Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders (39 page)

“Bullshit,” Megan said, stamping her foot.
 
“Screw what’s customary.
 
Look, they say an artist’s first single
shouldn’t be a ballad, right?
 
Well
Eddie’s
was
, and guess what?
 
968,000 units later I think we can put that
rule to rest.
 
Then they say, well you
shouldn’t follow one ballad with another, right?
 
Well, ask Vince Gill what he thinks about
that.
 
He did all right.
 
I say we change the damn rules.
 
Go with our other ballad as the second single
and, what’s more,” Megan turned to Eddie, “I think we ought to put it out while
the first one’s still number one.”

Big Bill snorted derisively.
 
“Well that’s just foolishness,” he said.
 
“You’d never do that.
 
You’re just
being contrary.
 
I don’t care how far you
get being unconventional, there are some things that you just don’t…” Big
Bill was getting so frustrated he couldn’t finish his thought.
 
“Eddie,” he said, “I been in this business
long enough—”

“Long enough to work your way down to number ninety-nine on
the hot one hundred,” Megan said.
 
“That
says all you need to know about conventional wisdom, don’t you think?”

Big Bill wanted to slap Megan in the worst way and, if she’d
been within reach, he’d have done it instinctively and probably lost his
biggest client.
 
His carotid artery
looked like a blue garden hose running up the side of his neck.
 
Bad enough the bitch had interrupted him
twice, now she was insulting him.
 
“All
due respect,” he hissed, “but I don’t recall ever seeing your name anywhere on
that list, Megan, so I wouldn’t be talking so loud.”
 
He stepped closer to her as he spoke, hoping
his size would help intimidate.
 
“Now, as
to your iconoclastic release strategy, keep in mind that the most likely result
of releasing a second single while your first one is still at the top is that
you bring the first one down before it’s done.”
 
He stepped closer.
 
“Now as far as
I know, Lonestar still holds the record for consecutive weeks at number
one.
 
I think we’ve got a shot at
breaking that,” he said, putting his face in Megan’s, “if we don’t do anything
to screw it up.”
 
The last words came out
a louder than the others.

Eddie stood and casually walked between the combatants.
 
“Nothing like the free exchange of
contrasting ideas,” he said.
 
“But you
know what?”
 
He turned to Big Bill.
 
“I like taking chances and as long as we got a
contract that lets us to do things that ain’t been tried in a while, I think we
ought to look at setting a new kind of record.”
 
Eddie looked out the bus window and saw thousands of fans streaming out
to the parking lot.
 
“You know, you see a
lot of artists with two songs in the top forty at the same time, but I think we
oughta see if we can’t get two in the top five at the same time.
 
Maybe even get the top two slots!”

This was really starting to chap Big Bill’s ass.
 
“Please!
 
That hasn’t happened
since.
. . hell, I don’t
know, since Dill Scallion, for cryin’ out loud.”

“Well I think it’s time we changed that,” Eddie said.
 
He sat down and took a pull on his beer.
 
“Okay, I think that seals it.
 
‘Pothole
In
My
Heart’ is our second single and it ships next week.”
 
He pointed at Big Bill.
 
“Make it happen.”

65.

Whitney sat on the edge of his bed, eyes fixed on the ragged
bandana tied around his wrist.
 
He was
consumed by discouragement and a sense of betrayal that had started just after
Long Shot
was released.
 
Whitney had waited for the ‘comp’ disc Big
Bill promised but it never came, so he went out and bought a copy.
 
As he stood in the aisle of the record store,
his excitement dissolved into surprise, then confusion and disappointed.
 
‘Night’s Devotion’ wasn’t on the disc.
 
He didn’t understand.
 
He took the disc home and listened.
 
When it got to a song called ‘Pothole
In
My Heart,’ Whitney suddenly felt ill.
 
He grabbed the liner notes and frantically
searched the writing credits.
 
When he
saw it he got sick enough to throw up his socks.
 
It said ‘B. Herron/E. Long/W. Rankin’.
 
He’d been trying to get Big Bill on the phone
ever since.

That was nearly three weeks ago.
 
Since then, Whitney had been sinking deeper
and deeper into despair.
 
When the phone rang
Whitney barely moved.
 
He just continued
staring at the bandana.
 
After five or
six rings he slowly reached over and picked up.

“Hey now!”
Big Bill said.
 
“I understand you’ve been tryin’ to reach
me.”

The voice jarred Whitney’s mind and stirred some anger.
 
“Yes sir, that’s right.”
 
His voice was strained.

“Sorry it took so long for me to get back to ya.
 
I been
on the road
with Eddie Long.
 
Man, this guy’s
hotter’n concrete in July in Houston.”
 
Big Bill figured Whitney was pissed about
what happened to his song, so he tried to create a diversion.
 
“Oh, and by the way, I got you some good
news,” he said.
 
“Your song’s gonna be
the second single off Eddie’s record.
 
Whaddya think about that?”

“That ain’t my song,” Whitney said bitterly.
 
“What the hell happened?”

“Whaddya mean what happened?”
 
Big Bill tried his best to sound wounded by
Whitney’s accusatory tone.

“I never wrote a song called ‘Pothole
In
My Heart’ and I didn’t co-write anything with you and Eddie Long.”
 
Whitney paused.
 
“You lied to me right outta your mouth, Mr.
Herron.”

“Now hang on a second there Whitney,” Big Bill’s tone was
firm but fatherly.
 
“You were there when
we made a lot of those changes.
 
I
remember asking if you understood why we did what we did and you looked right
at me and said ‘yeah.’
 
You’re not
denying that, are you?”

“I never wrote anything about potholes in my heart and I
sure didn’t hear him sing it that way when I was there.”

“No, I’ll grant you that,” Big Bill said.
 
“After you left we had a couple more notions
on the song so we went back and did another version.
 
Nothing unusual about that and there’s damn
sure nothing underhanded about it, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.
 
I’m surprised at you, Whitney.
 
I thought you’d appreciate what I did for
you, ‘
specially
now that it’s gonna be the second
single.
 
You have any idea how much money
you’re gonna make on this?”

“That ain’t the point,” Whitney said.

“Well it damn sure is, son.
 
If that song goes to number one, like I think it will
,
you’re looking at twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars just from radio
play.
 
Your mechanicals are probably
worth another five, maybe ten thousand.”
 
All told, the truth was closer to two hundred thousand dollars for a
record that was selling and getting radio play like Eddie’s, but Big Bill knew
Whitney was clueless about the value of his work.
 
He had counted on it.
 
Herron & Peavy stood to make
an extra hundred-seventy-thousand dollars
or so thanks to
Whitney’s willful ignorance.
 
“Now,
honestly, did you ever expect you’d make thirty thousand dollars on a single
one of your songs?”

Whitney tasted acid creeping in his throat.
 
“That ain’t my song and you didn’t have the
right to do what you did.”
 
His
discouragement and depression were suddenly displaced by pure anger.
 
His voice was thick with hostility and rage.

“Whoa now,” Big Bill said.
 
“Better read your contract again, son.
 
Now, I can tell you’re upset, but you just wait.
 
You’ll feel better about it when you cash
that first check.
 
Trust me.”

“I’m through trusting you and everybody else in Music
Fucking City,
you son of a bitch!”
 
Whitney slammed the
phone down.
 
He was shaking.
 
He’d put up with all the Nashville
bullshit he could.
 
Big Bill had been
lying to him from the start, taking him for a ride.
 
And now Whitney imagined the fat bastard
laughing at his expense.
 
Big Bill might
as well have stolen a piece of Whitney’s soul.
 
Lies were bad enough, stealing was worse, but this was beyond the
pale.
 
This was humiliating and Whitney
wouldn’t stand for it.
 
It was enough to
make Whitney want to kill.

66.

The answer hit Jimmy just north of Jackson.
 
He was heading back up to Quitman
County when he saw the sign marking
the turnoff for the 220.
 
It was the shortcut
to Interstate 20 which took you to Vicksburg,
then west to Louisiana and Texas.
 
But Jimmy’s answer was on this side of the Mississippi
River and that highway sign reminded him why he felt the way he
did about Megan.

It was one of their first dates.
 
They drove over to picnic in the Vicksburg
National Military
Park.
 
It was an inspiring spring day, breezy and
uncrowded.
 
Halfway through the hilly
sixteen mile tour of the Civil War battleground they found a spot on a knoll
with a view of the big river in the distance.
 
They spread their blanket in the shade of an oak tree and ate fried
chicken, sweet cornbread, and ripe peaches.
 
Jimmy also brought a thermos full of pink lemonade enhanced with bourbon
and triple sec.
 
Megan took one sip and
broke into a wide smile.
 
“What
is
this?”
 
She held the glass up to the sunlight to
examine the colors swirling around the chunks of ice.

“Secret recipe,” Jimmy said.
 
“I call it ‘patio lemonade.’”

Megan took a gulp.
 
“Oh, I like this.”
 
She held her
glass out for a refill.
 
Jimmy obliged.

They ate and drank and talked and laughed until they were
both sweetly drunk.
 
Megan curled up in
Jimmy’s arms and let herself be held.
 
Her self-consciousness dissolved in the sugary bourbon and lemonade and
she opened up about her dreams and fears and sorrows and things she rarely
shared.
 
As he looked down at her,
touching her perfect skin, Jimmy knew this was the person he could love
forever.

Megan sighed, all contented.
 
“I hope you plan to kiss me pretty soon.”

Jimmy smiled.
 
Then he
leaned down.
 
It was the sweetest kiss
he’d ever tasted, her lips soft as the shade.
 
They laid back and felt the dapples of sun dance through the tree’s
leaves and they fell asleep.
 
It was the
sort of day most people look back on and recognize only from a distance as one
of the best in their lives.
 
But part of
the wonder of this day was how they both embraced the magic as it
happened.
 
The difference between them,
Jimmy now realized, was that he still cherished the moment whereas Megan seemed
to have let it go without regard.

The turnoff for Vicksburg
vanished behind him just like she did and Jimmy suddenly realized he was
worried about something.
 
But what?
 
That he
wouldn’t get Megan back?
 
No, he had
almost come to accept that as a given.
 
It was something else.
 
As he
continued north toward Hinchcliff, it occurred to Jimmy that he was worried
about Megan’s safety.
 
If his theory was
right — if Eddie had killed Tammy — Jimmy wouldn’t want her around the guy,
no matter how badly she’d treated him.
 
Jimmy figured there were only two results to the research he was doing,
and he didn’t know which one he preferred.
 
If he disproved the theory, the publisher wouldn’t be so hot on the
book, but at least he’d know Megan wasn’t sleeping with a murderer.
 
On the other hand if he proved the theory, at
least he could warn her about him.

Jimmy arrived at Eddie and Tammy’s old house around
eleven.
 
It was hot out.
 
The sun was coming down at the same angle
from which one is bludgeoned to death.
 
He parked around back, in the shade, so no one would see his car and so
it wouldn’t be an oven when he got back in it.
 
The air was sticky as chewed gum and Jimmy could smell the banks of the
Talahatchie as it filtered through a hundred yards of pine trees.
 
He grabbed his camera and took some exterior
shots of the small brick house plagued as it was by the accusing yellow crime
scene tape.