Killer Nashville Noir

by Clay Stafford

  Jimmie left Golden Boy West there among the dead, not so much laying him to rest, as hastily stuffing him underneath the cold arms of a fallen elm tree and then covering him all over with a shroud of brush and branches.

  Without a word or prayer, Jimmie turned and hiked back to the land of the living. And with every step he took, he whistled against the darkness.

  He had a new favorite song.

  • • •

  The crowd roared.

  Jimmie Dallas raised his hand, and the volume of the crowd rose with it, like he was the personal puppeteer to 2,362 Grand Ole Opry fans.

  “Thank y’all,” he said into the mic at center stage. “I’m going to take a little break now, but I’ll be back in a bit to sing you some more songs. Maybe even a ‘Sad’ song.”

  Jimmie turned from the ovation like he expected it to be there and knew the ovation would return when he did. He strode off the stage in his ostrich-hide cowboy boots and handed his shiny Gibson to the guitar tech waiting for him in the wings.

  There was a fat man in a white suit waiting for him too. “Helluva show, Jimmie.”

  “It’s an okay crowd,” Jimmie said, without bothering to look back at the people who were still cheering.

  “My folks at Warner Brothers wanna talk to you about that next record.”

  Jimmie accepted a towel from a pretty girl, wiped his brow, and then handed it back to her without bothering to give her a look. “Time enough for that, Colonel.”

  “Ain’t no time like the present.”

  “I like to think about the future. And right now my future includes a trip down the Hank Highway.”

  “You being naughty, Mr. Dallas?” the towel girl asked with a hopeful smile that confirmed her invitation.

  “Darlin’, the Ryman here is connected by a little alleyway to my favorite watering hole, Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge. The great Hank Williams himself used to use that little shortcut to zip on over for a drink between sets. And right now I think a bourbon or three would set me right before I’m due up again. So, if you’ll both excuse me.”

  “You gotta strike while the iron’s hot,” the man called after him. “We’re gonna make you the highest paid country singer there is today.”

  “You talk about today,” Jimmie shouted back. “But you’re living in the past. I’m already the biggest name in country music today. Country Music Artist of the Year—1978. And tomorrow I’m going to be bigger. Hell, one day sooner than you think, I’m gonna be more than just country. My name’s gonna be on the lips of every man, woman, and child in America.”

  The shortcut between the Ryman and Tootsie’s was the stuff of country music legend, but not many actually knew the exact route. Jimmie Dallas had it memorized.

  He skipped down the stairs to the basement, hooked a left at the corner, and went straight to the door that read NO EXIT. He pulled away the chains that were only there to offer the appearance of a deterrent and then hit the bar on the door. The door came open.

  He stepped into the night and a chill immediately ran up the small of his back, tracing a line of sweat all the way to the base of his skull. The sensation was exhilarating, and he took in a deep breath to fill his lungs with the fresh air.

  There were just a dozen steps between the Ryman’s secret exit and the notorious backdoor of Tootsie’s. Jimmie had only taken six of them when a voice stopped him in his tracks.

  “Quite a night,” a man called out from the darkness.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Oh, I got nothin’ but names.” A figure stepped out of the darkness, but the shadows followed him and continued to cover him, even in the eerie glow of moonlight that lit the narrow alleyway. “But you can call me Mr. Atibon.”

  “Mister, huh?” Jimmie scoffed. “This is Tennessee, boy. I wouldn’t get all uppity if I was you.”

  “Don’t need no geography lesson. And I’d lay off the boy…if I was you.”

  “That supposed to be a threat?”

  The black man just smiled. “Threats are for folks who can’t make bad things happen.”

  “And you can make bad things happen?”

  “Sure as Hell.”

  “Sure as that, huh?”

  “You bet your life.”

  “Well, just what is it you think I can do for you?”

  “Oh, it’s not what you can do for me, it’s what I can do for you.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Give you a shot at redemption.”

  “You think I need redemption?”

  “I didn’t say I would give you redemption, I said I could give you a shot at it.”

  “Not interested.”

  “It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

  “I’m not…”

  “And by lifetime, I meant yours.”

  “Listen, I’m about done with you, boy. I’m going to go back inside and get me some security. So if I were you I’d hightail it outta here, because when those ol’ boys find out you been harassing me here, you’ll be lucky if you ain’t greeting the morning sun from the business end of a noose.”

  “That door’s locked. There’s no going back for you now.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Jimmie went to the door hidden in the Ryman’s brick exterior and tried it. It wouldn’t budge. Not even when he jiggled it in just that certain way. Nothing he did would move it.

  Jimmie tried to pretend he wasn’t scared. He took a step or two back, then gave up on his pretense and sprinted over to Tootsie’s back door.

  “And your future ain’t open quite yet,” Mr. Atibon said with the quiet certainty of a tombstone. “Not till we talk.”

  Jimmie tried the door anyway. He was terrified, but not surprised to find that it wouldn’t open either.

  “I don’t know what kinda hoodoo-voodoo you got goin’ on.”

  “Hush, now. You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand, mi key.” Still shrouded in shadows, the stranger looked up to the full moon. “There’s things worse than me that might be listenin’.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course, you don’t.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “Who you foolin’? Seem like you got all the money in Nashville.”

  “I mean, not on me. If you just let me go inside, I’ll get you…”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  “Then what…”

  “’Cause it ain’t really your money, is it?”

  “Of course, it’s mine.”

  “That song you sing, that ‘Sad’ song.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s not yours. It wasn’t meant for you.”

  “I wrote…”

  “I wrote that song,” Mr. Atibon corrected. And when he did, his eyes flashed like coals in a fire. “And I wrote it for someone else. Part of another bargain. A bargain that you turned all kinds of upside down on me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You can lie to the world, Jimmie Dallas. Hell, you can lie to yourself. But don’t you ever lie to me again. Never.”

  “People don’t talk to me that way.”

  “I done told you, I ain’t people. I’m Mr. Atibon.”

  “That supposed to mean something to me.”

  “If it don’t, it’s about to.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You owe me.”

  “I don’t owe you nothing.”

  “You owe me for my song. You owe me for the bargain you done messed up. And I ain’t no charity, so there’s interest to boot, due on both. You owe me. And it’s a heavy, heavy price.”

  “You’re touched in the head. I’m not paying you nothing.”

  “Then I’ll just take it.”

  “You’ll take what?”

  “My song. You ain’t willing to pay for it, ain’t willing to set things right, then I’m just going to take it all back.”

  “You ain’t
gonna take nothing, you crazy nigger.”

  “Now that’s going to cost you extra.” The man’s malicious tone turned murderous.

  Jimmie pulled frantically at the door to Tootsies, then banged to raise some help.

  “Oh, and by the way,” Mr. Atibon said slyly. “Our ol’ friend Golden Boy says he’s waiting on you.”

  Jimmie banged harder on the door.

  And just when he was about to abandon all hope, the door opened.

  • • •

  Jimmie Dallas burst through the back door and all but fell into the barroom at Tootsie’s.

  “Whoa, what the hell?” The muscle-bound guy behind the bar put down the beer mug he’d been about to pour and rushed around the bar. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Old Timer?”

  “Old Timer?” Jimmie asked. “I’m younger than you by…”

  “You’re older than my grandpa, you crazy, old bastard.”

  And that was when Jimmie looked down at his hands. They were snarled claws, swollen with arthritis, covered in dark liver spots. They ached when he reached for his face and felt a long, matted beard instead of taut, youthful flesh.

  He turned in horror to the mirror behind the bar and didn’t recognize the wizened reflection he found there. Or, at least, he didn’t want to acknowledge it.

  Still, there was no mistaking the eyes that looked back forlornly, blood-shot and yellowed, underlined with bags of skin and dark circles.

  His polyester cowboy suit had lost more than a few of its rhinestones and smelled like it’d been used to cover a corpse. His prized ostrich-hide boots were scuffed and worn like he’d walked a million aimless miles.

  Everything about him was old. Older than old.

  “No. This can’t be happening. Don’t you know who I am?”

  “Yeah, you’re the old crack addict that’s going to spend tonight in the lock up once I get the cops down here,” the bartender said, moving back behind the bar to reach for the phone.

  “Crack addict? What the hell is a crack addict? I’m Jimmie Goddamned Dallas,” he screamed.

  That didn’t stop the bartender from making his call. “Yeah, I don’t know who that is.”

  “Jimmie Dallas?” A guy at the bar asked. “The singer?”

  “Singer? I’m the biggest name in country music.”

  “Mister, Tim McGraw’s the biggest name in country music. Jimmie Dallas was a guy who knocked about town forty years ago. Had a couple of songs on the radio, nothing big. Then he just faded away.”

  “Faded away my ass. I wrote ‘Sad Like A Country Song’.”

  “Mister, I don’t know what kinda crazy you’ve caught, but ‘Sad Like A Country Song’ was written by Golden Boy West back in 1975.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “A quarter’ll prove you wrong.” The man got up and went to the jukebox. A second later the whole place was filled with the sound that Jimmie Dallas hadn’t heard since that fateful night.

  “But he’s dead,” Jimmie said.

  “Of course, he’s dead. Nashville’s worst unsolved murder. God bless his soul. Struck down in his prime, poor boy.”

  “Poor boy, my ass,” Jimmie said before he knew better. “The little bastard practically ran into my knife that night…”

  “What’s that?” the jukebox playing man asked.

  Jimmie stopped dead. And then tried to cover. “What I meant was, I knew…”

  Everyone in the barroom fell silent. “Did you just say you killed Golden Boy West?”

  Jimmie knew when to hold his cards. And he knew when to run. He raced for the backdoor and burst through it, back out into the darkest night he’d ever known.

  • • •

  “Back so soon?” Mr. Atibon asked.

  Jimmie looked himself over and found his boots restored to their obscenely expensive shine. His outfit was as shiny and sparkly as when he’d slipped it off the hanger in the Grand Ole Opry’s wardrobe room. His hands were fine, although trembling uncontrollably.

  “I don’t know what you’ve done,” Jimmie said.

  “And you wouldn’t understand if I took the thousand years I’d need to explain it to you.”

  “What do you want?” If he’d been a braver man, these words might have carried a note of defiance, but he was just Jimmie Dallas, and the fear in his voice turned them to nothing more than a warbled plea.

  “I already told you. I want you to pay. For my song. For my prematurely departed business associate, Mr. West. For the deal you busted all to hell. And now, for having called me that hateful, hateful name.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Mr. Atibon chuckled to himself. “I’m sorry is for children who’ve been bad and fat old men who cum too soon. You ain’t no child and I ain’t about to let you fuck me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You don’t look like you got all that much to bargain with…boy.” He spat out that last word.

  “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  “I know you will. They always do. So the worm turns and the question becomes…what do you want?”

  “I just want it back.” Jimmie got out the words, but let some tears sneak out with them.

  “You want what back?”

  “All of it. I just want to be famous again.”

  Mr. Atibon shook his head. “I’ve been at this game a long time and it’s always about the fame. More than the money, or the women, or anything else. It’s always about the fame.”

  “So you can help me?”

  “Make you famous? I can. Just don’t understand why.”

  Jimmie was quick to enlighten him. “There are just two kinds of people. Those who’re famous and those who want to be.”

  “I done told you before, I ain’t people.” Mr. Atibon stepped back into the shadows. “But if fame’s what you want…consider it done.”

  “What?” Jimmie thought it was all too good (and too easy) to be true.

  “I said you’re going to be famous. All over again.”

  “I am? Really?”

  Mr. Atibon’s bony hand pointed back toward Tootsie’s. “You go right back through that door and see what kind of a reception you get now.”

  “Thank you.” Without a second’s hesitation, Jimmie turned and ran straight for Tootsie’s door and the fame he hoped lay beyond. He only stopped when he held the knob in his hand. “And all of this?” he called back over his shoulder.

  “You mean, what you owe me?”

  “Right.”

  “Oh, I’ll be around to collect it.” Mr. Atibon smiled widely. “I always collect in the end.”

  And that was good enough for Jimmie Dallas. He threw open the door and rushed back into the honkytonk.

  “There he is,” cried the bartender.

  The barroom was just as packed as before, but this time there was a pair of Metro patrolmen added to the crowd. One of them grabbed Jimmie by the sleeve of his tattered leisure suit.

  “This crazy, old man was in here talking shit that he’d killed someone,” the bartender said.

  The cop holding Jimmie’s withered arm squeezed it harder. “That right?”

  The guy at the bar answered for him. “Said he was the one who killed Golden Boy West.”

  Jimmie’s head swiveled towards his accusers, but he was surrounded. “What? No. It was an accident, really.”

  “What was an accident?” the cop asked. “Killing Golden Boy West?”

  “Yes. No.” Jimmie was only certain of one thing. “I’m Jimmie Dallas.” The name didn’t sound like a magic spell any longer. This time it sounded more like an admission.

  “Well, let’s take you over to the station and see what that means,” the second cop said.

  “You don’t understand,” Jimmie pleaded. “He said I was going to be famous.”

  The cops were nothing but confused. “Who?”

  “Mr. Atibon. He promised I’d be famous.”

  “Well, I don’t know any Atibon. But I think by
tomorrow you’re going to be pretty goddamn famous. I think everyone in Nashville is going to find out that you’re the dirty sonofabitch that killed poor Golden Boy West. And that’s some kinda famous I wouldn’t ever want to be.”

  They pulled Jimmie Dallas from the barroom dressed out in cuffs. He struggled for a step or two, but then relented to his awaiting fate.

  The jukebox was still playing as he left Tootsie’s one final time. And the last thing Jimmie Dallas ever heard as a free man was a skinny kid singing.

  I sold my soul for fame and gold.

  Those kinda riches don’t last long.

  It all fades away, ’cept the price we pay.

  Ain’t it sad.

  Sad like a country song.

  SECOND THOUGHTS

  by Steven James

  Murder never goes as planned.

  That’s what you think as you stare at the body beside your feet. Despite all the blood, despite the deep gashes in his abdomen, despite all that, Brian Peterson is still moving in a jerky, awkward way that makes you feel all wrong inside, as if you’re watching something very private.

  You look away.

  The other times it wasn’t like this.

  With the first one, Jayson Olivet, he just stopped moving, all very graciously anticlimactic. You expected blood, screams, a struggle, but all you got was a small gasp and then a man collapsing, and then lying glassy-eyed, staring past you toward a faraway spot somewhere beyond the ceiling.

  So then with Darren King, you’d thought things would be easy, just like with Jayson, but he fought hard and you had to use the knife over and over until he finally stopped coming at you with that screwdriver. Everything was messy, so messy, with warm spotlets of blood on your arm and face and neck, and it took forever to clean up.

  But now.

  This time.

  Brian isn’t fighting back—but neither is he dying like he’s supposed to.

  He’s just shaking.

  Never goes as planned.

  You lean close and look into his eyes.

  There’s a marked distance there, as if he’s beginning to fade away, but there’s also an awareness. He knows what’s happening to him. And he knows it’s going to go on for a while.