by Phil Swann
“No, Earl,” Ben said, lining up his putt again. “I said the last time I played sober I was a twelve handicap. I'm drunk this morning, so I'm back to my usual three.”
“You're quite the asshole, Lambros. Must run in your family.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot,” Ben replied, preparing to strike the ball. He stopped and stood up again. “So, uh, you guys care to make this a little more interesting?”
“For General Lee's sake, Lambros,” Buchanan bellowed. “You've already taken us for five thousand bucks. How much more interesting do you want to make it?”
“Well, let's see. How about double or nothing? If I sink this putt, you each owe me ten thousand dollars. If I miss it, you owe me nada.”
“Let me get this straight,” Buchanan said, taking out a tin of Skoal. “You're saying that if you miss this putt, we're all square, clean slate, we don't owe you a dime?”
“That's what I'm saying. But if I sink it, you both owe me ten thousand clams.”
Paul Welker cut in, “Whoa, just…just…wait a minute.”
“That's a thirty-foot putt, Welker,” Buchanan said, putting a pinch of tobacco in his gum. “There's more undulation going on between his ball and that hole than on my grandpappy's butt cheek. He's not going to make that.”
“I don't think—”
“Tell you what, I'll cover you. Just say you're in, and I'll cover your half. Somebody needs to teach this prick a lesson, and it's fixin’ to be me. What do you say?”
“Yes, Pauly, what do you say?” Ben added, flashing an innocent grin to Paul. “Don't you want to teach this prick a lesson?”
Paul rubbed his forehead and let out a long resigned breath. “This is a bad idea. Okay, I'm in. And thank you, but I'll cover my own wagers, Mr. Buchanan.”
“Good man. You got yourself a bet, hoss,” Buchanan said, extending his hand.
Ben shook the man's big fleshy hand and turned back to his ball, striking it without so much as a pause. The ball rolled fast, faded right, then left, caught the lip of the cup, and dropped in. “A check will be fine, gentlemen,” Ben said, flashing a smile.
»»•««
Earl Buchanan handed Ben a check and climbed into his Chevy 4 x 4 truck.
“Good playing with you, Mr.—”
Buchanan slammed the door and drove off without uttering another word.
“Sore loser,” Ben said, handing his parking stub to the valet.
“Congratulations, Ben,” Paul said. “You've succeeded in pissing off one very rich guy.”
“Doesn't he own some gas stations or something?” Ben said, searching his pockets.
“If you count half of the Chevrons south of the Mason-Dixon Line as some.”
“Hey, you got a pen?”
Paul handed Ben a pen.
“Why the hell were we playing with that bubba anyway?” Ben asked, writing something on the back of Buchanan's check.
“He wanted to meet you.”
“Of course he did. Who doesn't these days? I never knew I had so many friends.”
“Not for that reason. Buchanan's actually a fan—strike that, was a fan of your music.”
“A man of exquisite taste and intellect. I always said that of Earl Buchanan.”
“He's started an entertainment company—music, videos, the whole shebang. He’s even producing movies, throwing some pretty serious cash at it too.”
“Let me guess,” Ben said, handing Paul his pen as well as Buchanan's check. “He has a sixteen-year-old daughter who looks like Ava Gardner and sings like Patsy Cline.”
“Fifteen,” Paul corrected. “Pay to the order of Paul Welker? What's this?”
“It's for me giving you shit out there. You can keep your ten grand too.”
“So you're not pissed about the new contract?”
“Hell no. I'd have signed it on first go-around. You got screwed.”
A black Porsche 911 Cabriolet rolled to a stop in front of the two men. Ben handed the young valet a twenty. “Just stick them in the passenger seat,” he said, motioning to his golf clubs.
“Thank you, Mr. Lambros,” the valet said, handing Ben back the twenty with a CD. “But I’d be most grateful if you’d take a listen to a couple of my songs.”
Ben looked at the CD. “Well, thank you, but I’m just a lowly songwriter. Now the guy you want to give this to is right there.” Ben pointed to Paul. “That’s Paul Welker, president and CEO of Golden International Music. He’s the one who can change your life.”
Paul shot Ben a look. The young valet turned to Paul.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t accept unsolicited songs.”
“Ah, come on, Paul. Give the kid a listen,” Ben said with a wide grin.
Paul rolled his eyes and took the CD from the valet. “No promises, and this never happened, got it?”
“Yes, sir. And God bless you,” the valet replied, taking Paul’s parking stub. “I’ll get your car right away, sir. Thank you so much, sir. My number’s on the CD.”
“Just get my car, please.”
“Right away, sir.”
The valet bolted down the driveway. Paul looked at Ben. “Happy now?”
“Don’t you feel better?”
“Like a new man,” Paul said. “So, I'll see you tonight.”
Ben paused for a moment and then moaned. “Christ. Do I really have to show up?"
“Damn it, Ben, you promised me.”
“So the twenty Gs doesn't buy me an out?”
“No. Consider it more reimbursement for my humiliation.”
Ben grunted a nod and got into the sports car.
“Thank you,” Paul said. “And tell Marci I said hello.”
Ben looked at Paul with a blank expression.
“Marci…the girl living in your house…my last intern?”
“Oh, Marci, yeah, sure. By the way, speaking of interns, who's that new one working in royalty collection? She's got—”
“Don't even think about it,” Paul interrupted, pointing his finger at Ben.
Ben laughed, took his foot off the clutch, and spun out of the driveway, spraying gravel over the sculpted magnolia bushes and manicured grass of the Belle Meade Country Club.
»»•««
Twenty minutes later, Ben whipped the Porsche off Old Hillsboro Road and onto a private drive winding along the Harpeth River in a rural area of Williamson County known as Leipers Fork. He drove through a gated white fence and up the hill where a gigantic stone-and-log manor stood hidden among the old-growth pines and apple trees. He grimaced when he saw the neon green Ford Fiesta sitting in the carport. “Oh, Ben, why do you do this to yourself?”
Ben turned off the car and got out as stealthily as possible, electing to leave his clubs where they were. He quietly opened the front door and entered the house. A girl's voice echoed from the back where the kitchen was located. It was a nonstop rat-ta-tat of “oh my God,” “awesome,” and “like.” Ben tiptoed through the huge foyer and up the stairs. Once at the top, he exhaled and entered his lair.
The immense room looked more like a Victorian study than a recording studio. What once was an attic when the house was built was now a beautiful loft with a high beam ceiling. Volumes of books and more awards than one could count at first glance filled the cherry wood bookcases running down the wall on both sides of the room. Two classic 1930s Parisian leather club chairs with a matching sofa framed a wood-burning fireplace in the center. The recording studio was off to the side, neatly arranged in front of a picture window. All the prerequisite tools for a modern day digital audio workstation were accounted for: a mahogany Omnirax desk, two computer screens, a Roland RD-700 keyboard, and a couple of guitars—one a 1962 Fender Telecaster, the other a vintage Martin D28 acoustic. But it was across the room where a mint, pre-war D-model Steinway grand piano sat that caught the eye of anyone who entered.
Strewn everywhere on top of the piano were pages of staff paper. Some were completed pieces of notated music, while others were o
nly partially completed or mere random scribbles. Ben walked by the piano and played a few bars of a one-note melody. He glanced at the staff paper and played a couple more measures. He sat down at the piano and started playing. The song was noble and passionate but not schmaltzy. The smooth florid runs were reminiscent of Chopin or Liszt, but the shifting mood was almost Russian in style. It was Ben's great work, his concerto…or maybe an opera, he never could quite decide which. He suddenly stopped playing in the middle of a phrase. He played a bit of a single melody line but stopped again. He tried another melody, but that didn't work either. He played a chord, then another, and then one more. Finally, he lifted his hands and dropped the lid over the keyboard. “Maybe someday,” he muttered aloud.
“You're home,” the girl shrieked, bouncing into the room. She wore faded Levis, open-toed sandals, and a white cotton blouse that exposed a perfectly flat, tan tummy. She also had a guitar flung over her shoulder.
Ben forced a smile. “Yes, I am. I didn't know you were home, baby.”
“Silly, didn't you see my car parked outside?” the girl asked, putting down her guitar and flopping onto Ben's lap, causing him to let out a grunt.
Before Ben could come up with a lie, Marci Mapplethorpe was rifling through the sheets of music on the piano. “Why do you want to write a creepy ol' opry for anyway?” she said with a thick southern twang. “I love the songs you really write. Like that song you wrote for Sherry Butler, oh my God that was so awesome. Play it right now. I can sing it. Do you know it?”
Sweet Jesus, I wrote it, you bimbo. “Thank you, baby, that’s very sweet. But I think I just figured something out in my…creepy opry.”
Marci puffed out her lower lip. “I’m getting hungry. Can we eat soon? Stacy and some others are going over to The Boundary. Let’s meet ’em.”
Everything inside him said, I'd rather catch syphilis. What he said aloud was, “You know what? Why don’t you go on, sweetie. I’m not hungry, and I'd like to do some work.”
“Are you sure?”
“We’ll go out tonight,” Ben answered, forcing a smile. “I have to go to a number one party Paul is throwing for that song of mine Danny Austin cut.”
“Danny Austin?” Marci screeched, leaping off Ben's lap. “You’re so awesome! Oh. My. God. Danny Austin? Is he going to be there?”
“Yeah, I figure so.”
“Serious? Oh my God, I can’t wait to tell Stacy. She is, like, totally going to die.”
“Well, why don't you invite her to come along?”
“Serious?” she said, biting her lower lip.
“Of course. And anybody else you think of. After all, it’s a party, isn't it?”
Marci's eyes got moist, and her lower lip began to tremble. She fell back onto Ben's lap, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. “Pooky Bear, you're the most awesome man who ever lived.”
“I know,” Ben replied, patting Marci's behind. “Now, you better go call Stacy.”
“I have to go buy some new boots.” Marci bounded from Ben's lap and headed for the door. “Oh my God,” she said, coming to an abrupt stop. “Pooky Bear, I'm so sorry, I almost forgot, you got a phone call. I answered because it was on the phone downstairs that never rings. I thought it might have been you looking for me because my cell phone died last night after Stacy and I—”
“Marci, Marci, that's okay, baby,” Ben interrupted. “Who called?”
“Well, that's what's weird. He said his name was Sam Yosemite and to tell you he'd like to see your ‘no-good-for-nuttin’ face’ when he gets to town. I asked him if that's what he really wanted me to tell you, and he said it was. Weird, huh?”
“Yes, it is, baby, but is it possible he said his name was Yosemite Sam?”
“Yeah, maybe that was it. Who's that?” Marci asked, twisting her hair.
“Just someone…not important, a work thing,” Ben replied. “You better get going. Danny Austin will be upset if you're late. And don’t forget your guitar. Remember, it’s the Nashville way, never go anywhere without your guitar.”
Marci smiled, grabbed her guitar, and blew Ben a kiss. As she left the house, he could still hear her squealing, “Danny Austin, oh my God, he’s so awesome!” He was certain the amount of OMGs being texted across both Williamson and Davidson counties had just increased by a factor of a thousand.
Ben got up, walked across the room to the liquor cabinet, and poured himself three fingers of a twelve-year-old single malt. He took a precut Cuban from the humidor and headed out the two French doors onto a gigantic redwood deck. He took a sip of the whiskey, set the glass on the table, and fell into an overstuffed chaise. He lit the cigar, inhaled, and blew a perfectly round ring of smoke into the air. He watched the blue-white vapor rise, getting bigger and less perfect as it ascended into the cool Tennessee afternoon. He took another drink and then hurled the glass over the railing. “Fuck him!”
Chapter Two
The woman from ASCAP was a bit too effusive for Ben's taste and smelled too much like the perfume counter at Macy's department store—but he'd still do her, he decided, as she handed him his award for “Time Gets Away from All of Us.” It was his seventeenth number one song, and as such, he was expected to say a few words. “Cheers,” was all Ben could muster, holding up a plastic cup filled with straight bourbon.
Some laughed, some applauded, but most ignored him and went on schmoozing. Ben couldn’t have cared less. He knew these parties had little to do with celebrating anyone's achievement and everything to do with business. They were called industry events for a reason. His job was to smile, pose for a few pictures for the trade mags, and try not to embarrass himself or his publisher. The latter, he supposed, he was failing based on Paul's expression as he stepped off the stage.
“Nice speech,” Paul said, shaking his head.
“We're in a parking lot,” Ben replied, wobbling past Paul toward the bar.
“Would you mind taking it easy on the hooch?”
“You know,” Ben said, setting his award and plastic cup on the bar, “in Los Angeles, when they do these things, it's in some hipster club on the Sunset Strip.”
“So I hear,” Paul replied.
“In New York, it's at the chicest hotel in midtown Manhattan.”
“Your point?”
“We're in a parking lot, Paul,” Ben yelled. He wasn't mad, just drunk.
The parking lot of Golden International Music looked more like a tailgate party before a college football game than a prestigious music industry event. Late-model Fords were strategically parked around the lot where freshly caught catfish was being battered and dropped into portable deep fryers rigged inside each car's trunk. Cold beer was available in metal washtubs every twenty feet, but if you wanted something stronger, an open bar could be found at all four corners of the almost quarter acre of asphalt. Most importantly, however, was the music blared just loud enough to alert anyone leaving work on Sixteenth Avenue something special was going on at GIM. And that, more than anything else, was the real point of the evening.
Paul said, “I’m kickin’ it old school. Like back when Music Row was still Music Row and not Condo Row. By the way, did you hear they bulldozed Chapman’s old studio over on Eighteenth? Word is they’re going to build another one of those J.J. McChucklenut-type places.”
“It’s called progress, pal. Nashville’s uptown and hip now. Get with it, baby.”
“Yeah, well, everybody I know keeps bitching about what The Row’s become, so I thought I’d capitalize on it and give them a taste of how we rolled back in the good ol’ days. Make sure you have the catfish. I had the interns fishing all week for it.”
“You made the interns go fishing?”
“I know, right?” Paul snickered, waving to someone in the crowd. “Interns are great. They're like little elves that just want to please you. Speaking of, where's Marci?”
“She and the gaggle went off to hunt down the totally awesome Danny Austin, a.k.a. Daniel Greenberg, as he's know
n to his family back home in Schenectady.”
“Hush,” Paul whispered. “We don't use that word around here.”
“Schenectady or Greenberg?”
“Yes.”
Ben smiled.
“Paul, great party,” a man said, coming up and extending his hand. “And Ben, wow! Amazing song. It’s going to ride the charts for months.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears, Chuck,” Ben replied.
“Then I’ll say a prayer it does just that, buddy. Praise Jesus!” the jovial man said, putting his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Paul, I’m producing that brother and sister duo out of Orlando, and I’m looking for some hits. Why don’t you come by next week? I’d love to have a Ben Lambros song on their record.”
“Will do, Chuck. I’ll call your office and set something up.”
“God bless you, I’ll look forward to it.” The man slapped Paul on the back, gave a thumbs up to Ben, and left.
Paul looked at Ben and rolled his eyes. Once the man was out of earshot, Paul said, “The last time I pitched a song to Chuck Flowers, he said the only thing wrong with it was his name wasn’t on it as a co-writer and publisher. That greedy fucker never passes up an opportunity to snake an extra buck out of a deal.”
“You love him a bit, don’t you?” Ben said.
“A bit, yeah. Golf tomorrow?” Paul asked, grabbing a beer from the washtub at his feet.
“No, I think it's best I lay low tomorrow.”
“Why?”
Ben raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Never mind.”
Ben nodded. “He actually called me, wants to get together.”
“And?” Paul asked.
“Think I'd rather do something more fun—like have a colonoscopy.”
“Hey, there's Chet from Sony,” Paul said, setting his beer on the bar. “He passed on your song. I'm going to go rub it in his face.”
Ben raised his cup in salute as Paul took off into the crowd.
Ben motioned to the bartender for another and then leaned against the bar and drunkenly gazed upon the folly. It all just seemed so silly to him. Everybody was so earnest, so sincere, so in love with the music and each other—they were all just so full of shit. He watched Paul weave his way through the crowd, slapping backs and appearing genuinely thrilled to see whoever came up to talk to him. Nashville wasn’t the only thing that had changed. He could remember a time when Paul Welker could barely say his own name without stammering. Now, he was sure the man could carry on a conversation with a mime if need be. Yes, Paul had become a certified master of the Nashville shake ’n howdy. He’d come a long way. They both had.