Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  He pulled a guitar case from the trunk and headed for the Opry itself. It was a long way to the auditorium and, realizing it might be his last free walk for a while, Chester tried to enjoy it. Along the way he saw a few reminders of his past. He stopped to read a plaque with names of some of the old-timers he knew. A little further on he paused to look at some hand prints set in the concrete by Country Music Hall of Famers, some of whom he had mingled with at Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge where he tried to make connections with someone who might’ve helped him back then. That’s where he met Big Bill two weeks before he signed with Herron Management and Promotions.

  Looking up from the handprints, Chester was startled to see Minnie Pearl strolling with Porter Wagoner but it was just some actors dressed that way. They wandered the grounds of Opryland giving tourists photo ops.

  At the backstage entrance a young security guard saw Chester approaching. He didn’t recognize the haggard old man with the guitar case, but he assumed Chester was one of those who had come before his own country music heros. The kid had once made the mistake of stopping a poorly dressed older man at the door, only to find out he was a member of the Opry. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. “You’re here early,” the kid said.

  Chester hefted his guitar case slightly. “Gotta run scales,” he said. “I’m a little rusty.”

  Chester showed his pass and slipped inside. There were all manner of technicians, record company personnel, and media coordinators scurrying around the auditorium. They were all so busy they didn’t pay Chester the slightest attention. He was neither legend nor ‘It Boy.’ He passed through the backstage area and smiled when he saw the famous barn façade and WSM logo that was used each week for the Grand Ole Opry.

  Chester had never been to the new Opry. It was a beautiful and modern 4,400 seat auditorium. Tradition being the sort of thing that was honored in the culture, there was an eight-foot circle of hardwood taken from the stage at the Ryman and placed center stage here. It gave Chester pause to think of the people who had performed on that very surface. He’d never made it there himself, so he walked out on the stage and stood there for a moment before moving on to what he had to do.

  He spent nearly an hour studying the layout of the building, starting down in the trap for the hoists and scenery lifts. Evntually Chester headed back up through the parterre, past the control room, up a flight of stairs to the balcony, then to the gallery. There he found what he needed — a secluded wall-mounted ladder leading up to the catwalk. It wasn’t an easy climb with the guitar case but Chester managed to get up. Once there he had to find a spot where he wouldn’t be discovered.

  About sixty feet away he saw a camera operator setting up behind the front lights, and there were a few spot operators clambering around the lighting grid but none of them appeared to have need to pass where Chester was going. He found a safe spot, sat down, and settled in for the wait.

  He opened the guitar case and pulled out the Springfield Arms 30.06. It had a 6X Redfield scope mounted on top. Chester had hunted a lot of deer with a rifle like this and was still a fair shot at two hundred yards. He figured from his current vantage point, which was more like fifty yards from center stage, even Ronnie Milsap could hit the target. Chester slipped a round into the chamber and checked the safety. Then he sat back, closed his eyes, and waited.

  94.

  The crowd began drifting in a couple of hours later, filling the seats in the back of the gallery and balcony. As curtain approached, more and more stars took their seats in the parterre. Jimmy had been milling around the foyer for the last forty-five minutes making notes for his first e-stallment for the Atlas website. He spent most of his time judging the attire. Unlike the elegant CMA gathering with its emphasis on designer fashions, the crowd at the Country Fanfare Awards dressed in an array of styles ranging from would-you-take-a-look-at-my-cleavage gowns to prom-night-at-Hee-Haw tuxedos. About half the crowd was wearing cowboy hats and there were so many exotic animal skins stretched into the shape of Italy you’d have thought some over-snuffed bootmaker had used the endangered species list to make up his catalogue.

  About fifteen minutes before the scheduled start time, Jimmy headed for his seat in the middle of the auditorium and read through the program. This year’s Country Fanfare Awards called for thirty performances and twenty awards, starting with Best Male Vocal Performance and ending with Record of the Year. Eddie’s Tall Cotton Award was scheduled for the midpoint in the show, right after a performance by Mary-Maggie-Mason, a hot new band whose music was best described as hip-hop country. M3, as the group was known, was also up for the Best New Non-Traditional Primarily Female Trio Award. The band featured the traditional country instrumentation of two guitars, a pedal steel, fiddle, bass, keyboards, and drums, but they also featured a DJ. They were the first country act to use the rap technique of scratching and sampling old records as part of their music. They incorporated bits of Hank Williams, Bob Wills, The Louvin Brothers, and Tammy Wynette recordings in their popular debut album. Contemporary country fans loved M3’s hipness and a surprising number of pop music fans had embraced the group as well. Predictably, traditionalists were appalled by what they considered the group’s shameful disrespect for the classics. Jimmy overheard one member of the Opry say he thought Mary-Maggie-Mason was the surest sign he’d yet seen of the coming Apocalypse.

  At eight o’clock, the lights dimmed, the curtains rose, and the announcer came over the sound system. “Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the sixteenth annual Country Fanfare Awards!” The show opened with an ill-conceived dance number set to a medley of all the songs nominated for Song of the Year. Jimmy wasn’t sure but he hypothesized the choreographer was attempting an interpretive square dance. After that things couldn’t help but improve.

  The Master of Ceremonies was a popular country comedian who opened the show by saying, “You might be a redneck if you’re here.”

  The show was only twenty minutes behind-schedule as they neared the midpoint. Mary- Maggie-Mason had just been introduced to wild applause and was ripping through their new single which drew on fragments of Johnny Cash, Ferlin Husky, and Doug Kershaw.

  The presentation of the Tall Cotton Award was four minutes away. Eddie and the rest of ‘Team Long Shot’ were back in Eddie’s dressing room having a last-minute discussion about acceptance speech strategy.

  “I think Bill’s right,” Franklin said. “It looks better if you walk out there holding Megan’s hand.”

  “It humanizes you,” Big Bill explained. “You walk out there with your girl who’s proud to be with you, who’s at your side during your time of adversity, and then you get that award?” He shook his head. “Nobody’ll care what’s in that damn book.”

  Megan tentatively reached over and took Eddie’s hand. “And I am proud, Eddie. You know that,” she said.

  “Okay,” Eddie said, “I think you’re right. We’ll hold hands. Now, what if I just make a joke about the book? Sort of dismiss it as the price we have to pay, that sort of thing?”

  “No, don’t even bring it up,” Franklin said. “Bringing it up just means you feel you have to defend yourself which implies there’s some truth to it, even if you’re doing it in a joking manner. I’d just ignore it.” Big Bill nodded agreement.

  “Okay,” Eddie said. “Fine.” He was bouncing on his toes, full of nervous energy. “No book jokes. Don’t even mention it.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Two minutes,” a voice said.

  Big Bill slapped him on the shoulder. “See you on stage.” He and Franklin turned and headed out the door.

  Megan ran her hand down Eddie’s arm. “How you doin’ there, champ?”

  “I’m a nervous wreck,” he said. “And I’m a terrible person who doesn’t deserve to have someone as good as you holding my hand. I don’t know why you put up with me.”

  “What else am I gonna do? Miss Wynette said ‘stand by your man.’” She shrugged. “Who am I to argue?” Megan primped the front o
f Eddie’s coat, then she got on her tip toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Now let’s go get us a statue.” She winked at him.

  95.

  As the members of M3 took their bows, a new backdrop descended onto the stage in front of them, arousing soft ooohs and aaahs from the crowd. It was an exquisite wall of billowy cotton some of which had been subtly shaded ivory to spell out ‘Tall Cotton Award’ against the bleached white background. “And now,” the off-stage announcer said, “The Country Fanfare Association is proud to present the newest jewel in our crown. Brought to you by the Cotton Farmers of America, here to present the inaugural Tall Cotton Award, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Franklin Peavy and Big Bill Herron.” The audience responded with enthusiastic, if insincere, applause.

  As Big Bill and Franklin walked toward the podium from opposite sides of the stage, Chester got ready. Doubt never entered his mind. He was settled on what he was going to do and, dispassionately, he set about doing it. He took a sponge-sized beanbag and draped it on one of the struts that formed the guardrail of the catwalk. He carefully raised the 30.06 and laid the barrel onto the beanbag, his bench rest. Chester switched the safety off, then rolled his neck once. He put his cheek near the stock, closed his left eye and peered through the scope with his right.

  Big Bill and Franklin, both wearing modestly sequined tuxedos, met behind the podium at center stage and took small bows as they waited for the applause to die down. When things settled, Big Bill leaned toward the mic and read stiffly from the Teleprompter. “We work in a business built by and blessed with exceptional artists,” he said. “And it’s on nights like this one when we rightfully take the time to recognize their artistry and their contributions to the country music industry.” Big Bill stepped back from the podium slightly.

  Franklin leaned in toward the microphone. “But every now and then someone so special comes along that we have to find a new way to acknowledge their gift.”

  Big Bill continued, “So when this next artist exploded onto the scene, takin’ the world of country music by storm, the board of governors of the Country Fanfare Association realized they’d be tryin’ to cut the big hog with the little knife by honoring him with any of their existing awards.” There was a smattering of laughter in the crowd.

  “So they created a new award to commemorate any debut album which achieves double platinum status in less than six months.” Franklin paused again for applause while Big Bill hoisted the trophy and stepped out from behind the podium. “It is our pleasure here tonight to present the inaugural CFA Tall Cotton Award to the one and only . . . Mr. . . .Eddie . . .Long.”

  The chorus of ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way’ came soaring from the sound system as Eddie and Megan walked out from the wings holding hands, country music’s hottest new couple. The fans in the backs of the balcony and gallery shot to their feet in a wild burst of applause. Eddie’s fellow artists rose and gave him a standing ovation. Some of them even meant it. Eddie waved modestly then tipped his hat just so. He did his best to smile in an aw-shucks-I’m-not-sure-I-deserve-this-but-thanks sort of way. Megan basked in the moment as they crossed the stage to where Big Bill stood waiting with the trophy.

  Jimmy couldn’t believe how beautiful she was. She was wearing a sheer amber gown cut low in the front and the back. Her wild red hair crowned her magnificently and she carried herself like she belonged on the stage. From the moment Jimmy saw her walk onto the stage he felt an ache of jealousy he never could have imagined, much less understand.

  Chester had Megan’s magnificently crowned head square in his sight as she floated across the stage with Eddie. “Pop,” he said quietly. The thunderous applause continued as Chester watched through the 6X Redfield scope.

  Eddie let go of Megan’s hand as he reached out to receive the trophy from Big Bill who was so overwhelmed by emotion he had to blink back a tear. He had come to think of Eddie as the son he never had. He was proud of his boy. Eddie looked at the trophy, then at Big Bill, the man who made it all happen. The two men embraced. “Congratulations,” Big Bill said. “You earned it.”

  Eddie turned and set the trophy on the podium. He waited for the crowd to take their seats again so he could speak. Megan was on his left, her hands clasped in front of her. Big Bill and Franklin stood on his right. Once the auditorium was quiet, Eddie leaned toward the microphone. “First of all,” he said, “I want to thank the CFA Board of Governors for giving me this tremendous honor. Of course I have to thank all the fans and everybody in country radio. Without them this never could’ve happened.” Eddie turned to his left. “I owe a special thanks to my road manager and . . . more, Megan Taylor.” She blew him a kiss. Eddie turned to his right. “And finally, to the two guys who let me in the door to this business. My legal eagle, Franklin Peavy and my manager. My producer. My mentor. And my dear friend. . . Big Bill Herron.” Eddie gestured for them to take a bow as the audience applauded.

  Big Bill suddenly felt an overwhelming surge of magnanimity. He reached out to put an arm around his partner, but Franklin took two nervous steps sideways leaving Big Bill to stand there, facing the audience, one arm awkwardly extended, all alone. He looked half crucified.

  It was the shot Chester had been waiting for most of his life, so he squeezed the trigger. It sounded like a bomb exploding in the rafters. The pristine cotton wall behind Eddie was suddenly spray-painted a gory, dripping crimson. And before you could say “There’ll Be No Teardrops Tonight,” Big Bill’s prediction came to pass; he wouldn’t be #99 anymore.

  96.

  It took a few moments but once the crowd realized what had happened, all hell broke loose. The divas up front were screaming and stampeding over anyone standing between them and the exits. More than a few of the men reached for the pistols in their boots, but decided against. Why shoot someone just for killing Big Bill, they reasoned.

  Back in the control room the director was screaming, “Cut to commercial! Cut to commercial!” Someone accidentally hit the wrong button and the chorus of ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way’ began playing again over the sound system.

  Jimmy was as stunned as anyone. He was paralyzed at first but then instinct took over. He pulled out his camera and started taking photos. He zoomed in on the stage. Click. He got a shot of Eddie hovered over Big Bill. Click. Megan frozen on stage, hands over her mouth. Click. Blood and membrane on the cotton wall. Click. An empty place on stage where Franklin used to be. Click. Last year’s Female Vocalist of the Year throwing an elbow to get out the door first. Jimmy tried to work his way toward the stage for a better angle but he was like a salmon swimming upstream against a flash flood. He stepped back into a row of seats to avoid being swept out to the foyer. Suddenly his cell phone rang. Instinctively he grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “Jimmy! I can’t fucking believe it! This is fabulous!” It was his agent, Jay Colvin. “I’m sitting here watching the damn awards show and bam! I’m suddenly sitting on another great book. Get all the photos you can. Hang up the damn phone and get to work!”

  A dozen cops and several security guards had fought their way into the auditorium with their guns drawn and aimed at the catwalk. The guys handling the big spots had the lights trained on Chester. He was sitting there, legs dangling, casually smoking a cigarette.

  No one paid attention to Jimmy as he snapped a series of exclusive photos. Click. The killer in the spotlight. Click. The cops with guns drawn.

  “Nashville P.D.,” one of the cops barked. “Hands up! Now!”

  “Slow down, Dick Tracy,” Chester drawled. “I’m willin’ to go nice and quiet.”

  97.

  They took Chester into custody without a fight. They read him his rights, stuffed him into the back of a patrol car, and took him back to the Metro Police Department in downtown Nashville. Chester took advantage of his right to remain silent. He simply refused to talk. He’d been in the interrogation room for eight hours without making a peep except to ask to use the bathroom. There was a video camera aime
d at him and a stack of tapes next to it, testimony to his silence.

  A new detective arrived to take over the questioning. He looked through the one-way glass at Chester sitting at the table, smoking a cigarette. “Who is he?” the detective asked.

  The patrolman threw his hands up. “Didn’t have any I.D. and he hadn’t said a word since he’s been in custody.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Nothing on file. We got no idea who he is or why he did it.”

  “Maybe he’s one of those traditionalists,” the detective said with a chuckle. “You know some people still like the Possum a lot more than those new singers you hear on the radio all the time.”

  The patrolman was confused. “Why’re we even questioning this guy? We tested the gun and confirmed it fired the bullet that killed Herron. This guy’s prints were the only ones on the gun. What else is there? We got the who, the when, and the how, who the hell cares about the why?”

  The detective looked at the patrolman. “Me and the district attorney,” he said. “We’re funny that way.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “One never knows,” the detective said. “That’s why we like to get to the bottom of things. Folks coulda stopped poking around after they caught Lee Harvey Oswald but they didn’t and look what all they turned up. Big conspiracy conviction goes a long way if you’re in an elect- able position.” The new detective walked into the interrogation room and went to work. He questioned Chester for another eight hours but Chester never said a word. The detective tried every technique he knew but Chester just sat there and watched him like a television cop show. The last thirty years of his life had been far worse than anything the Nashville police could put him through.