The Revelations of Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey Book 3) (3 page)

“You told Pauly you didn’t see her?”
My face burned.

Katy looked at Pauly like she would’ve
stabbed him with her fork if she could’ve gotten away with it. She turned to me
and said, “I told you I didn’t want you opening with that song because you’re
perpetuating this whole thing in your head. Robert Johnson had hellhounds on
his tail, not you.”

“Trail,” I corrected her.

“Whatever, Preston. You have to learn
to separate who you are on stage from who you are with Pauly and me. I know you
feel like you have an image to maintain, but trying to live up to it is
stressing you out. You can’t be two different people. Most of us have a hard
enough time being one. Your drinking is borderline out of hand and the not
being able to sleep is from the anxiety of touring and writing. Not
hellhounds.”

“You know,” I said, pushing my plate
away, “I had people tonight wanting to grab a drink with me after the show. And
I wanted to join them. They paid money to see us and I feel like I let them
down.”

I raised my finger to let them know I
had more to say because if I didn’t either one of them would’ve jumped in. “And
I’ve never been subjected to as much scrutiny and ridicule as I have been since
last March. I never had people call me ‘fraud’ or ‘carpetbagger’ until the
record came out. Accusing me of being disingenuous. Accusing me of ‘riding my
student’s coattails’ or ‘appropriating Appalachian culture.’ You know that all
those statements are from reviewers, right?”

“Bloggers, Preston. Big difference.
Remember that. And I told you to stay off Twitter, didn’t I?”

“Doesn’t matter. When we were playing
Motley Crüe covers at Squares or The Stink we never got this kind of shit.”

“No,” Pauly said. “It sucked even
worse. People fucked with us all the time. They threw shit and heckled us.
Playing at China Palace #1 and having people tell us to shut-up because we were
giving them indigestion. Playing down at the riverfront—remember that? You
said, ‘What do you want to hear for an encore?’ and that guy yelled, ‘You.
Drowning.’ It ain’t all exactly how you remembered, Preston.”

I held up my hands and tried to wave
him off. “You can’t compare because we weren’t playing our own songs. My songs.
Anymore I don’t know if I can even trust what people are telling me. When the
record came out I got a hundred phone calls from people wanting to buy me a
drink and asking if I wanted to hear their demo. People from high school who
wouldn’t look at me twice if they saw me walking up Pleasant after leaving
Mick’s. So I understand that the hellhounds on my trail aren’t really
hellhounds. Believe it or not I’m not stupid. But when I sing that song I’m
thinking about the fact that my life isn’t my own and things are happening in a
way I can’t quite control. Can you give me that? Please.”

“Preston, how much control do you
think any of us have over our own lives?”

Katy took my hand and put it onto her
lap. She ran her little fingers down mine, calming me while she talked. “I
didn’t start living until I gave up on the sure thing. Until I decided to dream
this dream with you the world felt like a very dark place. Sometimes I feel
like I’m flying. Sometimes I feel like I can look down on all those people who
are too afraid to follow their dreams and I want to reach out to them. But I
know if I reach out to too many, they’ll just pull me right back into the
darkness.”

She rested her head on my shoulder. “It’s
been a phenomenal year and it’s winding down. Think about how excited you got
when you heard we could book studio time in Muscle Shoals or when you heard
Hatch Show Print could print posters for the show tonight. You’re here. We’re
doing it. And it’s really hard right now because we’re at the end of the first
part of this long trip. People are going to talk and criticize. But fans are
going to still come out and adore everything we do. I bet you could talk to a
hundred people and thirty will hate The Beatles. So you can’t worry about stuff
like that.”

“Yeah. I got you. No more ‘Hellhounds
on My Trail.’”

“Every time you close a door or burn a
bridge you’re pushing yourself toward something greater.” She sat up, then
faced me. “Besides, not everybody gets to fall in love with their best friend.”

As a peace offering, Pauly said, “You
guys should go back to opening with ‘Strawberry Fields.’”

“Feels like it’s time to move forward,
doesn’t it?” Katy stood up and kissed the top of my head. “You guys pay, and we’ll
leave when I get back.”

I watched her walk to the bathroom. I
could watch her walk just about anywhere.

Pauly said, “She’s right. Your dreams
are coming true, even if you don’t totally see it. Muscle Shoals? Skynyrd and
the Allmans? You kidding me?”

“You need to join us, man. I don’t
know why you won’t. I used to stay up all night dreaming about this kind of
stuff with you right there. This is for you too. You busted your hump as much
as me or Stu or anybody.”

“No, Pres. You booked the gigs and
found money to advertise and buy strings and a new PA. You taught me the bass
lines for all our new songs. You kept gas in the Jeep. Don’t think for a second
I feel like I’m missing out on something. You guys deserve this, and I’m more
than happy doing what I’m doing now. Driving. Being on stage for three or four
songs. I’m very happy and I’m very happy for you.” He waved for more sweet tea
and said, “I have to hit an A.A. meeting anyway. Then I’m going to see a buddy
of mine near the Tennessee River in Versailles before heading home to take care
of bills and wash clothes. We’re going to fish for a day or two.”

I said, “One song so you get an album
credit?”

“My sponsor says I can’t.”

“How’s that different than joining us
onstage?”

“My sponsor says I can’t get in the
frame of mind that I can make a living doing this. Driving the truck pays the
bills and keeps me insured. It’s a real nice living.”

“Yeah, I got you.” I set my phone on
the table and checked for texts again. But Pauly looked at me like he knew and
I hurried up and put my phone right back in my pocket. My face must’ve gotten
red because my cheeks felt warm.

“Still waiting for John Lennon to get
back to you?” He didn’t look at me when he said it. He swirled the ice around
the bottom of his glass over and over again. “You and this devil shit. Look at
where it’s gotten you with these church people. Is this really what you want
your career to be?”

“I don’t believe you.” My heart fell.
I reeled to find a way to defend myself.

“Somebody ran you off the road and put
you in the hospital. I remember that night like it was last night.”

He threw his knife and fork onto his
plate and pushed it all to the clean part of the table. “Yeah, and my BAC was
twice the legal limit when it happened. I practically had more vodka in me than
blood. And the car was covered in salt and ash. It could’ve been red under all
that crud for all I know.”

“What about how I paid for Mick’s
Caddy? You know I didn’t have that kind of money.” I tried to monitor my words
while the waitress came over to clear the plates. I didn’t want her knowing my
business, and the fact that I didn’t want her knowing planted a tiny seed of
doubt into my head.

“Want me to call Mick and ask him? Let
all that go. The devil? Hellhounds? Same shit, different year. Except this time
you’re going to bring Katy down with you. Checking your phone for texts from
John Lennon and Joe Strummer? C’mon, man.”

“I can’t believe I ever told you any
of that.” And it was true. I felt like an asshole for opening up to him about
those things. “I only told you because I’ve never kept anything from you. I
thought it could make things right after everything that happened.”

“Well, you need help. When you snap
from all the shit in your head at least somebody will be able to tell the
doctors what you had flowing through your brain before you went over the edge.”
He pulled thirty bucks out of his wallet and set it on the table. “I got dinner
tonight.”

I studied his face for a long time.
Finally I smiled and said, “Fuck off, Pauly.”

CHAPTER TWO

A
thousand rocks to make a road, and still I go alone,

A
thousand more to build a bridge, a union made of stone,

A
thousand more to raise a dam, though the river wants to be free,

A
thousand more has the mountain, and the mountain will always be.

“Small Stones”
Music and Lyrics by Katy Stefanic and Preston Black

“Katy,
you sure I’m not dead?”

Everywhere I looked there were
guitars. Suspended above doorways. Painted onto buildings. Onto doors and
windows. Instead of honking horns and grumbling busses I heard music. In the
air I smelled bourbon and BBQ.

“What makes you think you’d end up in
heaven, Preston Black?” The bright light streaming down from the
robin’s-egg-blue sky suited her. Her skin glowed prettier than it ever did
beneath a spotlight.

It felt as if God created a town where
people like Katy and me were queens and kings. Instead of a hardware store,
Broadway had Gruhn Guitars where I could just pop in and buy a bottleneck slide
any old time I felt like it. Instead of a pharmacy, there was Ernest Tubbs’
Record Shop, a hole in the wall selling legacy and tradition as a cure-all to
whatever ailed a weary soul. Where Morgantown had clubs with well drinks and
wet T-shirts contests, Nashville had The Stage on Broadway and Layla’s
Bluegrass Inn and Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge and Legends Corner, where folks could
step up to a bar with real music and dreams on tap. Instead of churches they
had the Ryman. If man had ever created a more suitable place for talking to
God, I’d never seen it. I’m sure Nashville had more than a few real churches
scattered around, but they were right to hide their faces from The Ryman.

And instead of a newspaper, they had
Hatch Show Print to tell the folks all about the most important comings and
goings in town. An honest-to-God letterpress where people spread ink onto
rollers and pulled levers by hand. The walls were covered with the likes of
Patsy Cline, Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Muse, Wilco, Bill Monroe and His
Bluegrass Boys, Mumford and Sons, B. B. King, John Legend, and on and on and
on. Posters hung everywhere—I couldn’t see an inch of bare wall that hadn’t
been covered. Even the bit beneath a set of stairs that angled up to the
ceiling had posters tacked to it. On the opposite side were shelves absolutely
drooping with the weight of thousands of plates from artists long-forgotten to
radio and TV. Posters hung to dry on clothes lines strung from shelf to shelf.
No matter where I turned I saw The Avett Brothers or Willie Nelson from the
corner of my eye. Every breath I took filled me with that magical air, and I
knew that my voice would sound better than it ever had, if only for a show or
two, from having breathed all this in.

“Doesn’t it feel like we belong here?”
I lifted the carton of posters off the floor and tucked it under my arm. Our
posters. Posters that had been printed especially for little old Katy and me.

“The universe knows when you want
something. And whether what you want is good or bad, the universe is going to
give it to you.” She carefully placed my Hatch Show Print stickers into the
little Gruhn Guitar bag with my picks and new bottleneck slide. She bent over
to scratch the belly of one of the shop cats—a chubby little orange guy with
bright green eyes.

I held the door open for her and
turned, hoping to catch Brad or Jim’s eye just to give them one last little
wave or a thank you, but they were back at the presses. Back to work.

Down the street I saw our shiny white
rental van, our home for the last few weeks. My feet wouldn’t move though.
“Should I tell Pauly to come up and see?”

“We’ll be back, Pres.” She grabbed my
hand and pulled me down the sidewalk.

As soon as Pauly looked up I let go of
Katy’s hand and slid a poster out to show him. He reached across to unlock the
door, and I passed it over to him before setting the rest in the back.

While I got in, Pauly studied it and
even sniffed the ink like when the teacher passed out fresh Dittos back in
elementary school. He said, “Pretty good, I guess,” and nothing more.

“Brad said they used the same type for
that Johnny Cash.” I pointed at the iconic poster displayed in the shop’s
window as I pulled the door shut. “But they use it in a bunch of others too, of
course. Looks nice, huh?”

“Looks real nice, bro.” He reached
over and turned the radio off.

I felt like Pauly could’ve acted a
little more excited even if he had to fake it. If I would’ve known he’d poop
all over my parade I would’ve kept my mouth shut. So I bit my lip for a second,
decided not to let him bring me down, and said, “We’ll put some on the merch
table and what we don’t move tonight we’ll sell online. You should’ve come in
with us. Brad gave us a tour and showed us how to set type and everything.”

“Wish I could’ve been there,” Pauly
said in a tone flatter than a buckwheat cake. He looked over his shoulder then
studied his mirror before pulling onto the street. He got up a little speed,
looked over to his right, and said, “So that’s where Margaritaville’s at?
Thought Buffett lived in Key West.”

Since I didn’t know whether or not he
was being serious, I ignored the comment. “How did the A.A. meeting go,
anyway?”

“Pretty good, I guess.”

And I’d always have that discussion as
my parting memory of Broadway. A little part of me ached to stay and it pissed
me off that I had to cater to Pauly’s whims all because he was doing us a
solid. I vowed right then and there to never have to owe anybody ever again.
Maybe the road had worn me down a bit, but I decided if I couldn’t afford
somebody, I didn’t need them. I’d drive the van, do our own sound. We could
sell merch online for all I cared. The knot in my belly killed what remained of
our morning in Nashville.

“I went and filled up too. Gas is
outrageous anymore.” Pauly drifted left, depriving me of a last good look at
The Ryman. “Sometimes it’s tough feeling good about going to meetings on the
road because you don’t know anybody. One of the old-timers talked about
gratitude and how you express it through action. I never heard that before and
kind of liked it.”

“That’s great, man.” His apathy ate at
me and I tried real hard not to say anything, especially after all that crap in
Louisville.

He inhaled, like he had something else
to say, then released his breath without saying anything. Riding in silence
suited me just fine. I looked for the river and the stadium where the Titans
played, but Pauly’s driving disoriented me.

Once we hit the interstate, Pauly
said, “There’s something else I wanted to talk about more than anything.” He
cracked his window in anticipation of lighting a smoke. “I mentioned the
incident at the show last night when I shared. They knew who I meant
.
It’s not Westboro Baptist. They said this group’s
real militant, which we knew.”

Pauly drove on, letting the news hang
for a minute or two. “They call themselves Circuit Riders. The leader is a guy
named Zebadiah Boggs. They are big in Tennessee. They mainly run in Alabama,
Georgia and up through Kentucky to West Virginia. Boggs used to be a Texas
lawman before he got reprimanded for using traffic stops as opportunities to
witness. So he enlisted in the Army after the attack on the American embassy in
Kenya in 1998, figuring he’d have a chance to kill Muslims. But he got into too
much trouble and got something called a ‘Big Chicken Dinner’ for bad conduct.
Bad conduct discharge? Guess that makes sense. Anyway, he’s supposedly trying
to convert or kill ten thousand heathens. Homeland Security calls them a legit
domestic terror threat.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, it ain’t good, bro. His
right-hand man rode with the Pagans for years before becoming a government
snitch. Albert Gallatin Ashby—A.G. for short. He got busted up in Rocky Point
for helping distribute coke and oxy. Got saved in prison. Boggs picks his guys
based on tests of Biblical faith. Like how the Bloods and Crips have to shoot
somebody in broad daylight or whatever? Boggs is into stoning big time. They
have to murder a witch or an adulterer or some other kind of non-believer.”

Katy spoke up for the first time. “Did
he say witch specifically?”

Pauly nodded.

“Hypocrite,” she said. “Doesn’t he
know that Leviticus specifically prohibits tattooing?”

“I don’t know, Katy. Sorry.” He looked
in the rearview when he spoke to her. “You can ask him when you see him.”

“Maybe we can get them to change a
bunch of water into wine tonight?” I tried to blow off the severity of the
threat by making light. But Pauly’s words had heft.

“I’m just saying they’re legit. They
are the ones responsible for sending those nail bombs to all those abortion
clinics a few years back. Then Hicks’s church sheltered the fugitive on its
property while the manhunt was on. Like Katy said, his old man has camps and
farms and warehouses in all these old towns down here. The guy that told me
this used to be a federal agent. Said they’re very slippery.”

“Well, they can protest and pray all
they want because eventually that’s going to be more publicity for us.
Especially if the media paints us as an underdog. Just wait.” I cracked my
window and watched the rest of Nashville fly by. Cars and trucks filled with
people that got to call this place home. I could see me and Katy living here
one day. “Where we headed? I want to get back to the club and forget about this
shit.”

“Can’t go back to the club yet. Going
to take you guys to lunch. Prince’s Hot Chicken. Saw it on the Food Network.”

Katy piped up. “Oh, no. I can’t eat
anything hot and get phlegmy before tonight. What else is there?”

“You can get mild, your worship.”

I smiled because Pauly did his best
Han Solo impersonation. Trying to lighten the mood.

“Take me back to the club then and
we’ll order something,” she said. “You wanted pizza, right? So bad you couldn’t
stop talking about it all night.”

“We’re already on this side of town so
let me at least run by and pick up some for myself.” Pauly stammered a bit when
he said it, and that gave him away. And he knew that I knew.

I said, “What is it? No fucking
around.”

Pauly checked his mirrors, crossed an
empty lane of traffic and rolled his window down. He raised his voice over the
road noise and wind. “Can’t go back to the venue. Not right now anyway.”

Katy looked way more agitated than I
felt, and said, “Why not?”

“When I dropped the trailer off the
manager said they got a bomb threat.” With an apologetic shrug he popped a
cigarette into his mouth, lit it and inhaled deeply. “I guess technically you
guys got the bomb threat.”

He blew smoke out of the window and
took another deep drag. He held it, exhaled it then threw the cigarette onto
the highway. He rolled the window up, shook his head like he didn’t really want
to say more, and muttered, “The bomb squad has its dogs there now.”

I
hid my face in the clean white towel.

They were all still back there, no
matter what I did. I could hear them. Over the faint hum of my in-ear
monitor—IEM—I could hear people from the audience headed to the bar, out to the
street to smoke. They were bored. And I felt like a coward for letting Katy
hang out there by herself while I regrouped. Smoke from some real kind bud
floated up to the stage. I closed my eyes and inhaled as much as I could.

Pauly’s voice buzzed to life in my
IEM. “You’re getting slaughtered.”

Laughing, I adjusted the earpiece to
make like I couldn’t hear him. I found him off in the back behind the mixing
board and mouthed, “You want to join us.”

He laughed into my IEM and turned his
little desk lamp off.

So I shrugged, pointed at my amp, then
my earpiece and pointed down. I twisted the old Fender Twin’s volume up to
about seven and a half to really juice the tubes. Hot static dripped onto the
floor like melting wax. I let my Tele feedback for a second before stepping
right back to the mic.

“A minor,” I said to Katy, before
busting out an angry pentatonic riff, rocking a steady chugging low G that I
hammered onto A over and over again. Some of the guys in the crowd recognized
“Whipping Post” immediately. “Hold back for a few measures though.”

She didn’t like the improv. And I knew
I’d hear about it later. But we were losing these guys, fast. Probably all the
extra security on the way in. The cops on horseback. People loved having their
shit searched before a concert. Waiting in line for an extra forty minutes.
Fuck
those protesting pricks out front
. I let the crowd talk for a minute,
letting word get around.

Just wait
, I thought,
smiling, making eye contact with the fans right up front,
I’m
about to turn this motherfucker right on its ear
.

I stepped up to the mic. In my head I
rewrote “Rocky Top” for tonight’s crowd. I sang the verse in a monotone that
mirrored the staccato bursts of noise from my amp. For a second I could’ve
sworn somebody tossed firecrackers into the room the way they got to their feet
and smiled.