Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders (21 page)

Franklin could
barely hide his contempt.
 
One of the few
things he and Big Bill agreed on was that it wasn’t their job to educate anyone
who wasn’t their client.
 
In fact, the
way they saw it, it was against the basic tenets of business to do so.
 
As far as they were concerned it was the potential
client’s responsibility either to learn about the business or to hire an
attorney to handle their affairs.
 
Otherwise it was in Herron’s and Peavy’s best interest to operate under
the assumption that the potential client was a competent party.
 
It was like football.
 
Each team arrives at the field assuming the
other understands how the game is played.
 
If one of them doesn’t, they get their butts kicked and learn a valuable
lesson for next time.

From a contract law perspective, Franklin
felt they were on solid ground.
 
If a
client didn’t know any better and felt like he got a good deal earning thirty
thousand dollars even when he could have earned a hundred thousand, well, in
Franklin’s experience the courts tended not to consider the adequacy of the
consideration in most contract situations, unless the difference was
startling.
 
Of course, for obvious
reasons, once Herron and Peavy signed a client it was in their best interest to
continue not educating them, lest they go back and read their contract.

Whitney flipped through the thick document.
 
“This looks pretty complicated.
 
You think I should get a lawyer to look at
it?”

“A lawyer?”
 
Franklin
pointed at Whitney.
 
“Absolutely.
 
Best thing you can do.”

Big Bill waved the waitress over.
 
“Sugar, could you bring me the Yellow
Pages?”
 
He passed the hors d’oeuvres to
Whitney.
 
“Have you tried these little
ham and goat cheese things?
 
Man
are
they good!”
 
He
picked up the bottle and refilled Whitney’s glass.
 
“And try ‘em with this wine.
 
It’s a great combo.”

The waitress returned with the phone book.
 
Big Bill opened it to ‘Attorneys’ and slid it
in front of Whitney.
 
He ran his finger
down a column of names.
 
“I know all
these fellas.
 
They’re all real
smart.
 
This ole boy went to Vandy with Franklin.
 
That one went to Ole Miss.
 
I betcha dolla there’s even a Harvard guy or
two in there.
 
And I’m tellin’ you, these
guys know their contracts.”
 
Big Bill
leaned across the table to share a secret with Whitney.
 
“But I tell you what, every last one of
‘em’ll charge you five grand just to tell you this is all standard stuff.”

“Five thousand dollars?”
 
He turned to Franklin.
 
“Just to read this?”

“Up front.”
 
Franklin
shrugged.
 
“That’s pretty standard.”
 
He held the appetizers out to Whitney.
 
“Care for another?”
 
Whitney ate another one and gulped some more
chardonnay.
 
It was starting to taste
pretty good, especially with the salty ham and cheese things.

They ordered their dinners.
 
The waitress talked Whitney into the pan-seared catfish with okra and
fig chutney.
 
Franklin
got the pasta with crawfish and andouille in a heavy cream sauce.
 
Big Bill ordered prime rib with the crabmeat
topping then held up their empty bottle.
 
“Honey, could you bring us another one of these?”

Franklin took
the contract from Whitney, turned back a few pages and pointed at a long
obfuscating paragraph.
 
“Here’s the most
important part of this as far as you’re concerned.
 
The standard songwriter royalty for Herron
and Peavy clients is five percent.
 
Of
course after a little success, we’ll negotiate that up, but
for
starters you gotta admit, that’s good money
.”

Whitney looked unsure.
 
“Five percent doesn’t seem like much.”

“You’d be surprised,” Big Bill said, picking up his
pen.
 
He took the contract, turned it
over and started doing the math.
 
“Say
you sell a million records at an average price of, well, let’s just say ten
dollars to make the math easy, right?
 
I
mean otherwise you gotta go through the calculation of suggested retail list
price, recoupable advances, packaging deductions and all that, so five percent
of ten dollars is fifty cents, right?
 
Times a million units is half a million dollars.”
 
Bill circled the $500,000 several times for
emphasis.
 
“Can you imagine?
 
The heck would you do with five hundred
thousand dollars?
 
And that’s just one
record.”

“Wow.”
 
Whitney smiled
and shook his head.
 
He’d never allowed
himself to think such thoughts, and now these guys were telling him it was not
only possible, but they were making it sound like it was more likely than
not.
 
Whitney didn’t know what had him
feeling better, the wine or the endless promises, so he slugged down the rest
of his chardonnay and urged them on.

Big Bill refilled Whitney’s glass while Franklin
flipped the contract over and turned to the back.
 
“Have you already got a personal services
corporation set up?”
 
He made it sound
like this was something every songwriter should have done a long time ago.

“No sir.
 
You know, I
just got to town and
. .
.is that something where I
just go down to the courthouse and fill out some forms?”

Big Bill pushed the Yellow Pages back in front of
Whitney.
 
“Any one of these fellas will
help you set it up.
 
Probably cost
another five or seven thousand, no more than that.
 
But most of our clients save the money by
running their income through our corporation since we already got it set up for
that sort of thing.”

“Well that makes sense,” Whitney said.
 
“It sure does.”

The waitress brought their dinners and, before long, a third
bottle of wine.
 
Herron and Peavy eased
off the contract talk while they ate.
 
Instead, they regaled Whitney with ribald tales of country music
celebrities.
 
Big Bill ticked off the
names of famous players and singers who were serious cocaine and heroin users,
then
Franklin
shocked Whitney with news of the sexual orientation of one of the industry’s
biggest stars.

Whitney stared drunkenly at Franklin,
his mouth agape.
 
“
He’s.
. . gay?”

“Queer as a blind guide dog,” Big Bill said.

“But I read where he was datin’ that TV actress.”

Big Bill arched his brows.
 
“Oh yeah, we got some fine public relations firms here in Nashville.
 
Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”

Later, as the waitress cleared their plates, Franklin
rolled the contract into a tight tube and wagged it at Whitney.
 
“Think about this,” he said.
 
“We want to sign you and we’ve only heard two
of your songs.
 
You know how many other
artists we’ve signed after hearing just two songs?
 
None.
 
Not a one.
 
Now that must mean we see something in you we don’t see in others,
right?”

“I got a whole lot more than just those two,” Whitney
said.
 
“If you want, we can go back to my
place and I can play some of the others.”
 
Whitney wondered if they were ever going to ask him to sign the
contract.

Big Bill ordered brandies all around.
 
He was surprised Whitney hadn’t offered to
sign the contract yet.
 
Most newcomers
signed before dinner was brought to the table.
 
Big Bill swirled his brandy around his snifter for a moment, then looked
up.
 
“Franklin,
show him page eight.”

Franklin flipped
through the contract.
 
“This is something
else we don’t do very often,” he said, pointing to the clause in question.
 
“We’re prepared to offer you a one thousand
dollar signing bonus if you’ll let us manage and produce you and publish your
songs.”

Whitney took a deep breath.
 
He couldn’t believe it.
 
“You’ll
pay me to be my manager?”
 
He could get
his truck out of hock and get his boots fixed with that kind of money.
 
He smiled and started to think maybe he’d
come to the right place after all.
 
“Where do I sign?”

31.

It was another sleepy, dusty Delta day when Jimmy arrived in
Quitman County.
 
He had lunch with two of Eddie’s childhood
friends,
then
met with his high school algebra
teacher.
 
After that he went to see two
of Eddie’s former employers.
 
There was
no one at the Hegman farm where Eddie used to help out during harvesting, so he
went over to the Lytle’s property.
 
Lamont Lytle said Eddie had been a good worker, tending their small
peach orchard.
 
“He mostly did pruning
and fertilizing and keeping the bugs away,” Lamont said.
 
“Some folks don’t like that kind of work, but
Eddie didn’t seem to mind.
 
And I’ll tell
you, we never lost much crop when he was here.”
 
Mr. Lytle said he wasn’t surprised to hear Eddie had moved to Nashville.
 
He pointed to a rickety out-building down by
the grove of peach trees.
 
“That boy used
to set down there by the tool shed and play his songs whenever he was waitin’
on me.
 
He’s got talent, they ain’t no
question ‘bout that.”

Jimmy went to take some photographs around the old tool
shed.
 
Inside were ancient rusting shears
and rakes and peach picking tools.
 
A
thick network of spider webs connected everything.
 
Rat traps were stacked high on the shelves
next to a dozen old brown glass gallon-size bottles and some big rusty cans
containing an array of pesticides and fertilizers and other tools of the
trade.
 
Jimmy noticed a beam of sunlight
blooming through the colored glass, casting amber light on an old pair of boots
with high Cuban heels.
 
He took a couple
of shots of that and several from the exterior before heading
off
 
to
track down the
public records on Tammy’s death.

The County Clerk’s
office and the Sheriff’s Department shared a new, one story brick building with
thick tempered glass windows and good air conditioning.
 
Walking in the front door Jimmy could smell
fresh paint and caulk that was still curing.
 
Behind the counter was a small, skinny man wearing a maroon knit polo
shirt.
 
Jimmy introduced himself and
explained why he was there.
 
The man
looked at Jimmy with suspicion.
 
“So,
what is it you want?”

“I just need to take a look at the coroner’s report and the
death certificate for Tammy Long,” Jimmy said.
 
“She died about—”

“Oh,” the man interrupted.
 
“That’s something you need, is it?
 
Not just something you want, but need.”
 
The man squinted in Jimmy’s direction.
 
“Well, if that don’t tear the rag off the bush,
you
comin’
up here nosin’ around other people’s affairs.
 
You might as well be peepin’ in windows far
as I’m concerned.”
 
He leaned on the
counter that separated him from Jimmy.
 
“I’m not sure I’m gonna let you see ‘em.
 
Whaddya think about that?”

Jimmy was new at this, having done very little investigative
reporting, but he was surprised by the man’s aggressive attitude.
 
He could understand if he was at the Pentagon
trying to get some compromising federal documents, but a Quitman
County coroner’s report?
 
“I’m writing a book on her husband and I just
want to get the facts right.”

“Oh, I see.”
 
The
skinny little man pulled a stool over to the counter and sat down.
 
“You wanna get the facts right ‘
cause
you’re so concerned for the families and all, is that
it?”

“I just want to get the facts,” Jimmy said.
 
“What do I have to do?”

The little man looked at Jimmy for a moment.
 
“Well, I tell you.
 
You’re entitled to get a look at them
documents according to Title Five, U.S.C. Section 552.”
 
He leaned across the counter again.
 
“But I guess a big city writer like you knows
all about the Freedom of Information act, don’cha?”
 
He pointed at Jimmy.
 
“Guys like you enjoy pokin’ around in the
files and gettin’ everybody’s dirty little secrets, ain’t that right?
 
Does it get you excited?
 
Is that it?”
 
The little man seemed to be rubbing against the other side of the
counter.