Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders (48 page)

Otis told Chester
the same thing Mr. Peavy had told him.
 
Chester
listened, disbelieving at first.
 
But
every word Otis said chipped away at the disbelief until there was a feeling of
inevitability about the thing.
 
“I told
him I knew somebody who would do it,” Otis said, “but I never said your name,
so you’re not obliged.”
 
Otis paused a
second.
 
“I just thought you might at
least wanna know about it.”

Chester looked
at Otis for a few moments without any expression.
 
“How much time you think there’d be, Otis?”

“Mr. Peavy thinks they’d be willin’ to negotiate pretty good
after they hear that evidence he’s got, but there’s no guarantee.
 
You still might go inside for a little
while.”

Chester sat back
in his seat, his hands flat on the table top.
 
He had to think about it, but he didn’t have to think for long.
 
“That’s pretty good money, even if you had to
do a nickle.”

“That’s a long time, Chester.
 
Longer’n you think.”

Chester thought
about the whole thing a little more.
 
He
took a deep breath, exhaled, then smiled.
 
“Otis, I’d do it just for the satisfaction,” he said, “but I’ll take the
money too.”

87.

Eddie was screaming into the phone.
 
“Under control?
 
How the fuck is it under control?
 
There’s a goddamn book on the
New York Times
best-seller list says I
killed four people!
 
Including my
wife!
 
Christ on a crutch, how can he get
away with that?”
 
Eddie had been yelling
so loud he was going hoarse.
 
“My career’s
over!
 
And it barely got started.”

“Relax, son.
 
You’re
spittin’ like a goose shittin’ by the moonlight.
 
The guy never actually says you killed
anybody.
 
It’s all implied and nobody
believes it anyway.
 
Besides, look at,
uhhh, I dunno, oh, what’s his name?
 
Marv
Albert.
 
Press dragged that schmuck
through the mud for what he did, but he was back on Network TV in no time.
 
Nobody remembers these things.”

“Godammit, Bill, they said he liked wearing panties, not
that he killed four people.
 
There’s a difference.”

“Granted, but think about it, Eddie, the cops haven’t come
to see you, right?”

Eddie peeked out the window.
 
“True.”
 
He saw several television
vans down at the gates of his estate, but no cops.

“The guy’s just a damn opportunist, Eddie.
 
You gotta expect this sort of thing now that
you’re a public figure.
 
It’s part of the
fame game.
 
People just find ways to make
money on your back, that’s all.
 
And you
know the old saying, ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity,’ right?
 
Well we sold another 435,000 units thanks to
this yahoo’s book.
 
Hell, you oughta send
him a thank-you note.”

Eddie was pacing the living room of his Belle Meade estate,
a beer in one hand, the phone in the other.
 
“What about the Tall Cotton Award?
 
What are the CFA people saying?”
 
He peeked out the window again.
 
“Are we still up for that?”

“It’s under control, Eddie.
 
I talked to the CFA people ten minutes ago.
 
They have every intention of giving you the
award as planned.
 
Like I said, hardly
anybody believes what’s in the book, and those who do are afraid of you, which
is always a good thing.
 
Now I’ve got a
conference call with the attorneys at Atlas in about five minutes, tryin’ to
get this whole thing resolved.
 
I’m
fightin’ for ya, Eddie.
 
You just try to
get some writin’ done.
 
I’ll call you
after the conference call and let you know what happened.”

 
“Fine.
 
I ain’t goin’
nowhere
.”
 
Eddie slammed the phone into its cradle then
crossed the room to the glass top table where he had half a gram laid out in a series
of lines.
 
He snorted one, grabbed his
guitar, and started pacing the room waiting for the inspiration to hit.
 
But his mind was too cluttered with a
stampede of paranoia.
How the hell had
this happened?
 
He wondered.
 
I
worked my ass off to become a superstar and now this.
 
My own manager is telling me not to worry
about a best selling book accusing me of
murder,
a
book written by a guy I thought was my friend.
 
What the hell kind of management is that?
 
What the hell kind of friend would write those
things, even if he thought they were true?
 
And what about the police?
 
Even if Jimmy’s book didn’t prove anything,
surely the
Nashville
police are about to come crashing through
the front door.
 
There’s nothing they
love better than bringing down the rich and famous.
 
Hell, it’s practically sport for those goons.

And
Megan.
 
Somehow she’d gone from flirty, enthusiastic
fan to worming her way into the center of my damned life.
 
Then she tricks me into fatherhood and now
she’s plowing through my money quicker’n a dog can lick a dish.
 
Well, she’s going to have to terminate the
pregnancy,
he thought,
it’s simple as
that.
 
He paused.
 
Or
maybe she’s not even pregnant.
 
Eddie
slapped the soundboard.
 
I have got to be the king of fools.
 
There’s no way she’s pregnant.
 
Just isn’t possible.
 
She’s taking me for a ride.
 
Wait a second, a song idea.
 
Something about crowning
the king of fools?
 
He sat
down, snorted another line, and wrote it down.
 
King of fools.
 
Crown.
 
Oh, shit.
 
He threw his pen across the room when he
remembered somebody had already done it.

Eddie jumped when he heard the kitchen door open, followed
by two voices.
 
There was a moment when
he considered bolting for the front door out of fear it was the cops.
 
But just as quickly he realized it was Megan
and Sean, the image consultant she hired to help deal with the aftermath of
Jimmy’s book.
 
They traipsed into the
living room, chatting about the importance of proper media spin.

Sean was a self-impressed little prick in his late twenties
wearing a suit with a single-breasted jacket.
 
It looked to Eddie as if someone had accidentally sewn two extra buttons
near the top of the coat and, making matters worse, Sean had them fastened,
resulting
in a look so laughable it had to be intentional.

“Hey, we’re back,” Megan said.
 
She had several large shopping bags with
her.
 
“I can’t wait to show you the dress
I got for the CFA thing.
 
Sean helped me
pick it out.”

“I’m not in the mood for a damn fashion show,” Eddie
said.
 
He watched as Sean casually dabbed
his finger into the coke on the table then rubbed it on his gums.
 
“Hey, do you mind?”
 
Eddie shooed Sean away from the table.
 
“I just talked to Herron.
 
He’s acting like Jimmy’s book’s the best
thing that could have happened to me, if you can believe that.”

“Well,” Sean said, “he’s right insofar as it gets your name
in the press
which never, I repeat, never hurts
.”
 
He looked to Megan.
 
“Is now a good time to talk about this?”

Megan was pulling clothes, shoes, and jewelry from the
bags.
 
“Sure.
 
Tell him about the research.”

Sean perched on the arm of the sofa.
 
“We’ve finessed some terrific information out
of our polling data,” he said.
 
“Seventy-two percent of those polled, who identified themselves as
country music buyers said they’d buy the next Eddie Long cd, even though they
knew about the claims in the book.
 
Twenty-two percent said they’d wait to see if charges were brought
before deciding whether they’d buy it and the remaining six percent said they
could forgive you but wouldn’t buy the new cd.”

“Forgive me?”

“The focus groups we did indicate we need to spin your image
to the right,” Sean pinched his thumb and forefinger together, “
tant soit peu
.”
 
He arched his plucked eyebrows.

“What?”
 
Eddie looked at
Megan who nodded as if she knew what Sean had said.

“I suggest we go with a hint of Christian façade.”
 
Sean made a gentle brushing gesture with his
hands over his face.
 
“Not too far right,
of course, nothing extreme enough to alienate urban country buyers.”
 
He contorted his face and wagged his
tongue.
 
“Nothing Pentecostal or
anything, but in your next interview you need to work in something about how
your faith in God has always pulled you through hard times, that sort of
thing.”

“What?”

“You know,” Megan said, “talk about how Jesus had to deal
with false accusations and doubting Thomases and Judas and
blahblahblah,
all that
stuff.
 
Oh, and wear a
cross on a chain or something, maybe a St. Christopher.”

Sean nodded.
 
“A lot of
our country clients use this very effectively.”

Eddie had never been particularly religious, so it wasn’t
Sean’s suggestion that bothered him.
 
It
was a culmination of other things — the book, the lawsuit, the press, the
image consultant, the pregnancy (or not), Megan’s leeching, Jimmy’s betrayal —
everything.
 
It simply added up and Eddie
snapped.
 
“Get the fuck out of here,” he
yelled at Sean, gesturing violently with his Fender.
 
“Get out!”

Megan
turned,
a pair of bright red
pumps in her hand.
 
“Eddie, calm down.”

Eddie turned and pointed at her so hard the bone almost came
out of his finger.
 
“You shut up!”
 
He tossed his guitar onto the sofa, grabbed
Sean by his goofy little lapels, and forced him toward the foyer, popping the
top buttons along the way.
 
“You and your
stupid fucking suit are fired.”
 
Eddie
shoved him out the door and slammed it behind him.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
 
Megan sounded like a demanding
housewife.
 
“We’ve got to get the right
spin on this thing.
 
You can’t just stick
your head in the sand and hope it goes away.”
 
She dropped the pumps and came at Eddie wagging a finger.
 
“If you don’t start listening to what I tell
you—”

“I thought I told you to shut the hell up!”
 
Eddie wheeled to face her and landed a fist
to the side of her head.
 
It spun Megan
around and she stumbled, falling across a small end table and landing awkwardly
on the floor.
 
“So just do it!”

88.

“How the hell can it be under control if they’re suing me
for ninety million goddamn dollars?” Jimmy asked his agent.
 
“I am screwed six ways to Sunday!”

“Jimmy.
 
Would you
please take a pill?
 
I told you I’m on
it.
 
I’m not going to let you down.”

“I don’t have ninety million dollars, Jay.
 
In fact I don’t even have the three hundred
thousand Atlas owes me on the first half of the advance.
 
I’m fucked.
 
I can’t believe I let you talk me into putting that stuff in the book.”

“Are you through?”
 
Jay spoke to Jimmy as if he were an unruly child.
 
“I wanted this to be a surprise, but if
you’re going to be a cry baby, I’ll tell you now.
 
It’s going to be in the news tomorrow
anyway.”

“Now what?”

“We had a conference call today with Eddie’s people and the
Atlas attorneys.
 
I got them to agree to
a compromise.
 
Herron and Peavy will drop
the lawsuit in exchange for an undisclosed sum, which will be paid by Atlas’s
insurance company.
 
We will also issue a
statement explaining how you were simply experimenting with a new form of
biography and you never intended to say Eddie was guilty of anything other than
having a remarkable set of circumstantial events in his life—”

“What?”

“There’s a gag order on the settlement.
 
The insurance company insisted on it, so I
can’t even tell you the details, but suffice it to say you not only aren’t
fucked but, with the sales all this publicity generated for the book, you are
probably looking at a two to three million dollar royalty when all the money’s
counted.
 
Plus you get the bonus for
getting sued.”