by Steve Brewer
First Jimmy had to assume Eddie wanted Tammy dead. And so far he’d heard two possible reasons for that. Second, since Eddie knew Tammy was hypersensitive to MSG, Jimmy figured that after bringing some Chinese food home from Memphis, Eddie dosed the leftovers with Uncle Randy’s Meat Tenderizer before leaving to play the Coast. He knew Tammy would eat it while he was out of town, would get a terrible headache, and take the only headache remedy in the house, which Eddie knew was poisoned because he had poisoned it. It was nice and neat except that Eddie would be considered the prime suspect notwithstanding the fact he was out of town at the time of her death. So how would he get around that? The answer was simple, if macabre. What if Eddie killed the others to make it look like there was a serial killer roaming the South and that Tammy was just one of several unfortunate victims?
“Jesus H. Jones,” he muttered. “This is fabulous.” Not only did this give his theory a good shape, but Megan was sure to leave the bastard when she heard this. She might even look to Jimmy as the guy who saved her life. How could she not come crawling back after that? Jimmy looked at his calendar. The Mississippi Coliseum in Jackson was the last stop on the Long Shot tour. If Jimmy couldn’t reach Megan sooner, he’d be able to tell her then.
Jimmy wheeled over to the computer to start writing up his conclusion but, with his fingers poised over the keyboard, he suddenly realized there was still a flaw in his argument. It was about the size of the hole that .22 left in Tammy’s head. Where the hell did that come from, he wondered. Eddie couldn’t possibly have done that. Jimmy thought of the Robert Altman film Cookie’s Fortune and considered the possibility that someone (Mr. Teasdale? The mystery lover?) had fired the shot for reasons Jimmy couldn’t fathom. But he quickly realized the reasons didn’t matter except as a bizarre side note since he knew, according to the coroner’s report, that Tammy had died from the poison.
But the gunshot wound was only one of the problems. There was also the matter of the sodium fluoroacetate. It wasn’t exactly a commonplace product and Jimmy had never been able to show Eddie had access to the stuff.
Jimmy put his hands over his face. Shit. He just wanted to prove it. Or disprove it. He didn’t care which. He just wanted something definite instead of all the circumstantial stuff leading to all the maybes. Jimmy started to rub his temples. All this crap was giving him a headache. He got up, went to the bathroom and looked for an aspirin, an Advil, Tylenol, anything but a Dr. Porter’s Headache Powder.
71.
While back in Nashville Big Bill met with the people from the Country Fanfare Awards. They agreed to make the presentation of the Tall Cotton Award at the midpoint of the show. Prime time network television exposure was expected to boost record sales by 250,000 units.
Franklin would have been at the CFA meeting except that he was busy negotiating a million dollar endorsement deal for his hot young client. The next day it was announced in the trades that Eddie was the official spokesman for a new Internet company specializing in MP3 file protocol management emulation software, whatever the hell that was. Everywhere Franklin went these days, he was getting the respect he craved, and not just for the deals he was negotiating. He was beginning to get some credit for his association with the record itself and he loved it.
After being back in Nashville for a week, Big Bill and Franklin packed their bags and headed for Los Angeles where Eddie was scheduled to play the Greek Theater. It was show number twenty-five and it had been sold out for weeks. The special services departments at all the major talent and literary agencies had pulled all available strings to get every last ticket for their VIPs. It was the toughest ticket since the Lakers were in the championship.
Big Bill put on the dog for the show at The Greek. He knew the place would be slithering with celebrities, so he stepped out of the limo wearing his thousand dollar black cherry brush-off full-quill ostrich boots with the black cherry brush-off goat top, the thirteen inch full scallop, and the #1212 stitch. He had a special pair of jeans, tailor made to give him the ‘relaxed’ fit his big round ass required. He wore a leather fringe vest over a brightly colored Brushpopper bib shirt with pearl snaps. He topped the whole ensemble off with a silver belly El Patron from Stetson. He looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy dressed as the Grand Marshall for a cartoon rodeo.
And he didn’t even stand out.
The whole crowd was a spectacle of western raiment. Stars from the television, film, and recording industries were there in full country regalia, from thousand dollar Stetsons to boots made from rare Speckled Burmese Lizards. Back in the cheaper seats the fashions were more authentic among L.A.’s vast population of displaced dust bowlers, bible belters, and Texas panhandlers, most of whom were working on screenplays featuring hard-luck bull riders, struggling farmers, or legendary SEC football players.
Backstage, Franklin was strutting around in his favorite pair of natural marked Tejo lizard boots with the black kidd top along with his usual dark slacks and sports coat. He wore a gaudy silver and turquoise medallion over his black turtleneck. Though not normally a hat guy, he was sporting a black Resistol Lancer with a custom red and green feather headband. The boots hurt his feet, so he had turned to vodka to get him through the night. He was enjoying a Bloody Mary while talking to a young agent. “Well, as of this afternoon,” Franklin said, “the thing had sold nearly 3 million units. It’s an answered prayer, no other way to characterize it.”
“That’s fabulous,” the young agent said. He gently took Franklin’s arm, leading him away from other ears. “The reason I ask is, I have a client, very talented singer songwriter. He’s not working out in pop music and I think it’s because he’s too country. Now, I think with the right producer, and by that I mean you — no offense to Big Bill, he’s a certified giant — but I think your sensibilities might be perfect.”
“I’d love to get a tape,’ Franklin said coolly, “because it happens that I’m looking for a project to work on right now.”
72.
Megan and Eddie were off in a corner talking to a development executive from one of the studios. “Let’s see,” Megan said, “‘Potholes’ is still at number one. ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way’ was down to number six or seven this week, but it tied the record for most weeks at number one.”
“That’s fabulous, congratulations,” the development executive said. “Listen, I know I should probably talk to Herron and Peavy first, but I just have to ask, have you considered film? Your smile is pure cinema, and I’m not just saying that.”
“Actually,” Megan said, “Herron and Peavy just manage Eddie’s recording career. I’m his manager for all other media.”
“Terrific! The reason I bring it up is I just read coverage on a wonderful script about a kid who gets a football scholarship to the University of Georgia but he has to leave the struggling family farm to do so. Unfortunately he loses a hand in a combine accident his last day on the farm, so he loses his scholarship and ends up on the rodeo circuit as a hard luck bull rider.”
“Interesting,” Megan said. “Sort of North Dallas Forty meets The Grapes of Wrath with a little Cowboy Way thrown in. We’d love to see the script.”
“Absolutely,” Eddie agreed. He glanced over the film executive’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, would you excuse us for a minute? We’ll talk more, but I just saw someone I have to speak to.” Eddie put his arm around Megan and led her away, whispering in her ear. “It’s time for a toot, sweetie, I’m starting to flag here.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” she said. “Listen, you want me to pick up another eight ball for the rest of the tour?”
73.
Big Bill was watching them from across the room. He stepped over to Franklin who excused himself from his chat with the agent. Big Bill gestured at Eddie and Megan. “My little speech didn’t seem to take,” Bill said.
“Yeah, well he’s handling it okay for now. Has he written anything since Oregon?”
“Two songs, both filler, and weak a
t that.”
“Damn.” Franklin gulped some bloody Mary then let out a sigh.
The two men stood there, silently contemplating their situation. After a moment Franklin noticed Big Bill’s expression brighten. “You know,” Big Bill said, “it just occurred to me we have a great song for Eddie. A big hit in the mid-seventies. Perfect for him to cover.” He smiled broadly and slapped his hands together.
“And it’s ours?”
Big Bill nodded. “Remember ‘Good Old Daze’?”
“The Carson Fletcher song?”
“That’s the one.”
Franklin looked vaguely confused. “I thought we only had half the publishing on that, with what’s his name, uh, Buddy Glenn. Whatever happened to him?”
“Buddy hit a rough patch,” Bill said. “I understand his wife passed away a couple of weeks ago.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, tragic. But the point is we got all the publishing now and it’s good damn song. Perfect for Eddie.”
All the sudden Franklin could hear it in his head. “I think you’re right. The thing was never too twangy.”
“It was really just a pop song with country lyrics and a steel guitar,” Big Bill said. “Always reminded me of Pure Prairie League. Country radio’d probably jump on it.”
Franklin nodded. “Well, good. We got a song. Now all we need is about nine more.”
“Excuse me.” Herron and Peavy turned to see a beautiful young woman. “Hi,” she said.
“I’m Heather Brown with Country Weekly Magazine. Could I ask you two a few questions?” Big Bill and Franklin kindly obliged, answering the usual questions about how the tour and record sales were going. They also lied about the great songs Eddie was writing for the next record. “I really appreciate your talking to me,” Heather said, wrapping up her interview.
“Our pleasure, ma’am,” Franklin said with a tip of his hat.
Big Bill looked around cautiously then subtly gestured at the young reporter. “Heather, can I ask you something off-the-record? I figure if anyone knows about this, it’s someone with connections like yours.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Have you heard anything about an unauthorized biography on Eddie that’s about to be published? I heard it was coming from one of the big houses in New York. Supposed to make some wild allegations.”
Heather looked surprised. “I haven’t heard anything, but I’ll definitely look into it.”
“If you hear anything,” he said, handing her his card, “please call me. I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll let you know,” Heather said before turning to leave.
Franklin and Big Bill slipped away from the crowd to continue their private conversation. “Where’d you hear about a biography?” Franklin asked.
“Rumor somebody asked me about a half hour ago.” Big Bill gestured across the room at no one in particular. “Some guy over there, I forget who he said he was with, said he’d heard something about a book on Eddie. It was bound to happen.”
“I suppose. So how much time should we give Eddie before we go outside?” Franklin asked. “For songs, I mean.”
Big Bill shook his head. “I hate to do it, but why don’t we listen to some tapes, if we find some things we like, we can put a hold on them. If Eddie comes up with something in the meanwhile, we’re not out all that much.”
Franklin slugged down the rest of his drink. “God, I hate not having the publishing.”
74.
It was late Tuesday night. The last customer settled his bill and slipped into the dark Nashville night. Estella had gone home, leaving Otis to close the place. He was in the kitchen, making his dinner. He dipped his hands gently into the big bowl of milk and paprika to gather the shrimp. He let the liquid drain through his fingers, waiting patiently so gravity could do its job. He laid the soaked shrimp onto the big board with the spicy flour and carefully dredged each one, like tucking them in for bedtime. When they were ready, Otis put them into the wire basket and lowered them into the fat.
He stared at the bubbling oil and smelled the froth for the millionth time. It was a familiar and relaxing ceremony. It took his mind off things. Otis wiggled the basket once, like he always did, and never took his eyes off the oil, its heat held his gaze as the sounds soothed his jangled nature.
Bing! The bell in the service window rang suddenly. Otis jerked his head up in surprise. Who the hell would be ringing the bell? Bing! He turned and looked. It was an older man, a white guy, looking into the kitchen, ringing the bell. Bing! Otis looked back at the man, then stepped forward and looked again, disbelieving. He wiped his flour-covered hands on his apron. “Chester?” he said tentatively. “Chester Grubbs, is that you?”
The old guy smiled and tipped his worn cowboy hat. “What’s left of me.”
75.
Otis gave Chester the first plate of shrimp and made another. They sat in a booth by the back wall with their food and two pints of bourbon. There were way too damn many lost years for them to talk about things in any kind of order, so the conversation ran loose and wild. At first it was mostly about the old days — the records, the concerts, the girls. They laughed about all the funny stuff and they tried to be philosophical about all the shit that had gone wrong.
Otis popped a shrimp into his mouth, tail and all. He liked the crunch. “You wanna know what I heard?” he asked. “I heard you was dead.”
“Wasn’t far from it,” Chester replied, leaving it at that.
Otis was still crunching on the shrimp tail as he spoke. “Heard some bad things. Everything from you dying from heroin to hangin’ yourself with a guitar string.” He shook his head. “Peoples’ll say just about anything when they don’t know the truth.”
Chester was pulling the tails off his shrimp. “Well, there’s probably some truth to everything you heard,” he said, tossing the tails onto Otis’s plate. “Except for the one about me hangin’ myself. After things fell apart here, I just couldn’t stay, you know, couldn’t stand the humiliation. People didn’t want to work with me all the sudden, whispered that I never fulfilled my potential or that I never had any potential in the first place. I got to thinking they were right, so I run off and spent mosta my time drinkin’ and movin’ around to places where nobody knew who the hell I was so I didn’t have to explain why I turned out like I did, you know?”
Otis looked Chester in the eye, nodding slowly. He understood.
“Everything good they can throw at a man and every bad choice a man can make and I made ‘em all.” Chester just shook his head at the thought. “‘Course, some things I did was worse than others.” He took off his hat and rubbed his hand through his dirty gray hair. He pushed back his chair, stood, and gestured at himself. He looked worn out and his clothes didn’t help — a pair of slightly grease-stained bargain basement blue shop pants and a plaid shirt that couldn’t’ve cost more than a buck at the Goodwill. It was a look frequently seen on ex-convicts in the midwest in the fifties. “Tell me I ain’t the sorriest son of a bitch you ever saw.”
Otis was shaking his head now. “Things shoudn’ta happened the way it did.” Otis hesitated as Chester sat back down and resumed eating. Seeing Chester like this put Otis somewhere he hadn’t been in a long time. It made him think about all the shit that happened to them and to a lot of other people they knew. He almost didn’t want to say it, but it came out anyway. “That Bill Herron. . .” he shook his head some more and calmed himself down. “I was real mad for a while, but I learned to let it go.” He said the last part like he was still trying to convince himself.
Chester squinted wryly. “Yeah, I heard you let it go on some man in Memphis after I left.”
The slightest smile crossed Otis’s face. “Yeah, I ‘spect that’s part of why that happened. But that man was forcin’ hisself on Estella. Man can’t allow that to happen, you know that. But I did my time.” He said it like he’d earned the right. “Woulda been more but Mr. Peavy, he helped me out on that.”
&
nbsp; “That’s good,” Chester said. “But you shouldn’t have to do time for defending your woman is all I’m sayin’.”
Otis poured a little more bourbon for both of them. They sat there in silence for a while, just eating and sipping their drinks, looking at each other and thinking about the water under the bridge. “It’s been a awful long time, Chester.” He looked at his old friend. “Why’d you come back?”
Chester put both elbows on the table and fixed Otis with dead serious eyes. “Everywhere I went, I heard people talkin’ ‘bout your shrimp, Otis. I had to come back and see for myself.” He wrapped a couple of the shrimp in a piece of white bread then took a big bite and chewed a few times. “I just wish I’da come back sooner.”
Otis laughed. “You shoulda. Used to put more on a plate than we do now.”
They both laughed, then Chester held up his glass for a toast. “Old friends.”
“Old friends,” Otis said, clinking his glass to Chester’s.
They drank. As Otis poured some more, Chester pulled something from a sack he’d brought with him. It was a copy of the Long Shot CD which he laid on the table. “This is the reason I came back, Otis.” He took the cd out of the jewel box and pointed at the writing credits for ‘Potholes In My Heart.’ “I think this here’s my son,” he said, pointing to ‘W. Rankin.’ “See, we named our boy Whitney. ‘Course I lost touch with his mama, but for all I know she remarried some man last name of Rankin, might’ve adopted the boy, you know?” Chester stared at the name on the disc. He touched it lightly, as close to his son as he’d felt in decades.
Otis didn’t want to dampen Chester’s enthusiasm, but he also didn’t want his old friend leaning on such a weak reed. “That’s not much reason to think it’s your son, Chester. I mean, you been gone too long time to come back just for that.”