Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders (36 page)

“Fabulous!
 
Do me a
favor.
 
Do you have a fax machine?
 
Can I fax you a contract?
 
I want to represent this book, Mr.
Rogers.
 
And not just
the book.
 
I want to represent
you, the writer.
 
I’m not in this just
for the project.
 
I believe you have a
future and I want to be your agent.
 
What’s your fax number there, Mr. Rogers?
 
Would you at least consider signing with me?
Are you there, Mr. Rogers, did we get cut off?
 
Hello?”

“Hey, listen,” Jimmy said, “I work on a first come, first
served basis.
 
Send me the contract and
I’ll take a look at it.
 
If it looks—”

“It’s a standard contract.
 
I sell your work to publishers and I take a fifteen percent
commission.
 
If my foreign co-agents make
foreign publishing deals, assuming I don’t sell world-wide publishing rights to
a U.S.
publisher, I split a twenty percent commission with the foreign co-agent on all
overseas deals.
 
If I can scare up
interest in the film rights, I’ll co-agent with someone in LA and we’ll split a
fifteen percent commission on those sales unless there’s a manager involved in
which case there goes another five percent and if you have an attorney there
that’s another five.
 
Absent any sales,
either party can terminate the contract with thirty day’s notice.”

“Fine,” Jimmy said.
 
“Fax it over.”
 
While the frantic
Mr. Colvin was rattling off the details of the contract, Jimmy looked him up in
his agent’s directory.
 
The Colvin Agency
represented some big hitters in publishing.
 
He gave Colvin his fax number.

“I’m faxing right now,” he said.
 
“You won’t regret this, Mr. Rogers.
 
Listen, how much of the book is
finished?
 
I think it has to cover up
through wherever this first record takes him.
 
He’ll have some more singles we’ll want to track, plus he’ll be
touring.
 
Maybe you can cover the
tour.
 
I’ll try to negotiate expenses
into the advance.
 
Oh, yeah, one more
thing.
 
I assume you approached Long’s
management on being the official biographer, am I right?
 
They turned you down, said they’d find a big
name biographer,
am
I right?”

“That’s pretty much it,” Jimmy said.

“Well fuck them, if you’ll pardon the expression.
 
They’re six or eight months behind us,”
Colvin said.
 
“Plus you’re the only one
with the early show reviews and insights.
 
That’s not a problem.
 
But let me
ask you, this Eddie Long,
is
he as squeaky clean as
you make him out to be?
 
I mean, a little
dirt on the guy would be nice for us.
 
They do an official
bio,
they’ll make him look
like some guy in Chevy truck commercial.
 
All hard work and clean habits.
 
If you can dig up any dirt
on the guy, great.
 
If not, don’t
worry about it.
 
I can sell this either
way, but any kind of gossip or scandal is good.”

Jimmy smiled.
 
“You
know, Mr. Colvin, it’s funny you should bring that up.”

57.

Eddie hit the Big Apple out of the park.
 
With the combination of his Southern charm,
his songs, and his disarming smile, even the cynics came around.
 
Since arriving in New
York, Eddie had played ‘
It Wasn’t
Supposed To
End That Way’ on three network talk shows and one local TV
news program.
 
His next stop was the
morning show on New York’s number
one country station.
 
Eddie played along
as the DJs had some fun at his expense doing a send up of Eddie’s song which
was retitled, ‘It Wasn’t Supposed
To
Bend
That
Way.’
 
Afterwards they worked the phones.

“Hi, Eddie?
 
My name’s Wayne Jackson.
 
I just wanted to tell you how much I love
Long Shot
and not just me, everybody I
work with thinks the whole disc is great, top to bottom, not a bad song on
there.”

“Well, thanks,” Eddie said, “where do you work?”

“I’m the manager of the Tower Records on Broadway in
midtown.
 
Now I know you’re busy and all,
but I was wondering if you’d consider dropping by the store to play a couple of
songs and sign some autographs?”

“Well, I…”
 
Eddie
looked quickly to Big Bill who shook his head ‘no’ and shrugged
indifferently.
 
He wanted to get out to
the airport and relax before catching their flight to Dallas.
 
As Eddie was about to say no, Megan banged on
the glass separating the hallway from the studio.
 
She waved her arms and pushed Big Bill aside,
nodding emphatically to Eddie while urgently mouthing ‘yes!’
 
With eyes wide and nostrils flaring, her
expression was clear.
 
Don’t take Herron’s advice!
 
He’s an idiot!
 
Do this!

“Wayne, I tell
you what,” Eddie said.
 
“I’ll be by right
after lunch.
 
How’s
that?”

“That’ll be great.
 
Thanks a ton!”

By two that afternoon, traffic in the 1600 block of Broadway
had ground to a halt.
 
Eddie was inside
the packed store doing a solo show.
 
But the
speakers outside had drawn hundreds more.
 
The sidewalk crowd spilled into the street and soon there were people
standing on the roofs of cars and trucks listening and dancing and whooping it
up.
 
The original plan was for Eddie to
do three songs, sign a few autographs,
then
fly.
 
But now, six songs later, Eddie was still
playing encores since it seemed like the only way to keep the show from turning
into a riot.

“Betcha dolla they gonna have to call the cops,” Big Bill
said, looking out the window at the crowd.
 
He didn’t sound pleased.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing…
Big
Bill.”
 
Megan said his name with
enough sarcasm to put a fine point on it.
 
Her smile was wide as Junior Samples as she watched the throng of fans
press against the front of the store.
 
“This is fabulous.”

Franklin glanced
at Big Bill.
 
He could see the
irritation.
 
Franklin
checked his watch.
 
“I hope we can get
out of here in time,” he said.
 
“Flight’s
in three hours, and we still have to go back to the hotel.”
 
They were due in Dallas
that afternoon for the beginning of Eddie’s thirty-five city tour that night.

Franklin nudged
Big Bill.
 
“Oh, did I tell you Whitney
Rankin called again.”
 
He shook his head
in mild amusement.
 
“Kid really wants to
talk to you about his song.”

“Ain’t surprised,” Big Bill said.
 
“I think he’ll get over it when we send him a
little check.”

Megan suddenly clapped her hands together.
 
“Jesus!”
 
She grabbed Franklin’s
arm.
 
“Give me your Palm Pilot,” she
said.
 
“Fast!”

Franklin pulled
away from her grip.
 
“What
for?”

“PR!
 
Now give it to me!”

Franklin
reluctantly pulled the Palm Pilot from its carrier.
 
Big Bill waved his hand calmly in the
air.
 
“We’re doing fine, Megan.
 
We don’t need anything else.”
 
He made the mistake of using a patronizing
tone.

Megan shook her head.
 
“Jesus, you two…” She grabbed the Palm Pilot out of Franklin’s
hands.
  
She punched in the URL and the
site blinked on screen.
 
“Okay, here we
go.”

Franklin watched
as she began punching in numbers.
 
“Hey,”
he said, “
that’s
our corporate AmEx number.
 
How the hell did you get that?”

“I’m Eddie’s road manager,” Megan said.
 
“I tend to pay attention to important
details.”
 
Returning to the Palm Pilot,
Megan scrolled down through her options, made a few selections,
then
submitted the form for credit card clearance.

“What is that?” Franklin
asked.

“PressCon dot com,” Megan said.
 
“They do instant press releases to all
national news outlets and wire services.”
 
She froze Franklin with a
nasty look.
 
“You are willing to spring
for some good press coverage, aren’t you?
 
I’m sure you’ll be able to find some way to make it recoupable against
Eddie’s royalties.”
 
Megan didn’t wait
for a reply.
 
She was too busy
typing.
 
Broadway turned into a pedestrian mall for an hour as the handsome new
country star, Eddie Long, lit up midtown with his bright smile and his hit
song…
 
Franklin
cast a worried glance at Big Bill who was shaking his head, annoyed at their
common enemy.
 
Organizers estimate the crowd
at.
. . fifty
thousand.
 
Megan thought about it for a
moment, then deleted the words, before typing again.
 
Seventy-five thousand.
 
Police in riot gear were called in to end the
show to prevent complete midtown gridlock.
 
Eddie Long’s debut album, Long Shot is the best selling record of the
year and certain to take home some statues at next years’s Country Fanfare
Awards.
 
Megan gave it a quick proof
read,
then
submitted it.
 
She handed the Palm Pilot back to Franklin
by poking him in the stomach with it.
 
“That’s a handy little unit, but it helps if you know how to use it,”
she said with a smart-ass smirk.
 
“Now
let’s get Eddie and get ready for Dallas.”

58.

Jay Colvin was beside himself.
 
“Unfuckingbelievable,” was the first thing he
said after Jimmy explained his theory about the poisoning death of Eddie’s
wife.
 
“Why didn’t you tell me
before?
 
My God!
 
This is best seller!” he screamed into the
phone.
 
“Get to work.
 
Find out all you can and write the book
with the accusations in it!
”

“Listen,” Jimmy said, “I appreciate your enthusiasm but
don’t you think we have some pretty big exposure on this?
 
I mean, publishers are skittish about
publishing unproven accusations.
 
Slander, defamation of character, that sort of thing?”

“Trust me,” Jay said, “I know what I’m doing.”

“But—”

“What’s it going to take to earn your trust?
 
Jimmy, I promise you two things.
 
One, I will get you a fat six figure advance
and two, you will get in your contract a ‘hold harmless’ clause bigger than Al
Sharpton’s mouth.”

Jimmy couldn’t imagine how that was possible but figured he
could write the book in such a way that his theory could be pulled out without
causing a major rewrite.
 
“Okay, if
you’re sure.”

“I’m sure already,” Jay insisted, “now go dig.”

“All right,” Jimmy said, “I’m going back to Quitman
County.”

59.

Jay Colvin dropped the phone into the cradle with a
smile.
 
A notion had popped into his head
while he was talking to Jimmy and now he had to do some research.
 
He called his attorney and had him to do a
Lexis search for civil suits featuring Bill Herron as the defendant.
 
Meanwhile, Jay scoured the internet for all
references to the man once regarded as ‘one of Nashville’s
most powerful manager/producers.’
 
Among
the hundreds of hits his internet query found was the Hot 100 list from a
recent issue of
Nashville Scene
.

Next Jay called a contact he had at
Good Morning America
.
 
He
needed to know the hotel where Herron were staying.
 
“They’re gone,” his contact said.
 
“Starting a tour in
Dallas
tonight.”

Jay called information in Nashville
to get the number for Herron & Peavy Management.
 
A second later, Jay’s attorney called back.
“You want me to fax all this over there or just give you the
Reader’s Digest
version?”

“Nutshell it,” Jay said.