by Steve Brewer
Eddie was in the living room just glad she was working on something other than one of his songs. He was sitting at the big wrought iron and glass top table in the center of the room thinking he was just one good line from having a great song. His big flat top Gibson leaned against a chair while Eddie leaned over the table to the line in question. It was a long sparkling stripe he hoped contained his inspiration. He snorted it and threw his head back, putting a finger to his nose so he wouldn’t lose anything. He sniffed once or twice, grabbed the Gibson, and tried to think of another rhyme for heart. “Cart. . . smart. . . apart. . . K-Mart. . . shit!” He grabbed the legal pad, ripped off the page, and crumpled it. The floor was littered with yellow paper balls. Eddie told himself to relax, that he still had plenty of good songs inside. He just needed something to pry them out. He set his guitar down, hunkered over the glass top table, and snorted another line. Maybe that would do it.
“Save some for me,” Megan said. She breezed into the room with fabric samples draped over one arm and an catalogue for indoor fountains tucked under the other. She crossed to the table, picked up the straw, and snorted the remaining coke.
Eddie saw her at the last minute. “Heyheyhey! What’re you doin’? That was the last of it, goddammit!”
“Would you relax? I got a call in for more.” Megan sat down and looked at all the crumpled yellow paper. “I got an idea. How about we write a song—”
“How about you leave the goddamn songwriting to me, huh?” Eddie bolted to his feet. “How about that?” He grabbed the pad of paper and started circling the table. “Jesus.”
Megan threw her hands up. “Sure, whatever. I was just trying to help. Christ.”
Eddie jabbed the pencil in Megan’s direction. “Godammit, I haven’t written a decent song in four months! And I gotta tell you, if I don’t have some hits on the second record I’m fucked.”
“Hey! What about the songs we wrote? You said—”
“I know what I said but they’re all crap and Bill agrees. And he said A&R at the label hates every one of ‘em. Called ‘em amateurish and derivative.” Eddie figured this bit of humiliation would shut Megan up for a while, let him get back to work. He shrugged. “Not a single one we can use, simple as that.”
Megan exploded. “Well fuck them!” Standing in a fury, she snatched the big Gibson by the neck. “When did you start giving a shit about what those idiots think, huh Mr. Long Shot Hot Shot?”
“Calm down,” Eddie said derisively.
“Don’t you tell me what to do!” Megan suddenly turned and smashed the Gibson into the wrought iron leg of the table. The solid flamed maple split on impact. Strings popped and coiled up the bound Madagascar rosewood of the fingerboard.
Eddie snapped. “Goddammit, bitch!” It happened quick. Eddie landed an open hand against the side of Megan’s head. She dropped the busted guitar and staggered backwards feeling the sting on the side of her head. “Oh God,” Eddie said immediately. “I’m sorry.” He reached out and put his arms around her. “Are you all right? I didn’t mean to. . .”
Megan struggled to maintain her composure. She didn’t want to do or say anything to set him off again. She had too much to lose. She made a small whimpering sound, then slowly lifted her head. “Eddie,” she said, her eyes clear and sweet. “It’s okay, I love you.”
“I’m sorry I hit you.” Eddie felt terrible. “I’m just under so much pressure. And I never have any time alone anymore. I’m feelin’ all penned in, you know? Just trapped.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Eddie took a couple of steps away, looked outside. “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Maybe it’d be better if we kind of cooled it for a while, me and you.”
Megan tried not to stay calm. “No, it’s okay sweetie, I forgive you. It didn’t really hurt.” She reached down and picked up the shattered guitar which sounded a damaged note. “I shouldn’t have done that. We’ll get you a new one.”
Eddie stared at the guitar for a moment then blankly walked across the room and dropped into the La-Z-Boy. “It’s just that I’m used to being alone more. I work better that way, you know? That’s how I wrote all my old songs. And after being cramped up on that bus for a month and a half, hell, I just need some space, that’s all. I just need my space.”
Megan couldn’t believe her ears. This country prick was trying to toss her after all she’d done for him? Hell, she practically made him. And this was her thanks? “Eddie?” She said it in a small, almost childlike voice. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“About what?”
Megan bit her lip and looked like she might cry. “I just didn’t know how to. I didn’t want to mess things up for you.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Remember on the plane? To Dallas before the first show?”
“What about it?”
“In the bathroom. You didn’t have a condom?”
“Yeah.” Eddie started to get a bad feeling about the direction of the conversation.
“I didn’t want to do anything without telling you first.”
“Megan, what the hell’re you talking about?”
“It’s all my fault, I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry about what?”
She hesitated, looking down at her belly. “I think I’m pregnant.”
80.
Jimmy felt like a proud papa as he held the complete draft of the manuscript in his hands. Three hundred forty-seven pages, double spaced, one inch margins all around. It was well written. It was thorough. It was something you could thump against a desk. It was a lot of things, but it wasn’t finished.
After reading it cover-to-cover for the first time, Jimmy knew it was missing something. He had failed to show Eddie had access to any sodium fluoroacetate. He reviewed his notes from when he visited the Lytle farm. The shed there had all sorts of chemicals on the shelf. According to his notes there were containers of Benzahex, Ortho-Klor, Ethylene chlorohydrin, and something called Compound 1080. But no sodium fluoroacetate.
The link was too important to ignore. If he couldn’t show Eddie had access to the poison, the rest of the evidence seemed considerably more circumstantial. Problem was, Jimmy had looked at all the obvious places the poison might be. In addition to the Lytle’s shed, Jimmy had been to the Hegman property, and he’d looked in Eddie’s garage. Of course if Eddie really was the killer, there was no reason to think he’d leave the stuff somewhere it could be found. So Jimmy decided to take one last look at where he’d been. If he didn’t find what he was looking for, so be it. He’d go to print with what he had.
The coroner’s report confirmed sodium fluoroacetate was the cause of Tammy’s death. The documents from the National Crime Information Center said the same thing about the three other victims. Jimmy went on line and linked to the National Poison Control Center website. He started reading about the various substances in the shed.
Benzahex was a trade name for the chemical benzene hexachloride, a synthetic pesticide soluble in oily and fatty solutions, but not water. Already highly toxic, it was especially deadly if ingested after a fatty meal, making it that much more hazardous in the deep South.
Ortho-Klor was a trade name for chlordane, a chemical commonly used against termites during the 1950’s, 60’s, 70’s and 80’s. It was banned by the EPA in March of 1988 after the manufacturer was forced to acknowledge that chlordane was a carcinogen.
Ethylene chlorohydrin had a wide range of industrial uses, but down on the farm it was used to speed up the sprouting of potatoes and to treat seeds to inhibit biological activity.
That left compound 1080, a substance that occurred naturally in the African plant, Dichapetalum cymosum. Its synthesized cousin had been used in the United States as a rodenticide since 1945, as well as being an insecticide used on fruit trees to combat scale insects, aphids, and mites. According to the website, most mammals were fatally poisoned by less than 1 mg of Compound 1080 per kg of body weight. Compound 1
080 was also known as Fratol, sodium salt, sodium monofluoroacetate, and sodium fluoroacetate.
“Bingo.” Jimmy grabbed the phone and dialed. “Jay, it’s Jimmy. Guess who just finished writing a best seller?”
81.
Big Bill knew he lacked the gumption to do what his plan called for. He also knew better than to have any hands-on connection to the thing. He required outside help and, given his history in Nashville there was only one person in town Big Bill could trust. He picked up his phone and punched in the number.
Franklin was sitting in a booth at the Pancake Pantry in a fine mood. Ever since the end of Eddie’s tour Franklin had been getting the sort of respect he felt he deserved. In the ten minutes he’d been seated at the Pantry, a half dozen music industry veterans had stopped by his table to pay respects. He was pouring cream into his coffee when his cell phone rang. “Franklin Peavy.”
“Hey, it’s me,” Big Bill said. “Got a minute?”
“Sure,” Franklin said. “What’s up?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking,” Big Bill said. “Thinking about how you played such a critical part in getting Eddie signed, and getting his endorsement deal, and working out the merchandising contract, and, well, it occurred to me that if anybody in this town was on their toes, they might just try to lure you away from the company.”
Being an experienced attorney, Franklin sensed a good opportunity to distort the truth. “Well, I’d be lying if I told you I hadn’t had a few interesting offers.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Big Bill said. “But I can’t afford to lose you, so I’ve got a proposition I hope might interest you.”
“I’m listening.”
“I want to talk to you about co-producing Eddie’s next record. Me and you, whaddya say? It’s gonna be a big record.”
Franklin was speechless. This was huge. It meant a ton more money with the producer points he’d get plus a producer credit on what might turn out to be one of country music’s most important records. What a way to cap off a career. “I think it’s a great idea,” Franklin said.
“Long overdue,” Big Bill replied. “So let’s talk about it.”
“Great. Your office or mine?”
“Tell you what, uh, things are so crazy around here these days, let’s meet somewhere we won’t be interrupted. Say, Owen Bradley Park in an hour?”
82.
As a favor to Chester, Otis called over to Herron & Peavy and spoke to Franklin’s assistant. He explained he was trying to track down a client of theirs. “I believe his name is Whitney Rankin.” Franklin’s assistant said Whitney worked at the South Side Smoke House.
Chester got there as the lunch hour was starting. He sat at the bar and ordered the meat-and-three and a beer. He hadn’t been there five minutes before Whitney walked out of the kitchen with a big tray of food held over his head. It took Chester’s breath away. He knew the instant he laid eyes on the boy, that was his son. And he was a fine looking young man.
Chester watched as Whitney carried the tray of food over to a table full of young office workers. He was tall and lanky and moved with an awkward grace. He wore Wranglers, a black t-shirt, and a worn pair of black Tony Lama ropers. Chester noticed the ragged piece of red bandana around his wrist. He smiled at his long dark hair. It reminded him of Whitney’s mother. His face was innocent, narrow, and boyish, but not without troubles. Chester could see a whisper of himself in Whitney’s face and he watched his every move and strained to hear his voice, but he was too far away.
Chester ate his lunch then sat there for an hour watching his son. He wanted to go over and tell Whitney who he was but he knew this was neither the time nor the place. He wanted to put his arms around his boy and tell him how sorry he was for what he’d done — or more specifically, for what he’d failed to do. More than ever Chester felt the guilt that had dogged him all his life. He was ashamed, not because he’d failed as a singer, but because he’d failed as a father. He’d walked out and left a young boy and his mama to fend for themselves. He was a coward, or worse.
Chester also wanted to know about the song. He had no doubt it was the one he’d written for his son all those years ago. It wasn’t that Chester felt he was owed anything for it. But since Big Bill Herron had his name attached to it and Whitney was in Nashville toting pork ribs for tip money after the song had gone to number one, well, Chester knew someone had been fucked and he knew from experience it wasn’t Big Bill.
But as much as Chester wanted to go over and say something, wanted to ask him a million questions and tell him how ashamed and sorry he was and how he didn’t deserve to be forgiven after what he’d done, Chester couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t think he deserved to satisfy his own desires at the expense of his son, so he just put some money on the bar and slipped away, happy for having just seen the boy.
83.
Franklin took his time. He sat there and enjoyed his waffles, his bacon, and his coffee. He was enjoying everything these days. He’d been asked to be the key note speaker at several important record industry functions. There was talk about a profile in Nashville Magazine. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, that attractive marketing executive at the label had been flirting with him. Yet despite this parade of blessings, Franklin refused to believe his luck. No matter how dazzled he was by his newfound celebrity, Franklin knew Big Bill wasn’t inclined to feeling charitable even in the best of times. He suspected there was more to his generous offer than he was letting on.
Franklin reached into his pocket and pulled out his digital recorder and made sure the memory card was clean. No matter what else, if Big Bill was going to make him a bona fide offer to co-produce Eddie’s next record, Franklin was damn sure going to get it on tape (so to speak).
Owen Bradley Park was at the north end of Music Row, a five minute drive from the Pancake Pantry. Franklin parked on 16th Avenue, near the old Hall of Fame. He slipped his recorder into his breast coat pocket. He could see Big Bill sitting on one of the benches reading Billboard. Franklin hit the ‘record’ button, got out of his car, and crossed the street.
“Hey now!” Big Bill said when he saw Franklin. “Thanks for coming.”
“You kiddin’? Your invitation was too tempting to ignore.”
“Good,” Big Bill smiled. “Real good.” He gestured for Franklin to sit and they settled down on the bench together. Big Bill looked towards downtown. “Nice day, huh?” Franklin nodded. It wasn’t too hot. There was a slight breeze and the blue sky was busy with billowy clouds drifting toward Memphis. Big Bill took a deep breath and exhaled peacefully as he gazed at the clouds. “It’s been quite a ride, so far, hadn’t it?”
“You mean the whole thing or just the Eddie Long part?”
“Whole thing,” Big Bill said, spreading his arms wide. “But especially the Eddie Long part.” He clapped his hands together, turned to his partner, and winked.
“Can’t argue with that,” Franklin said with a cock of his head.
“What’d we move this week, three hundred fifty thousand units?”
“In that neighborhood.”
“Yes sir, a helluva ride,” Big Bill said. “Whole thing’s got me thinking a lot lately about how you and me’ve pretty much spent our entire professional lives together.” He shifted in his seat to speak more personally. “Now I know we hadn’t always got along great and we’ve passed some words now and then, but I figure that’s just business and it doesn’t rightly signify the respect we have for each other.” Big Bill’s eyes swept the park then settled on his partner. “Look,” he said, “let me just put this on the front porch. Way I see things is we got two problems standing between us and a prosperous future. One is the fact that Eddie’s run dry with his songs.” Big Bill paused before continuing in a tone of disgust. “The other’s that damn Megan Taylor.”
“I don’t disagree,” Franklin said, “but what’s that got to do with me producing Eddie’s next record?” He leaned slightly closer to Big Bill to make sure the tiny microp
hone could pick up every word.
Big Bill nodded, understanding Franklin’s concern. “Don’t worry, I meant what I said. I want you to co-produce Eddie’s next record with me, use that damn ProTools or whatever you wanna do. But if we don’t do something about Megan, and in a hurry, we might not be in a position to be makin’ any more records.”
“I’d like to see her try. We’ve got a solid contract.”
“I know, and you write as good a contract as can be written. But she’s got him all fucked up on the cocaine and he still hasn’t written a single song I’d put on anybody’s next record, much less his. Hell, ours! You want to be co-producer on a record that flops?” Franklin shook his head. Big Bill gestured vaguely towards Belle Meade. “The bitch is probably back at their house right now filling him with all sorts of ideas about how he needs to sue to get out of our deal and hook up with some young, hip manager, and all things considered I think we’d all be better off without her in the picture.”
Franklin wasn’t surprised at the pitch so far. This wasn’t the first time he’d heard Big Bill talk about driving a wedge between an artist and an outside advisor unsympathetic to the goals of Herron and Peavy. “What’re you proposing?”
“Well, like I said, I think we got two problems, and I had an idea that just might solve both of ‘em.” Big Bill’s expression suddenly grew dark. “You might think I’m crazy — and I damn well might be, but you remember how Eddie said he wrote ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way’ after his wife was killed?” Big Bill waited for that to sink in before continuing, hoping it would brace Franklin for what was coming. “I think the key here for this is we got to give him some. . .” he lowered his voice, “. . . emotional turmoil.” He gave a look of I-didn’t-come-to-this-decision-lightly before continuing. “He’s got a huge hit record and he’s fixin’ to be honored at the CFAs, he knows he ain’t got a trouble in the world. So I’m thinking we have to. . .create some.”