all things considered, it’s worth the
risk.
 
He nodded his head slowly.
 
It’s time to put the hammer down.

78.

Despite her doctor’s orders, Estella fried herself up half a
chicken for lunch.
 
But I took off most of the skin
was her rationale.
 
She balanced her plate with the usual side of
potato salad and some slices of white bread.
 
She sat at a table near the kitchen, said grace, and then, as they say,
she crammed it in with both fingers and stomped it down with both feet.
 
No question about it, Estella could put it
away.
 
When she was done, her belly was
tight enough to crack a tick on.
 
She sat
back and let out a long satisfied sigh.

A few minutes later Estella got busy cleaning the place the
way she always did.
 
She pushed all the
tables to one side of the restaurant and swept up before she started to
mop.
 
Estella kept the place
spotless.
 
Her name was over the
door.
 
She was proud of it.
 
She kept the cleanest linoleum in Nashville.
 
And she sang while she worked.
 
Somebody once said Estella had a voice like
finely tuned V-8 engine.
 
Otis always
gave her a solo slot during his shows and people always ended up comparing her
to Aretha.
 
There was talk of a solo career
and Estella let herself dream big dreams.
 
But things never quite worked out and Estella had been carrying that
with her ever since.
 
A chance so close
she could touch it.
 
But Otis went to
prison and Estella had to let the dream go.
 
It still ate at her.

Estella was about halfway done with the floor when she
pulled up short of breath.
 
She figured
she was just putting too much elbow grease behind that mop.
 
She pulled up a chair to catch her breath and
let her stomach settle.