by Luanne Rice
“You must have done a good job,” Sheridan said. “Randy dropped the suit pretty fast…and he set up that trust for Charlie.”
“That’s because of Vincent,” Gavin said. “Best divorce lawyer you could have had.”
“Maybe so, but we were losing every motion until you signed on. The judge had given Randy temporary support, plus visitation.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “He never planned to visit.”
“No,” Gavin said. “He wasn’t much into his children.”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“Yeah,” Gavin said. “Randy was a piece of work. All those working-class-hero songs he kept trying to get recorded, but guess what? He hardly ever worked.”
“I figured that out,” Sheridan said. “What did you get on him? Seriously. That made him go away?”
“Didn’t Vincent tell you?” Gavin asked cautiously.
“Well, he told me about the affairs.”
“Yeah,” Gavin said. “That was it.”
Sheridan nodded, but she peered at him through silver hair as if trying to see whether he was telling the whole truth, which he wasn’t. Randy had been a serial bounder; he’d landed in Nashville about a year before Sheridan met him. Before that, he’d worked his way through Memphis, Miami, and Los Angeles. He targeted talented, successful women in the entertainment business.
When Vincent dispatched Gavin down to Nashville to look into Randy Quill’s past, Gavin had expected to find the usual dirt: cheating, porn, and hopefully a thing for strippers. Randy had the trifecta, but he also had something else: a large bank account.
Gavin cut his teeth as a private investigator by delving into Randy Quill. Because Randy had hurt Sheridan, Gavin burned to discover every sordid fact he could. The investigation let him satisfy his aggression without swinging a punch; he hung out in bars, made friends with other roadies, dug into Randy’s business. He followed Randy into a small bank and opened his own account there the next day. He still remembered the account executive who’d helped him: Lulamae Jennings.
Two dinners at the Black-Eyed Pea, and Lulamae divulged that Randy was depositing large checks signed by three different women in three different states. He used three names with the same initials to keep everyone off track: Randy Quill, Randecker Quill, and Randall Quint.
Turns out Randy had been receiving spousal support from two past wives, and had received a healthy financial settlement from an old girlfriend. The terms of each of those court dispositions required that the payments would stop if he ever remarried or received spousal support from anyone else.
Gavin remembered it well and fondly, his meeting with Randy. They were in his double-wide, just down the road from Opryland. Randy was tall, handsome, sensitive looking; he played the part of singer-songwriter to perfection. Gavin could, grudgingly and irritatingly, see why Sheridan had fallen in love with him. Guitars were everywhere, and Sheridan’s voice emanated softly from the stereo.
“I love her, that’s the thing,” Randy said, sounding heartbroken. “I can’t understand why she’d do this to me, to us…to me, her, and our baby. Can’t you tell her I don’t want to break up our family?”
“Well, Randy,” Gavin said, sitting back in the leather armchair, “not much I can do about that; it’s her decision.”
Randy squeezed his eyes shut. Gavin watched him carefully, amazed at how he could turn so pale on cue, and how he could manufacture a tear so easily. He wasn’t sure he’d ever met a true con man before, but this one was for real. Randy was top-rate, first-class, top-of-the-line; Gavin, at the start of his career as a PI, knew that he had a lot to learn from this guy.
“That sure upsets me,” Randy said after a minute, wiping his eyes.
“Yeah,” Gavin said. “Because you love her so much.”
“I do.”
“And because you want to be such a hands-on father.”
“Damn straight.”
Gavin took some papers out of his briefcase. He watched Randy watch him—apparently indolent, too bereft to really care what they were. Gavin knew he expected to sign papers settling the case in his favor.
Randy would forgo a custody battle and child support, and Sheridan would pay him a lump sum of two hundred thousand dollars. Randy had been specific about wanting the lump-sum payment instead of periodic alimony: because the IRS would consider it a property settlement, and therefore not taxable to him.
“Got a pen?” Gavin asked.
Randy nodded. He reached for a plastic pen with the same slogan as a poster on his wall: Daltonville Speedway! He dragged the papers across the table, as if they weighed a ton. Started reading. Gavin never once took his eyes off him.
“Huh?” Randy asked after ten seconds. He looked up from the page, eyes blazing. “What the fuck?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have known so much about tax law,” Gavin said. “That was kind of a giveaway.”
“The fuck?” Randy asked, slamming the pen down. “I’m not signing this!”
“Yeah, Randy. You are.”
“I’m supposed to be getting two hundred grand—not paying it!”
“Well, we changed things up a little. We figured that since Sheridan is raising your son all by herself, the least you can do is put something in trust for his future. A nice round figure, like two hundred thousand dollars. With inflation and all, that should cover his college and grad school expenses, with a little left over to buy his mother something nice. A Mercedes, maybe. Like the one you have in LA.”
“So what if I have a Mercedes?” he asked, his eyes slitting.
“Well, it’s just, you didn’t disclose it. Courts are funny about financial disclosure forms; they like them to be truthful and accurate.”
“So I forgot about a fucking car.”
“Yeah, you did. And you forgot about the fact you’re receiving monthly payments from two other women. That’s probably where you got so knowledgeable about the IRS. Vincent’s sharp that way, Randy. It really pricks his ears up when a roadie knows so much about tax code.”
Randy’s pallor had increased, well beyond what was touching and poignant. He looked close to losing his lunch.
“Yeah, Randy. We know you haven’t been paying taxes. Haven’t even been filing, have you?”
“I’m not good with paperwork,” he said.
“Uh-huh. We figured that. Nice touch, having all your mail go to a single postbox instead of your many homes. Look, we don’t want to make trouble for you with the federal government. We really don’t. You got such a nice place right here…plus the one in LA, and the condo in Miami. Why trade all this for a lockup?”
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, his voice flat.
“You’re going to set up the trust for Charlie. Then you’re going to tell Marie and Jennifer it’s time to stop the spousal support. They’re raising your other kids, after all. Two boys. You never even bother to visit your children, you miserable shit. We won’t report you for triple-dipping, and we won’t report you to the IRS. This conversation will be our little secret.”
“But—”
Gavin held up his hand. “We won’t tell Sheridan what you’ve been doing. Partly because I don’t want her realizing she was taken by a snake. She actually loved you, feels sad you turned out to be such a disappointment. ‘Music guys cheat,’ that’s what she told Vincent. As if you’re part of some noble fucking Nashville tradition. She wants her kid to think he had a decent dad, though. That means a lot to her. And that’s why you’re getting off so fucking easy.”
“Easy!”
“Yeah, asshole,” Gavin said. He took one step across the trailer, lifted Randy up by his neck. He watched the pale face turn blood-red. Thinking of what this guy had done to Sheridan, Gavin wanted to kill him. Memories of the brig, the submarine, and the old neighborhood filled his mind. Instead of punching Randy, he grabbed his hand, stuck the pen in it.
“You’re going to sign the trust document, and then you’re going to call your bank a
nd tell them to issue a check in Charlie’s name.”
“Goddamn you!”
“You’re out a couple of grand, but your secret is safe with us. Me and Vincent. The IRS doesn’t get a packet of your financials, and your exes’ lawyers don’t get calls giving this address.”
“You’re threatening me?”
“Uh, yeah. You’re quick, aren’t you?”
“I swear…”
“So. To continue. You sign, and the IRS doesn’t get this address. Or the one in LA, or the one in Memphis…Memphis, you know, where little Jeffrey and his mother live?”
“Shut up.”
“Clint and Jeffrey, your two other sons. Have you ever even met them?”
“I told you—shut your mouth!”
“You keep fathering kids just to get money out of their moms. The sad thing is, Jeff’s mom doesn’t even have that much. Her career’s taken a downward turn since you—how can she sing about love when you trashed her so badly? You’re a one-man scourge on country music, Randy. Her father has to help her with the payments. Nice, right?”
“That’s not my fault, the way she went downhill…she still owes what the court ordered her to pay.”
“You want me to tell the IRS you said that?”
“Okay,” Randy said, wrenching his hand away. “I’ll sign.”
Gavin should have waited till the documents were executed—that would have made everything so much easier. But Randy pulling back that way, trying to get some control after he’d already controlled so much and hurt Sheridan so badly, threw a switch in Gavin. And Gavin went a little crazy.
He’d had to hold Randy up in the chair, guide his broken hand across the pages. The check was stained rustred from his broken nose. Funny, but the banker never even mentioned the blood spots.
“Well,” Sheridan said now, gazing across the dark bay at the lights of Hubbard’s Point, “I knew you had something to do with Randy setting up a trust for Charlie. It shocked me, to be honest. I had no idea he had that kind of money. He always seemed so broke.”
“People can come up with all sorts of resources when it’s for the good of their kids,” Gavin said steadily.
“He stayed out of Charlie’s life as much as he could,” Sheridan said. “Never sent him a birthday or a Christmas card. Never came to visit…Charlie invited him to his high school graduation, just a few months before…”
Before he died, Gavin knew she was about to say.
“But Randy didn’t come. Charlie talked to him on the phone, though. They had a long talk…”
That got Gavin’s attention. “Yeah?” he said, looking over.
Sheridan nodded. “It made Charlie so happy. He’d always wanted a relationship with his dad. He was such a sweet, sensitive boy…. He wrote songs, but his real passion was filmmaking.”
“He was going to study it,” Gavin said with a long look. “Nell told me.”
“Nell?”
“She hired me. She’s my client.”
Sheridan stared, absorbing that fact. “She loved my son,” she said with a small smile. “She can’t let him go. I’m worried about her…She keeps watching the films Charlie made, and now this—hiring you.”
“What films did Charlie make?”
“He wanted to do one about lost fathers.”
“Did he approach Randy?”
“Yes,” Sheridan said. “Charlie didn’t really talk about it with me much. He knew how I felt about Randy; I didn’t think Charlie would get very far with him.”
Gavin watched her, the way her eyes flickered as she talked about her son.
“He’d just started college,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “It was…” She paused. “I didn’t know it would be so hard, having him leave home. We’d spent time apart, over the years. I was always on the road. And he liked to go places himself. I let him go to Bonnaroo when he was just sixteen.”
“Bonnaroo?”
“The music festival…on a farm in Tennessee,” she said, looking off into the distance. “I never worried about him, because he was smart. He was tough, like…” She trailed off, swallowing the rest. “Anyway. He knew how to have fun without getting in trouble.”
“So New York…”
“I wasn’t at all worried about him,” she said. “And I didn’t think I’d miss him the way I did. New York is just two hours away. I’d visit him, he’d come home. But seeing him head off with all his things…he was really leaving home.” She hugged herself, eyes filling with tears. “I told myself I’d see him soon; he’d come back to see Nell—he could never stay away from her long. Or I’d see him at Parents’ Weekend.”
Gavin was silent, knowing what was coming.
“I never saw him again,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “He never came home again.”
“Sheridan,” he said, reaching for her hand. She wouldn’t give it to him.
Gavin stared at the water’s glassy surface, reflecting stars and the lights from the cottages on the Point. Sheridan took a deep breath, looked around at the calm water, the rocks and woods and the beach.
“This is beautiful,” Sheridan said after a few minutes, gazing around. “I never come out here…And your boat is lovely.”
Gavin looked at her; he didn’t know whether she really meant it, or she just wanted to change the subject, stop talking about Charlie.
“Thanks,” he said.
“How long have you lived on board?”
“This boat, five years.”
“I used to hate thinking of you on that submarine,” Sheridan said. “All cooped up in a tin can, down under the sea. But I know you needed it, somehow. I didn’t like it, but I should have accepted it. I’m sorry about what happened between us.”
He listened, electric.
“I wanted…” she began. “More than anything…”
“What?” He leaned toward her.
“Just, I wanted it to work out between us…I wanted us to be different from the way we were.”
“I loved the way you were,” he said.
She listened, then shook her head. “No,” she said. “I couldn’t handle waiting for you to tire yourself out.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were in a fight,” she said. “All the time.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
“Not with other people, that’s not what I mean. With yourself. You were in the ring with yourself. It was so hard to see—such a battle going on all the time. You had to be on board a submarine loaded with torpedoes because you were always ready to fire.”
“At who?” he asked.
“Oh, I have some theories,” she said.
“Tell me.”
She gave him a long look through narrowed eyes. “The kid who stole your laundry money, for one,” she said.
“How do you know about that?”
“You mentioned it once or twice.”
He winced, wondering how often he’d told her that old story. And all the others…And why?
“You really think that’s what went wrong?”
“I’ve had some time to think about it,” she said.
She thinks about me, was the absurdly joyful thought that blasted through his mind. But he stayed silent, letting her continue.
“I think about it a lot,” she said. “And sometimes I feel sad that I wasn’t patient enough to wait for you to wear yourself down. I could see you were in a struggle; I just got tired of watching you. All your energy going into something you’d never be able to win.”
“I don’t want you to feel sad about me,” he said.
“Thanks. We were together a long time.”
“I know,” he said, staring at her.
“I just…couldn’t go on like that anymore. I couldn’t keep hoping that things would get better. It hurt too much to get my hopes up every time. I began to see our problems as river rapids—just rushing and swirling, with rocks and white water, and you on one side and me on the other. And no bridge.”
“Why didn’t you tell me what you saw, the mistakes I was making?” he asked. “Even that night, when I came to see you here?”
“Would you have listened to me? Would you have believed me?” she asked.
He shook his head. No, he wouldn’t have believed her. He would have tried to talk her out of it, convince her to see him as her protector, instead of someone who lived to get into bar fights, beat the living shit out of anyone who crossed him, get back—not so much at the people who’d given him and his mother a hard time, but the circumstances that had stolen all their hopes and dreams.
“I was just about eight months pregnant when you came to see me that last time. We sat on that rock outside the cottage…I told you about Randy; that it wasn’t working out. I felt Charlie kicking inside the whole time.”
“I wish I could have raised him with you,” Gavin said.
“Shh,” Sheridan said, looking away. “Stop now…”
He just stared into the night and felt glad she was here right now. She was so close, he could have reached over to take her hand. He glanced down, saw it resting on the arm of the deck chair. Her wrists and hands were so fine; her fingers were long and elegant. He’d loved watching her play guitar.
“Well, never mind all that,” she said, breathing the sea air. “That’s ancient history. It’s nice to be here on your boat now. Really nice.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m glad you came out. Would you like a drink?”
She shook her head. “I’m…I’m not drinking tonight.”
“Okay,” he said. For some reason, that made him happy.
“What’s her name?” she asked.
“Her?” he asked. “There’s no ‘her.’”
She laughed, sounding a little nervous and embarrassed. “I mean your boat. What’s she called?”
“Oh. The Squire Toby,” he said.
She was silent for a few moments. Small waves lapped the hull, and they heard the sound of a fish jumping out of the water. Did she know what it came from—did the name of his boat sound familiar? Sheridan was named for Sheridan Le Fanu, the Irishman considered the greatest writer of ghost stories in Victorian times.