by Thomas Cobb
He is on his hands and knees, trying to drag himself along the wooden floor in the living room, pulling his cast behind him, when the thought hits him. He is an old, fat man with a broken ankle, scrubbing and waxing his floor for a woman he has known only a month. Worse yet, he suspects he will try to paint the bedroom walls before he is done. He tries to make sense of the whole thing. He goes to the telephone.
“I know a bunch of the people who work on the newspapers here,” he tells her. “You want me to get you some interviews?”
“I’ve been thinking about it. Maybe. Maybe it’s time for me to make a move. Would you mind doing that for me?”
“No. No, that’s fine. I’m glad to do it. You think you might want to marry me?”
“Jesus, you’re serious.”
“Well?”
“Oh God. Jesus, Bad, no. This is all too much. I’ve only known you a month. No, Bad, I can’t marry you.”
“But you think you might want to stick around for a while?”
“Look, Bad, this is all a little too much for me right now.”
“O.K. Forget it. I’m sorry I said it. I’ll see you in three days. I’ll be at the airport to meet you. I’ll be the big cripple with the cowboy hat. The one grinning like an idiot.”
“Right. I’ll see you then.”
What is so bad about housework he really can’t figure out. He knows everyone hates it, and he avoids it. But he is having a good time. He likes the way his house takes on a fresh look. The stove gleams as if it was fresh from the showroom, and like a television woman, he can see himself in his kitchen floor. Maybe what he has always done wrong is keep his women at home while he went to work. This time he could be the one to stay home while she went off to work. It is after midnight, he has Bob Wills on the stereo, and he feels like he could go on all night.
He is working in the bedroom, washing blinds and scrubbing sills, when the telephone rings.
“Bad, I’m sorry to bother you, but like things are getting really strange.”
It takes him a second to place the voice, which is hushed and slurred.
“Kim?”
“Bad. Look, I hate to ask this, but can I come over? I mean, for the night?”
“How much you had to drink, Kim?”
“A lot. But there’s this guy, Bad. I’m scared. I want to come over. I don’t want to stay here.”
“What the hell guy? What the hell you talking about?”
“There’s this guy, Johnny. We’ve been going out for a while. We had a fight, Bad. I think he’s going to hurt me.”
“Is he there?”
“No, he left.”
“Well, lock your doors, Kim. Don’t let the bastard in.”
“Bad, he’s a big guy. I’m really scared. Can I come over? Can you come and get me?”
“Kim, it’s one o’clock in the morning. You’ve been drinking, darlin’, he’s been drinking; he’s somewhere sleeping it off. You better do the same.”
“This guy’s serious. He rides with this motorcycle gang. I’m scared.”
“O.K. I don’t think you better drive. I’ll come and get you. You stay in the house, don’t let anybody in, except me. If anyone else comes to the door, call the police. Ol’ Bad’s on his way, darlin’.”
“You’ll come?”
“Lock the doors. Don’t let anyone in. No one.”
Outside, the night air is still and heavy. His foot, though, is cold where he has sloshed cleaning water onto the cast. He climbs into the truck and is putting the key in the ignition when the thought hits him. He is fifty-six years old, fat, going toward bloat, hobbled by a busted ankle, and he is scared. He pushes the key into the ignition, but he can’t turn it.
What can he do if Kim’s motorcycle boy comes back? In the house, he has a Ruger .38 caliber pistol that he has not fired in over twenty years. In the van are a tire iron and some chains. What good will any of this do him? He tries to turn the key, but his arm feels heavy and boneless. He goes back into the house.
The gun seems to be in good shape, though when he holds it up to the light, he can see dust and pits in the barrel. He cannot remember the last time he fired it or the last time he cleaned it. He can’t figure out how it got so dusty sitting in a drawer wrapped in an old T-shirt. Probably it would fire, though the ammunition is also twenty years old. He slips the gun into the waistband of his jeans and starts back for the door.
He can’t do this. He can’t face the motorcycle guy with or without the gun. He worries that he couldn’t pull the trigger if he had to, then that he could. He puts the gun on the end table and sits on the sofa. He picks up the phone.
“Are you O.K.?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I think I fell asleep.”
“Look. I can’t get my car started. I’m going to call the police.”
“Don’t call the cops. Johnny will kill me if you call the cops.”
“I’m afraid he’ll kill you if I don’t. I can’t get over there.”
“I’ll drive over myself.”
“Kim, don’t do that. You’re drunk. Let me call the cops.”
“No, no cops. In the morning, when he sobers up, Johnny will be O.K. I just don’t want to stay alone tonight.”
“I can’t come and get you, and you can’t drive.”
“Oh hell, forget it, Bad, just forget it.”
He holds the phone for a couple of seconds, listening to it buzz. He gets up, goes to the kitchen and fixes a long drink. He comes back, picks up the phone, deciding to call the police, then puts it back down. She is drunk. The motorcycle guy is drunk. Probably they just need to sleep it off.
In 1967, in Nashville, he drives for hours with a bottle of whiskey wedged between his legs and the .38 tucked into his belt. He has just finished cutting his album Back in the Crying Place. The title cut, the one cut he is sure of for a single, has been released two weeks earlier by Cal Farrell on Decca. It sits at thirty-two with a bullet.
This is the last album on his contract, and the next contract depends on how well it does. His own label has sold the rights to his song to Decca. He hasn’t been told. He only finds out when he hears it on the radio. Its first week out, it hits Billboard’s Hot 100, and his album won’t come out for three more weeks. He has no chance.
The deal was, Arthur Turock of J.M.I. tells him, that Cal Farrell’s album wasn’t supposed to be released until a month after his. Decca is in violation, and J.M.I. is going to sue. What the hell good does that do him? He wheels around the corner and takes another long pull at the bottle. It’s clear to him. There was no deal. J.M.I. has sold the rights to his song clear and simple. They figure that Farrell can get a hit on it and he can’t.
He guns the car and takes another long drink. When he pulls into the driveway at Arthur Turock’s, he cuts the engine, recorks his bottle and tucks it under the seat. He gets out of the car and slides the gun around behind his back, where his coat covers it.
“Why, Bad Blake,” Bonnie Turock says at the door. “We haven’t seen you here in ever so long. You come in. Arthur and the children are in the den, watching Bonanza. You come in and join us.”
“I’m obliged, Bonnie. You’re looking real nice.”
Bonnie Turock is a large, horse-faced woman in a floor-length print dress. She is from Macon, Georgia, and has never made the switch required of a record company executive’s wife. At cocktail parties, she serves home-baked pie. Maybe Arthur has hung on to her because she has the homey touch he doesn’t. Around Bonnie, Arthur Turock could pass for a real human being.
Arthur Turock is sitting on the sofa in his stocking feet, wearing chinos and a blue knit shirt. Next to him, his daughter, nine or ten, four feet six, one hundred and forty pounds, stares up at Bad. Her thick-lensed glasses magnify her eyes and make her appear even more cross-eyed than she probably is. She has the look of a startled fish. His sixteen-year-old son has hair that damn near covers his eyes, and skinny zip-up boots.
When Bad comes into the room, Arthur jumps
up, confused, regains his composure and comes forward to Bad, hand outstretched. “Bad, this is a surprise. I wish I’d known you were coming.”
“Arthur. June, Teddy. I’m sorry to bother you all. I just had an idea, something we need to discuss. It won’t take but a minute. I hate to break in on your television. Just one minute is all it will take.”
“Why don’t you fellows go into the dining room?” Bonnie says. “I’ll fix you all some coffee or some ice tea, and bring you some pie.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Bonnie. This will just be a minute and then I’ll be gone. I didn’t really mean to barge in. Maybe we can just go out to the back porch for a second.”
“Hell, let me get my shoes,” Arthur says.
“This will only take a second, Arthur. You like the Beatles, Teddy?”
“Yeah.”
“Me, too.”
“Sure.”
Out on the back porch, Turock turns on him. “Look, I know why you’re here. We’ve discussed this whole thing. Decca slipped one by us. Legal will screw them, screw them real good, but there’s nothing we can do about the record, it’s out. It’s in stores all over the country.”
“My record.”
“Your song. Hell, you’re going to make money off it anyway, and we can release ‘Remember Us?’ as the single. Hell, I think it’s a better song. Six weeks from now, we’ll have Decca tied into legal knots and you’ll have ‘Remember Us?’ at the top of the charts and old Cal will be staring at your ass, wondering what the hell happened on the way to the top. Don’t worry about it, Bad.”
“There was no deal. You just outright, fucking sold my song. You just let him take it. You figure I can’t take one up anymore. You’re just going to let the album die, just to fulfill the contract. You’re just going to let me die.”
“No, Bad. It’s like I explained it to you. We just slipped up and let them pull a fast one is all. Now, I think you better go home and sleep this off. You’re going to see things a lot clearer in the morning.”
“You are just letting me die.” He slips the gun out of his pants and points it at Arthur. His hand shakes, and the barrel of the gun describes shaky eggs in the air.
“Oh Lord,” Arthur says, “oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord.”
“Shut up.” He leans closer, so the gun is less than a foot from Arthur Turock’s belly. “I’m Bad Blake. I made you a lot of money, I bought you this fucking house. And now you’re going to let me die.”
“‘Remember Us?’ Bad, it’s going to do real well. We’re getting it out on a priority. If it doesn’t go, we’ll get ‘Staying Power’ out right behind it. No one is fucking you, Bad. We’re behind you, one hundred percent.”
“The hell. I’m going to kill you.”
“Oh Lord. What do you want me to do? I can’t stop Decca. It’s over, Bad. It’s history. What do you want me to do?”
The gun is shaking harder now, and Bad’s balance is getting shakier. He looks around. “There,” he says, pointing to a ceramic pot of petunias. “There. That’s what I want. I want you to get down on your knees and eat dirt. Like I’m eating dirt.”
“You’re crazy. You’re drunk and you’re crazy.”
“That’s right. I’m drunk, I’m crazy, and you’re going to eat dirt.” He pushes the gun into Turock’s belly.
Slowly, Arthur Turock sinks to his knees, leans forward and puts his face into the petunias. His face is bloodless as Bad watches the muscles in his jaw work. Bad stands and watches, the gun slowly lowering by his side. “I am Bad Blake,” he says. “Don’t you understand that, you son-of-a-bitch? I am Bad Blake.”
He turns and walks away, out the side gate and back to his car. He sits there for nearly half an hour, waiting for the police to come. When they don’t, he starts the car and drives away.
Back in the Crying Place is released a month later. There is no single. The album sells five thousand copies without an ad campaign and is cut out less than a year later. There are no more solo albums.
In the morning, he calls Jack first.
“I’ve got everything straightened out with Wayne,” Jack says, “so don’t mess anything up. I squeezed the bastard for another three percent.”
“Jack, you son-of-a-bitch, Wayne’s my friend. Don’t talk like that about him. That’s not why I’m calling anyway.”
“What’s up now?”
“I got two new songs. I’m transcribing them now, and I’m going to send them to you. You send them on to Tommy, and you make sure he holds up his end of the bargain. I want three cents on the mechanicals and all other rights on line with that. You also make sure he agrees that both of these are singles, A sides. Don’t let him fuck with you. Both of these are better than anything he’s done in the past ten years. If he won’t do them as singles, I want them back. Tell him the deal’s off. He’ll take them. Hell, I made Tommy Sweet a star, and I’m going to keep him a star.”
“Bad, even without singles, you’ll make a hell of a lot off two songs on a Tommy Sweet album. He’s got to be good for at least a million copies.”
“If they don’t go single, I’m going to cut them myself. I’ll find a label somewhere. No single, no deal. Got that?”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“You do what you can, you’ll get it done.”
“No promises.”
“You have problems, call me. I’ll talk to Tommy. And listen, I’m going to do these Sunday gigs for that politician guy.”
“It’s probably smart. His politics suck, but it’ll probably work out for you in the long run.”
“Wait, Jack, what’s wrong with this guy? I need to figure this out.”
“Hell, Bad, he’s another one of those born-again right-wingers, that’s what.”
“Yeah, so?”
He spends the rest of the morning at the kitchen table with his guitar and a pack of staff-ruled paper. He works his way through the melodies slowly, picking out the notes, trying alternates, making sure the moves are the right ones. He transcribes the songs bar by bar. When he is done, he signs and dates the sheets, copyrighting them to himself—Bad News Music.
“You want to go to breakfast after we close up?” he asks Wayne.
“I doubt it, I’m beat to hell. I want to go home now.”
“I’ve been writing all day. I need to unwind a couple dozen turns.”
“You’re just full of piss and vinegar because your lady friend is coming. You been jumpy as a wet cat all week.”
“You’re going to like her.”
“I’m sure I will. Any woman who puts up with you has got to be a dandy.”
Halfway through the second set, Ronnie Burke comes in and takes a seat near the front. He nods and raises a beer bottle to Bad, then sits back and smokes and watches. Bad hobbles over to his table at break. “It’s good to see you again,” he says.
“I was passing through town and thought I’d just stop in and have a listen and say howdy. You’re sounding good.”
“I feel pretty good. I hang in.”
“I’ll say you do. You got yourself a pretty good little band there, too.”
“We’re still breaking in the bass player, but the rest have been with me awhile. Terry on guitar has been with me for going on five years.”
“He’s good. I’ve been watching him. He’s real good.”
“I’ll tell him. He’ll be pleased.”
“I’d rather tell him myself. That is, if it’s O.K. by you.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Bad. We’re getting ready to release another record, and I’m going to be hitting the road for several months, maybe even over to Europe. I could use a picker who’s also a good tenor.”
“I don’t think Terry’s real anxious to go on the road.”
“Terry isn’t or you aren’t?”
“He’s my best man. Damn right I don’t want to lose him.”
“I don’t like to mess with another man’s living, Bad, but I’d like to t
alk to him.”
“He’s not available.”
“Look, Bad, you can’t keep him tucked away here in Houston. The kid’s good. He deserves a chance to get out on the road and let people hear him. I realize I’m asking to take away a good musician for a while, but this may be a real good chance for him. Hell, someone gave us our starts, maybe this is his. The kid can’t play a bar gig in Houston for the rest of his life.”
“I can’t stop you from talking to him. I don’t own him. But he’s the heart of this band, and I worked a long time getting him there. Do what you think is right.”
“I appreciate that, Bad.”
On the way back to the stage, he pulls Terry aside. “You see that skinny son-of-a-bitch in the black shirt over there, the one with all the gold chains and hair? That’s Ronnie Burke.”
“Yeah, I thought it was.”
“Well, he wants to talk to you next break.”
Bad stays away between the third and fourth sets, but while he stands talking at the bar, he watches Terry sitting at Ronnie Burke’s table. His stomach is starting to churn and he is sweating hard.
“Well?” he asks after the last set.
“He wants me to go on the road with him.”
“I know that. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’m happy here. I mean, this is my home. And I really don’t want to be on the road for six or eight months. And I don’t want to leave you stranded while I’m gone. Still, it’s a good deal and all. I mean, this is what it’s all about, isn’t it? And this isn’t going to last forever, is it?”
“No, I guess it isn’t.”
“I don’t know, Bad. What do you think I ought to do?”
“I can’t give you any answers, son. You got to figure this one for yourself.”
By the time he has packed up for the night, he has lost any desire to go to breakfast. When he climbs into the van, he feels too tired to turn the key. As he is heading out of the parking lot, Kim passes him, waving from the back of a loud, drawn-out motorcycle.