Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders (46 page)

81.

Big Bill knew he lacked the gumption to do what his plan
called for.
 
He also knew better than to
have any hands-on connection to the thing.
 
He required outside help and, given his history in Nashville
there was only one person in town Big Bill could trust.
 
He picked up his phone and punched in the
number.

Franklin was
sitting in a booth at the Pancake Pantry in a fine mood.
 
Ever since the end of Eddie’s tour Franklin
had been getting the sort of respect he felt he deserved.
 
In the ten minutes he’d been seated at the
Pantry,
a half
dozen music industry veterans had
stopped by his table to pay respects.
 
He
was pouring cream into his coffee when his cell phone rang.
 
“Franklin Peavy.”

“Hey, it’s me,” Big Bill said.
 
“Got a minute?”

“Sure,” Franklin
said.
 
“What’s up?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking,” Big Bill said.
 
“Thinking about how you played such a critical
part in getting Eddie signed, and getting his endorsement deal, and working out
the merchandising contract, and, well, it occurred to me that if anybody in
this town was on their toes, they might just try to lure you away from the
company.”

Being an experienced attorney, Franklin
sensed a good opportunity to distort the truth.
 
“Well, I’d be lying if I told you I hadn’t had a few interesting
offers.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Big Bill said.
 
“But I can’t afford to lose you, so I’ve got
a proposition I hope might interest you.”

“I’m listening.”

“I want to talk to you about co-producing Eddie’s next
record.
 
Me and you, whaddya say?
 
It’s gonna be a big record.”

Franklin was
speechless.
 
This was huge.
 
It meant a ton more money with the producer points
he’d get plus a producer credit on what might turn out to be one of country
music’s most important records.
 
What a
way to cap off a career.
 
“I think it’s a
great idea,” Franklin said.

“Long overdue,” Big Bill replied.
 
“So let’s talk about it.”

“Great.
 
Your office or mine?”

“Tell you what, uh, things are so crazy around here these
days, let’s meet somewhere we won’t be interrupted.
 
Say, Owen Bradley Park in an hour?”

82.

As a favor to Chester,
Otis called over to Herron & Peavy and spoke to Franklin’s
assistant.
 
He explained he was trying to
track down a client of theirs.
 
“I
believe his name is Whitney Rankin.” Franklin’s
assistant said Whitney worked at the South Side Smoke House.

Chester got
there as the lunch hour was starting.
 
He
sat at the bar and ordered the meat-and-three and a beer.
 
He hadn’t been there five minutes before
Whitney walked out of the kitchen with a big tray of food held over his
head.
 
It took Chester’s
breath away.
 
He knew the instant he laid
eyes on the
boy, that
was his son.
 
And he was a fine looking young man.

Chester watched
as Whitney carried the tray of food over to a table full of young office
workers.
 
He was tall and lanky and moved
with an awkward grace.
 
He wore
Wranglers, a black t-shirt, and a worn pair of black Tony Lama ropers.
 
Chester
noticed the ragged piece of red bandana around his wrist.
 
He smiled at his long dark hair.
 
It reminded him of Whitney’s mother.
 
His face was innocent, narrow, and boyish,
but not without troubles.
 
Chester
could see a whisper of himself in Whitney’s face and he watched his every move
and strained to hear his voice, but he was too far away.

Chester ate his
lunch then sat there for an hour watching his son.
 
He wanted to go over and tell Whitney who he
was but he knew this was neither the time nor the place.
 
He wanted to put his arms around his boy and
tell him how sorry he was for what he’d done — or more specifically, for what
he’d failed to do.
 
More than ever Chester
felt the guilt that had dogged him all his life.
 
He was ashamed, not because he’d failed as a
singer, but because he’d failed as a father.
 
He’d walked out and left a young boy and his mama to fend for themselves.
 
He was a coward, or worse.

Chester also
wanted to know about the song.
 
He had no
doubt it was the one he’d written for his son all those years ago.
 
It wasn’t that Chester
felt he was owed anything for it.
 
But
since Big Bill Herron had his name attached to it and Whitney was in Nashville
toting pork ribs for tip money after the song had gone to number one, well, Chester
knew someone had been fucked and he knew from experience it wasn’t Big Bill.

But as much as Chester wanted to go over and say something,
wanted to ask him a million questions and tell him how ashamed and sorry he was
and how he didn’t deserve to be forgiven after what he’d done, Chester couldn’t
bring himself to do it.
 
He didn’t think
he deserved to satisfy his own desires at the expense of his son, so he just
put some money on the bar and slipped away, happy for having just seen the boy.

83.

Franklin took
his time.
 
He sat there and enjoyed his
waffles, his bacon, and his coffee.
 
He
was enjoying everything these days.
 
He’d
been asked to be the key note speaker at several important record industry
functions.
 
There was talk about a
profile in
Nashville Magazine
.
 
And, if he wasn’t mistaken, that attractive
marketing executive at the label had been flirting with him.
 
Yet despite this parade of blessings, Franklin
refused to believe his luck.
 
No matter
how dazzled he was by his newfound celebrity, Franklin
knew Big Bill wasn’t inclined to feeling charitable even in the best of
times.
 
He suspected there was more to
his generous offer than he was letting on.

Franklin reached
into his pocket and pulled out his digital recorder and made sure the memory
card was clean.
 
No matter what else, if
Big Bill was going to make him a bona fide offer to co-produce Eddie’s next
record, Franklin was damn sure
going to get it on tape (so to speak).

Owen Bradley Park was at the north end of Music Row, a five
minute drive from the Pancake Pantry.
 
Franklin
parked on

“Hey now!”
Big Bill said when he
saw Franklin.
 
“Thanks for coming.”

“You
kiddin’?
 
Your invitation was too tempting to ignore.”

“Good,” Big Bill smiled.
 
“Real good.”
 
He gestured for Franklin to
sit and they settled down on the bench together.
 
Big Bill looked towards downtown.
 
“Nice day, huh?”
 
Franklin
nodded.
 
It wasn’t too hot.
 
There was a slight breeze and the blue sky
was busy with billowy clouds drifting toward Memphis.
 
Big Bill took a deep breath and exhaled
peacefully as he gazed at the clouds.
 
“It’s been quite a ride, so far, hadn’t it?”

“You mean the whole thing or just the Eddie Long part?”

“Whole thing,” Big Bill said, spreading his arms wide.
 
“But especially the Eddie
Long part.”
 
He clapped his hands
together, turned to his partner, and winked.

“Can’t argue with that,” Franklin
said with a cock of his head.
 

“What’d we move this week, three hundred fifty thousand
units?”

“In that neighborhood.”

“Yes sir, a helluva ride,” Big Bill said.
 
“Whole thing’s got me thinking a lot lately
about how you and
me’ve
pretty much spent our entire
professional lives together.”
 
He shifted
in his seat to speak more personally.
 
“Now I know we hadn’t always got along great and we’ve passed some words
now and then, but I figure that’s just business and it doesn’t rightly signify
the respect we have for each other.”
 
Big
Bill’s eyes swept the park then settled on his partner. “Look,” he said, “let
me just put this on the front porch.
 
Way
I see things is we got two problems standing between us and a prosperous
future.
 
One is the fact that Eddie’s run
dry with his songs.”
 
Big Bill paused
before continuing in a tone of disgust.
 
“The other’s that damn Megan Taylor.”

“I don’t disagree,” Franklin
said, “but what’s that got to do with me producing Eddie’s next record?”
 
He leaned slightly closer to Big Bill to make
sure the tiny microphone could pick up every word.

Big Bill nodded, understanding Franklin’s
concern.
 
“Don’t worry, I meant what I
said.
 
I want you to co-produce Eddie’s
next record with me, use that damn ProTools or whatever you wanna do.
 
But if we don’t do something about Megan, and
in a hurry, we might not be in a position to be makin’ any more records.”

“I’d like to see her try.
 
We’ve got a solid contract.”

“I know, and you write as good a contract as can be
written.
 
But she’s got him all fucked up
on the cocaine and he still hasn’t written a single song I’d put on anybody’s
next record, much less his.
 
Hell,
ours
!
 
You want to be co-producer on a record that flops?”
 
Franklin
shook his head.
 
Big Bill gestured
vaguely towards Belle Meade.
 
“The bitch
is probably
back
at their house right now filling him
with all sorts of ideas about how he needs to sue to get out of our deal and
hook up with some young, hip manager, and all things considered I think we’d
all be better off without her in the picture.”

Franklin wasn’t
surprised at the pitch so far.
 
This
wasn’t the first time he’d heard Big Bill talk about driving a wedge between an
artist and an outside advisor unsympathetic to the goals of Herron and Peavy.
 
“What’re you proposing?”

“Well, like I said, I think we got two problems, and I had
an idea that just might solve both of ‘em.”
 
Big Bill’s expression suddenly grew dark.
 
“You might think I’m crazy — and I damn well
might be, but you remember how Eddie said he wrote ‘
It Wasn’t
Supposed To
End That Way’ after his wife was killed?”
 
Big Bill waited for that to sink in before
continuing, hoping it would brace Franklin
for what was coming.
 
“I think the key
here for this is we got to give him some…” he lowered his voice
,
 
“
… emotional
turmoil.”
 
He gave a look of
I-didn’t-come-to-this-decision-lightly before continuing.
 
“He’s got a huge hit record and he’s fixin’
to be honored at the CFAs, he knows he ain’t got a trouble in the world.
 
So I’m thinking we have
to.
. .create some.”

“Emotional turmoil.”
 
Franklin’s
expression changed, as if he could all the sudden sense where this was going.

Just as suddenly Big Bill had second
thoughts, unsure if
Franklin
’s expression conveyed approval or not.
 
“Now this is just talk, mind you,” Big Bill
said, hoping to inoculate himself against what he was about to say.
  
“Just some ‘what ifs.’”

“I understand,” Franklin
said.
 
“Now
what if
you just tell me your idea.”

“All right.”
 
Big Bill looked around the park.
 
They were alone.
 
He leaned toward his partner and said, “The
girl has to die.”
 
He said it right into Franklin’s
pocket.
 
It was only when the words
actually came out of his mouth that Big Bill truly embraced the callousness of
his idea.
 
“Think about it,” he said with
a salesman’s enthusiasm.
 
“First of all
it gives Eddie the emotional turmoil he needs to write a decent song or
two.
 
Secondly, it gets her outta our
hair for good.
 
And the
publicity?”
 
He waved a hand in
the air.
 
“The outpouring of public
sympathy for a man who lost his wife and now loses a lover?
 
Betcha dolla that’ll sell
some records.”
 
A pained
expression quickly clouded Big Bill’s face.
 
“Course there’s no guarantee that just ‘
cause
we kill her Eddie’ll write a good song, but at least it guarantees that we’re
back in control of the client.”

Franklin sat
there, his head nodding slowly.
 
He was
thinking about the nature of ideas.
 
Where do they come from
?
he
wondered.
 
It must be like this for songwriters.
 
You can be sitting around talking about one
thing when BAM!
an
idea about something entirely
different forms in your head.
 
Franklin
couldn’t help but smile.
 
The idea he’d
just had was a doozy.
 
It had an
immediate million dollar payoff plus a series of long-term payments that would
elevate Franklin to the tax bracket
in which he felt he’d be most comfortable.

Big Bill interpreted Franklin’s
smile favorably.
 
He also figured since Franklin
hadn’t responded to the idea with a gasp or an indignant speech they were still
on the same page.
 
He tapped his
partner’s arm with the back of his hand.
 
“Obviously it can’t be me or you since it’s not exactly our line of
work.
 
But I figure we can hire somebody
to do it and I thought you
might.
. . know somebody.”