Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders (52 page)

“Yes sir,” Chester
said.
 
“That’s right.
 
He hired me to kill that girl.”
 
There was a long pause during which everyone
ended up staring at Chester.
 
Chester
took a final drag off his cigarette then stubbed it out.
 
“I guess I missed,” he shrugged.

Mr. Dupree started waving a hand.
 
“Wait, wait,
wait
.
 
You said somebody hired you to kill Big
Bill.”

“No sir, I said somebody hired me to do the killin’.”
 
He pointed at the video tape.
 
“See for yourself.
 
You just assumed the rest.
 
I can’t help that.”
 
He stood up from the table.
 
“Of course, like I said, I’m still willing to
testify against him.
 
You can count on
that.”
 
Chester
walked to the door and paused.
 
“Now if
you’ll excuse me,” he said somberly.
 
“I
gotta go bury somebody.”

99.

Due in large part to his spectacular death on national
television, Big Bill’s funeral was a certified media event.
 
TNN covered it from visitation to
burial.
 
There were so many people
dressed in black a passerby might’ve mistaken it for a Johnny Cash fan club
convention.
 
Everybody who was anybody in
country music was there.
 
Just about
everyone who had worked with Big Bill during the past thirty years stood side
by side with those who had never met the man but were compelled to come say
farewell to the legend.
 
It all went to
prove the old Hollywood adage that if you give the
people what they want to see, they’ll come out for it.

Of course people said respectful things as they talked about
Big Bill’s long and storied career and about how he had represented and
produced some of country music’s biggest stars.
 
In an attempt to inject some humor into the otherwise somber proceedings
a few people told funny stories about how Big Bill had been known to stray on
occasion from the Rotary Club notion of good faith and fair dealing.
 
Others went so far as to make up stories
about all the time he had given to charitable causes.
 
Out of respect for the newly departed no one
mentioned Big Bill’s posthumous conviction on charges of solicitation of
murder.
 
However a reporter for one of
the networks did ask an attorney attending the funeral about the
conviction.
 
“Well it’s highly unusual,”
the attorney said, “since Due Process guarantees the accused the right to be
present to participate in the proceedings and help with his own defense.
 
But the way I understand it, the district
attorney was adamant they try Big Bill
in
absentia
.
 
Damndest thing I ever
heard of,” he said with a rueful shake of the head.
 
“Probably solid grounds for appeal, though I
understand no one from the Herron estate is particularly interested in pursuing
it.”

Franklin spoke
last, remaining stoic as he made a short, heartfelt speech about his
partner.
 
“I learned a lot from Bill over
the years,” Franklin said, “about
life, about music, about business, and about the importance of seizing every
opportunity that presents itself, no matter what the arena.”
 
Franklin
paused and looked out at the sea of familiar faces, most of which were smiling
at him like he’d brought good news.
 
“Big
Bill leaves behind a legacy that won’t soon be forgotten,” Franklin
said.
 
“And I betcha dolla that’s exactly
the way that old rascal would’ve wanted it.”

As the crowd gathered around the open grave, they sang
beautiful songs — splendid and stirring renditions of ‘What a Friend We Have
In
Jesus,’ ‘Walk in the Garden,’ and ‘The Old Rugged
Cross.’
 
Their voices were strong and the
harmony was a thing to behold.

The songs brought tears to everyone’s eyes.
 
Big Bill’s ex-wives cried the most.
 
The alimony train wouldn’t be pulling into
their stations any more.
 
Still, they
wondered, as they wiped their eyes, if they’d been included in his will.

100.

Estella’s funeral was less of an event.
 
There was no press coverage.
 
There was no throng of mourners.
 
It was just Otis, Doreen, Maurice, and Chester,
along with a dozen other old friends gathered in a small cemetary in the
countryside on the outskirts of Nashville.
 
There was a warm breeze and the clouds were
floating past like soft memories against a blue sky.

Otis listened to what the preacher had to say and then rose
to say a few words
himself
, struggling against his
emotions.
 
“She had a voice like two
angels singing,” Otis said.
 
“And a laugh bright as sunshine.
 
And she loved to dance.”
 
A tender smile crossed his face as Otis saw
Estella in his mind’s eye dancing to Slim Harpo.
 
“She just loved to,” he said.

“That’s right,” Doreen said softly.
 
“She sho did.”

Otis nodded slowly.
 
“Everybody who heard her sing knew she could’ve gone a long way on her
own, a lot farther’n I ever got.
 
And she
had the chance too,” Otis said, “but she stayed with me instead and blessed my
life.”
 
He wanted to say more but he
couldn’t manage another sound except to cry.

Maurice put his arm around Otis and started to sing an old
song.

I know moonlight, I
know starlight,
I
lay this body down.

The others joined in, one by one.

I walk in the
graveyard,
I walk through the graveyard to lay this body
down.

I
lay
in the grave an’ stretch out my arms, I lay this body down.

I go to the judgment
in the evenin’ of the day when I lay this body down.

An’ my soul an’ yo’
soul will meet the day I lay this body down.

When the song was over, Otis leaned over and gently kissed
Estella’s casket before they lowered it into the ground.
 
Then he picked up a handful of dirt and gently
sprinkled it on top.
 
“Goodbye sweet
baby,” he said quietly.

101.

With the press corps camped at the gate of his Belle Meade
estate Eddie holed up inside waiting for the chaos to pass.
 
Except for Big Bill’s funeral, Eddie hadn’t
been out for a few weeks and rumors were starting to get weird.
 
Local TV news vans with microwave
transmitters lined one side of the street while network trucks with their huge
satellite transmitter dishes were on the other.
 
Radio station reporters mingled with writers and photographers from
magazines and newspapers from around the world.
 
At its peak the crowd was nearly five hundred people but in the past few
days it had dwindled to about a hundred hard-core reporters, most of whom
were still pressing at the gates of the driveway hoping for a glimpse of the
reclusive artist.

Suddenly there was a small commotion at the back of the
crowd.
 
“Excuse me,” a man said.
 
“Trying to get through
here.
 
Pardon me.”
 
The man’s progress was slow until the crowd
realized who he was.
 
Then they stepped
aside and made a path to the gate which was manned by a beefy security
guard.
 
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Long,”
the man said.
 
The crowd closed in behind
the man anticipating the guard’s reaction.

The security guard smirked.
 
“You don’t say.”

“Seriously.”

“Mr. Long doesn’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Tell him Jimmy Rogers is here to see him.”

A moment later Jimmy was hiking up the driveway, halfway
surprised Eddie was willing to meet.
 
Jimmy didn’t know what to expect.
 
He’d read some lurid stories in the past few weeks about his old friend,
most of which portrayed Eddie as a country version of Phil Spector wandering
through his mansion late at night.
 
The glow of candlelight roving from window to window.
 
Had he snapped, they wondered.
 
Was he a madman?
 
Jimmy stopped for a moment and considered
what he’d do if Eddie had bloomed into full-fledged psychopath.
 
He wasn’t worried that Eddie would gun him
down in the driveway since he obviously preferred the use of poison but he
figured anything was possible.
 
After a
minute Jimmy realized there was no solid plan for dealing with a lunatic so he
just moved toward the house hoping for the best.

To his surprise Eddie met him at a side door wearing his
best smile.
 
“Hey man, c’mon in,” he said.
 
“It’s good to see you.”
 
His tone was warm and welcoming.
 
The same guy Jimmy had always known.
  
Eddie showed him into the kitchen and
gestured at the table.
 
“Take a load
off.”
 
He poured two cups of coffee from
a fresh pot.

“I take it black,” Jimmy said, watching to see if Eddie
slipped anything into his cup.
 
There was
an awkward silence before Jimmy asked.
 
“So, how’s Megan?
 
Is she here?”

“Hell no,” Eddie said with a grim chuckle.
 
“She’s long gone.
 
Tell the truth, I figured she went crawling back
to you.”
 
His right hand mimicked a
spider crossing the table top.

Jimmy shook his head.
 
“I haven’t seen her since your show down in Jackson.”

Eddie nodded slightly and slipped into good old boy
mode.
 
“Well, I tell you, if I was you and
she showed up after all this, I’d take her in for a grudge cut then show her
the door.”
 
He winked but noticed Jimmy
wasn’t amused.
 
“Of course, that’s just
me,” Eddie said.
 
“You might just wanna
take her back, I dunno.”
 
He sipped his
coffee.

“Why’d she leave?
 
I
thought she was an integral part of ‘Team
Long
Shot
.’”

“Who knows?”
 
Eddie
shrugged.
 
“I guess she figured the
upside of being with me just wasn’t worth the trouble.
 
Not that she left empty handed.
 
Last thing she said was she figured she could
sell the rights to her story for a couple hundred thousand bucks.”
 
He chuckled slightly.
 
“Is that just like her or what?
 
I told her not to let the door hit her ass on
the way out.”
 
Eddie suddenly slapped the
table top.
 
“Hey!
 
I almost forgot.”
 
He jumped up and left the kitchen, returning
a moment later holding up a copy of Jimmy’s best seller.
 
“Congratulations on the book,” Eddie said.
 
“Could I get you to sign my copy?”

Jimmy looked at Eddie like he’d just asked him to tell knock-knock
jokes at a funeral.
 
Then,
after a moment, “What the hell, why not?”
 
Jimmy took the book from Eddie then pulled a
pen from his pocket and wrote:
 
For Eddie — I guess you pulled
it off.
 
Jimmy.
 
He slid the book back across the table.

“Thanks, man.”
 
Eddie
laughed a little when he read the inscription but he didn’t comment on it any
further.
 
“Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry
Big Bill cut you off the way he did.
 
I
never knew about it until it was too late.
 
I’da liked to’ve worked on it with you but, hell, I guess it don’t
really matter, does it?”
 
He leaned on
the table and smiled.
 
“Me and you made
out like banditos on the deal, didn’t we?” Eddie laughed.
 
“I believe it’s what they call a win-win
situation.”
 
He arched his eyebrows.

“Unless you count Tammy and Big Bill and
the others who died.”

“Well yeah, a’course there’s that,” Eddie said.
 
“But that wasn’t our fault, was it?
 
That was just a weird coincidence, fortuitous
even, given how things worked out.
 
I
mean without all those funerals, I bet your book wouldn’t’ve sold half as
good
as it has.
 
And
it hadn’t exactly hurt record sales either.
 
Ka-ching!”
 
Eddie was relishing the self-congratulatory
nature of the chat and wanted Jimmy to join in.

Jimmy just stared at him.
 
“So you’re sticking with that story?”

“What, that I’m not guilty?
 
Got to, don’t you think?”
 
Eddie
cocked his head to the side and pointed at Jimmy.
 
“But I’ll say this.
 
That book of your’s damn near convinced me
that I was guilty.
 
It really is a good
read.
 
Nice pacing, all those fine
details and some damn keen speculation.
 
All that MSG stuff, compound 1080, the deaths in Terrebonne Parish and Gulfport
and Lee County all tied to my old touring schedule.
 
Man I was impressed.”
 
He put his hand on the book.
 
“That’s a good piece of work.”

Jimmy paused as he thought about something.
 
“Lee
County?”
 
He consulted a map in his head.
 
“Mississippi?”
 
He started to wonder if Eddie had killed
somebody in Tupelo, but of course
every state south of the Mason-Dixon
line
had a Lee County.

“No,” Eddie said.
 
“Alabama.
 
Isn’t Tuscaloosa
in Lee County?”

Jimmy thought about it for a minute.
 
“No Tuscaloosa’s
in Tuscaloosa County.
 
Lee’s on the other side of the state.
 
That’s where Auburn
is.”

“Whatever.”
 
Eddie
stood abruptly and went to get another cup of coffee.

“You used to play at Auburn,
didn’t you?
 
Frat
parties?”

“Matter of fact, I did.”
 
It sounded like Eddie was smiling but he was facing the other way so
Jimmy couldn’t say for sure.
 
“But that’s
not the point.”
 
Eddie sat back down at
the table.

“So what is?”