Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders

by Bill Fitzhugh

  61.

  Big Bill was on the phone when Eddie slipped out of the bathroom. He could see Megan in the background. Eddie knew he was busted, so he looked over at Big Bill and winked. He figured that sharing the conquest, one good-old-boy to another, was the best way to avoid a you-need-to-think-about-your-image speech. Eddie needn’t have worried, though. Big Bill played along instinctively, winking back and flashing a low-key thumbs-up. But he didn’t like what he’d seen. Megan was shaping up as a major pain in the ass, he thought, potentially a very disruptive force. Big Bill had seen this sort of thing dozens of times in his career and he knew it rarely worked out good for the manager. Unfortunately he couldn’t afford to bump the jukebox at the moment, so for now he’d let Megan have her way. He’d find a way to undermine her later.

  “Mr. Herron, are you still there?” The voice came from the phone. It was Big Bill’s

  assistant in Nashville.

  “Yeah, sorry,” he said. “Any other calls?”

  “Whitney Rankin called three more times,” she said. “He sounds upset.”

  “I bet. Anything else?” He listened for a second then wrote, ‘Jay Colvin.’ “A publishing deal, huh? What’s his number?” Big Bill figured this Colvin guy was calling to get the rights so one of his authors could do Eddie’s story. Well, he was in for a surprise. ‘Sorry, Mr. Colvin, I’ve already started the authorized bio …’ Big Bill gave himself a psychic pat on the back for being so far ahead of the publishing curve, then he made the call.

  “Mr. Colvin? Bill Herron.” He softened his good old boy tone and went with more southern gentility. “I understand you want to talk to me about a publishing deal of some sort?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Herron, thank you for returning my call,” Jay said. “First I have to say it’s an honor to speak with the man who produced so many great records.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Colvin, I—”

  Jay cut him off. “I’ve read all about you, Mr. Herron, and I think we might be able to do some business together.”

  “Maybe we can, Mr. Colvin, because it turns out I’ve started—”

  “Let me just get right to the point, Mr. Herron, and I’m sorry to cut you off again, but I don’t want to waste any of your time. I represent a writer named Jimmy Rogers. You recognize that name?”

  “Yeah,” Big Bill said slowly as it came to him, “a guy called me one day, said that was his name. I thought it was a prank, you know, father of country music and all.”

  Jay Colvin had no idea what Herron was talking about and he didn’t care. “It’s no prank, Mr. Herron. Mr. Rogers has nearly completed a biography on your client, Eddie Long. And not everything in the book is exactly what you’d call flattering. In fact, it’s so inflammatory I expect to place it at one of the top three publishers in the city for a good six figure advance. But that’s only going to happen with your cooperation.”

  Big Bill was starting to get miffed. It was bad enough this fast talking New Yorker — maybe a queer, maybe a Jew, hell, maybe a queer Jew — had cut him off twice, but now come to find out this Rogers kid was about to beat him to the bookstores. He dropped back into truculent good old boy. “Well, now that’s all well and good for you, Mr. Colvin, but I’ll tell you the same thing I told that client of yours. We intend to rigorously defend against any unauthorized —”

  “Mr. Herron, there’s no need for any of that. Let me tell you what I have in mind.” At this point, Big Bill was about to cut loose on this guy. He didn’t have to put up with anybody cutting him off three times in a single conversation. Big Bill was the one with the hottest country music artist in the world and he was supposed to be the one doing the cuttin’ off. But as Jay Colvin outlined his strategy, Big Bill began to reconsider.

  Jimmy’s book would essentially accuse Eddie of being a murderer. This would generate massive publicity for both sides. In response, Herron & Peavy would file a huge lawsuit on behalf of their aggrieved client. This would generate even more publicity for both sides. Book and record sales would benefit from all the attention. After a few weeks of milking the press with the inflammatory accusations and a ninety million dollar lawsuit, Herron & Peavy would announce that they had reached an out-of-court settlement with the publisher. There would be a gag order so no one could discuss the terms of the deal. In reality no money would change hands as a result of the alleged settlement. But Big Bill would receive a two percent royalty on Jimmy’s book in exchange for orchestrating things at his end. “Atlas Publishing has signed off on this if I can get you to agree to it,” Jay said. “So what do you think?”

  It was such a cagey arrangement Big Bill was forced to take a look at the big picture. Whereas he’d written only half a page of his biography, Colvin’s client was almost finished with an entire manuscript. Big Bill knew he’d never get a whole book finished in time to compete with the Rogers book — at best he’d be picking up the book market scraps — so participating in Mr. Colvin’s innovative deal was clearly the best way to go. “Well, I’ll tell ya,” Big Bill said, “it reminds me of me.”

  “I’m delighted to hear you say that, Mr. Herron.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s a fine idea. Works for both sides.” Big Bill thought about asking for a higher cut of the book’s royalties, but he figured Mr. Colvin would counter by asking for points on any increase in record sales and he knew that wasn’t in his favor, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “Terrific,” Jay said. “And I think you’ll agree neither of our clients needs to know about this arrangement.”

  “Oh, I believe that goes without saying.” Big Bill looked across the aisle at Megan as she whispered something to Eddie. “Makes us both look more. . . indispensable to our clients if they think we pulled ‘em out of a fire.”

  62.

  That night, at a sold out Texas Stadium, Eddie stood poised to go on stage for the first show of his thirty-five city tour. There were forty-five thousand frenzied fans waiting for their new hero to come out and sing his song. In the semi-darkness, the band strode on stage. The crowd saw the silhouettes and began to scream. It was the moment Eddie had been waiting for all his life.

  Megan was with him, brushing some fuzz from his hat and primping his glittery Manuel jacket. “My God,” she said. “If you aren’t the handsomest man I have ever seen.” She put her hands on his arms and looked into his eyes. She smiled. “You nervous?”

  Eddie looked around the backstage area. The place was crawling with local radio people, print and television media, the promoter’s staff, groupies. Groupies for crying out loud! And some fine looking ones at that. “Nervous?” He shook his head. “This is what I was made for.”

  The stage announcer came over the loudspeaker system. “Ladies and gentlemen…”

  Megan primped Eddie’s coat. “You ready?”

  Eddie snugged his hat on his head. “Tail up and stinger out,” he said.

  She kissed him. “Save a little of that stinger for me.”

  “From Nashville, Tennessee, the man with the best selling record in the good old U-S- of -A, please give a hot-dang-you-all Texas welcome to Big World Record recording artist… Mr. Eddie Long!”

  63.

  “Just so we’re on the same page,” Jimmy said into the phone, “we’re talking about Atlas Publishing, the biggest house in New York. That Atlas Publishing?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I talking about the one in Kokomo, Indiana,” Jay replied. “They want to turn Eddie’s story into an illustrated children’s book. Christ! Of course the one in New York!”

  “No way,’ Jimmy said. “I don’t believe you.” It seemed like the natural thing to say in such a unique circumstance.

  What sounded like a tire going flat on the other end of the line was Jay Colvin venting some frustration. “Jimmy, we have to work on the trust in our relationship, I can see that. But you’ve got to understand, I wouldn’t lie about this sort of thing.”

  “But six hundred thousand dollars?” Jimmy paused and sat down. “It’s just hard to
believe.”

  “What’s hard about it? It’s a great book and your timing’s miraculous. It’s very easy when you look at it that way. Easy, easy, easy. Atlas pays half on signing, half on publication. And they want to rush to print as soon as you deliver the manuscript.”

  “And the catch?”

  “There is no catch!” Jay sucked some air through his teeth. “Were you born distrustful or do you train, because you have it down to a fine art.”

  “You’ve gotta understand—”

  “Wait, don’t tell me. This is some sort of Mason-Dixon thing, right? Tell me the truth, Jimmy, has the word ‘carpetbagger’ crossed your mind in the past two minutes? Never mind. I don’t care. I’ve gotta tell you, I’ve never had such a hard time delivering good news. Now I want you to sit down because if you’re having a hard time with that, you may be unable to come to grips with this next part.”

  “What part?” Jimmy could hear Jay punching in a phone number on another line.

  “Atlas wants you to include your theory, all the ‘evidence’ of Eddie’s culpability in Tammy’s death.”

  “What? That’s insane! Eddie and Herron’ll sue my pants off. And Atlas will hang me out to dry.” Eddie’s fax machine began to ring.

  “Do you know how much it hurts that I don’t have your trust? I’m sending something that might help. Check your fax machine.”

  As Jimmy walked to his office, he began to let himself believe the good news. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he said, “it’s just, this is happening so fast. Six hundred thousand’s a lot of money. I don’t want to get all excited then find out it’s not what it seems to be.” His fax machine spit out a letter on Atlas Publishing stationery. “Okay, I got whatever you sent.”

  “That’s a deal memo,” Jay said, “signed by the president of Atlas Publishing. In the third paragraph it states that not only will Atlas not hang you out to dry but they have also agreed to some extra language in the standard ‘hold harmless’ clause. And in the extremely unlikely event the plaintiff should win a judgement against you, you are covered by an Errors and Omission policy bigger than the National Democratic Party’s soft money fund. And, as if that’s not enough, Atlas has also agreed to pay you a $10,000 bonus if we do get sued.”

  Jimmy read the applicable paragraphs. “Well, that’s just plain damn crazy,” he said. “Why the hell would they do that?”

  “Because they love the book! Jimmy, I’m telling you, you get the editorial staff of Atlas Publishing on a jury in a libel suit against you, and you’d end up with a murder conviction against Eddie on the evidence you already have.”

  “No charges were ever brought—”

  “Jimmy, look, the cops don’t know everything you do. That’s the only possible explanation for why Eddie hasn’t been arrested. You are sitting on a stack of gold bars. I’m just trying to get you to look down and see what you’ve got.”

  “It feels more like dynamite to me.” Jimmy paused and thought about the six hundred thousand dollars. “Ahhh, but what the hell,” he said. “Long as we got it in writing, make the deal. I’ll finish the book.”

  64.

  The Long Shot tour moved east out of Dallas like a storm front. In eleven days they played Tiger Stadium in Baton Rouge, The Horseshoe Casino in Bossier City, the Coliseum in Biloxi, the fairgrounds in Mobile, the Daytona International Speedway, Taladega Super Speedway, The Palace Theater in Myrtle Beach, Harrah’s Cherokee Smokey Mountain Casino, and Jamboree in the Hills in Wheeling, West Virginia.

  They were averaging 18,500 a show at forty bucks a pop. After ten shows they’d brought in nearly seven and a half million dollars in ticket sales. The merchandising was a whole other cash cow. The Eddie Long t-shirts, sweat shirts, and baseball caps were hard to keep in stock, and the Long Shot mouse pad and the ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way’ screen saver were kicking ass. Of course there were expenses — rental on two decked-out tour buses and a big equipment truck, the band, backup singers, equipment manager, sound engineers — but even when you finished doing all the subtraction, there was no way around the fact that Eddie was just flat broke out with money.

  Recording artists and their managers will tell you the great thing about touring income is its immediacy. Money from radio play, publishing, and record sales was all delayed by a minimum of six months and it was chipped away at by suspect accounting practices, but every night after a show there was a brand new pile of folding money to count. Of course it wasn’t like the good old days when everybody carried handguns and walked off with a suitcase of cash, but modern country didn’t work like that. Now it was all electronic transfers and cashiers checks and no need for a .38. It was safer and perhaps even a bit bland, something the old guard might say paralleled the music, but hey, things change. Still, you needed petty cash for per diems and just generally to keep the skids greased so, every night after a show, Big Bill came onto the bus with a few thousand in cash in his briefcase.

  “How’d we do tonight?” Eddie asked as he opened a beer and settled into a sofa in the back of the bus.

  “We got enough money to burn a wet mule,” Big Bill said. “That’s how we did.”

  Eddie reached up and got a high five from Herron. “Ten down, twenty-five to go. Where are we tomorrow?”

  Megan looked at the tour sheet. “Heading east,” she said. “Medina County Fair in Ohio.”

  Franklin was standing outside the bus with one hand pressed to the side of his head trying to keep his earpiece from tumbling out again. While in New York, he had bought a new headset for his cell phone thinking it made him feel like a Silicon Valley hot shot. Sadly, it made him look more like a guy taking orders at the drive-through window at a KFC. He was talking to someone at SoundScan. “Good. Good. Wait a second,” he said, “let me get that down before you do the rest.” Franklin pulled his digital recorder from his pocket and repeated the numbers into the memory card. “Okay, go ahead. No, wait, I dropped my ear piece.”

  SoundScan was a company that had helped, however inadvertently, put country music on the map. They created a computerized in-store system for tracking record sales at the retail level. Before SoundScan, artists and managers had to rely on the notoriously corrupt charts in the industry trade papers which were compiled from the reports of easily bribed radio programmers and record store managers. Historically, the pop music industry used this system to control the charts, but SoundScan changed all that. With the implementation of their system in 1991 came numbers that were immediate and reliable and surprising to a lot of folks. The numbers showed country was selling a lot more than anyone thought — certainly more than the record companies were letting on in royalty statements. This public acknowledgment of country music’s popularity had an interesting side effect. Once it got out that country music wasn’t solely the realm of hideously inbred hillbilly defectives — that is to say, once the stigma of buying country records was lost — the citified middle classes began buying more and more country music. In effect, SoundScan made country appear ‘hip’ and this in turn increased sales even further. Of course there was always a backlash to popularity of this magnitude, thus the post-Garth dip in sales. But according to the numbers Franklin was hearing, the drought was over.

  “Thanks,” Franklin said, “I’ll be sure to pass that on to Eddie.” He turned off the phone and stepped onto the bus. “Anybody interested in the latest SoundScan numbers?”

  “Talk to me,” Eddie said.

  Franklin wore a grim expression. “Bad news is we haven’t hit the million mark yet.” Then he broke into a grin. “Good news is we probably will before we cross the state line.”

  “Yesss!” Megan pumped a fist in the air then did a little bump and grind.

  Franklin continued. “The official numbers are nine hundred sixty-eight thousand units in just over four weeks. And it’s still trending up. They’re projecting it out as double platinum. Also, I spoke to Debbie at the label. She said the single’s in hot rotation on two thousand
five hundred and forty-nine of the twenty-six hundred stations. The others, she assures me, will follow next week. We,” Franklin said loudly, “are number ONE!”

  Big Bill stood, faced Eddie, and started to applaud. Everybody on the bus followed suit. Eddie waved them off at first, then tipped his hat at them. Finally he picked up his beer and put his thumb over the mouth of the bottle. He shook it up and sprayed it everywhere in celebration to the hoots and hollers of the band and crew.

  Big Bill stepped into the spray, then sat back down next to Eddie, wiping the beer from his face with his shirt sleeve. “Well, as much fun as this number one record’s been, I think it’s about time to pick the second single.” Getting to choose the singles and their release dates was yet another of the unheard of aspects of Eddie’s deal with Big World Records.

  Eddie stuck his tongue out to snag a large drop of beer that was rolling down his face. “Okay,” he said, “I’m new at this. What’s the conventional wisdom?”

  “Conventional wisdom says we go with ‘Dixie National,’” Big Bill said. “It’s upbeat, skews more male than female, broadens our audience. I think it’s the way to go.”

  Eddie pointed at Franklin. “Your turn.”

  Franklin shook his head and pointed at Big Bill. “That’s his area,” he said.

  Eddie looked at Megan. “What do you think, puddin’?”

  Megan was already shaking her head. “‘Dixie National.’” She rolled her eyes. “Christ a’mighty,” she said. “Did we get to where we are by following the conventional wisdom?”