Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders

by Bill Fitzhugh

  “What kind you want, Mr. Peavy?

  “Scotch’ll be fine.”

  13.

  Two days after seeing Eddie in Biloxi, Jimmy dropped by the radio station where Megan worked. While she finished her shift, he sat in the news room reading stories as they came over the AP wire. The twenty-four year-old daughter of Delta businessman Henry Teasdale was found dead in her home in Quitman County, one story opened. At first, it caught Jimmy’s eye because of the tender age of the deceased. The name ‘Teasdale’ didn’t mean anything to him but he was curious about the death since most twenty-four year-olds found dead in their homes have died of something more interesting than old age. Jimmy was disappointed to find the cause of death was still under investigation but he continued reading until he got to the part that said, she was the wife of popular local entertainer, Eddie Long.

  “Oh my God.” Jimmy felt an empty, sinking sensation. He read the story again. It was awful. He tried to imagine how he’d feel if Megan died. It was sickening. But then something odd happened. The sick, sinking feeling was replaced by something more pleasant, which bothered Jimmy somewhat. Yes, he felt bad about what had happened, but what could he do? It wasn’t his fault. It was a tragedy, sure, but the fact remained that Tammy’s death was a blessing in disguise if you happened to be writing Tammy’s husband’s biography.

  Jimmy waited until Megan finished her shift before telling her what happened. She took the news with slack-jawed shock. They debated whether they should attend the funeral. Megan wanted to go, she said, to see Eddie and to offer condolences. Jimmy argued they’d be strangers intruding on a private family event since he knew Eddie primarily on a professional basis. In the end it was a moot point as Megan had a shift change at the radio station and couldn’t have attended even if she wanted. The day of the funeral came and went. Megan sent flowers and a card. Jimmy called and conveyed his condolences.

  14.

  The next week Jimmy started work on a magazine article he’d been hired to write. He also started to worry about his relationship with Megan. There was something about the way she had looked at Eddie that night in Biloxi that left Jimmy feeling insecure. He wanted to talk to someone about his feelings so he turned to the King and asked his advice.

  Elvis sneered at Jimmy as if to say he never had any problems with women. Elvis was wearing his white high-collared Eisenhower jacket, all spangled with sequins and glitter. His guitar strap was a bandoleer draped across his chest. His right hand pulled the microphone close. His dark eyes smoldered and stared straight into Jimmy’s. Elvis would be this way forever, or at least as long as Jimmy kept the little plastic statue glued atop his computer monitor. It was a little piece of kitsch he’d bought at Graceland while doing research for a magazine article. He brought a little atmosphere to Jimmy’s office but he didn’t have any solutions for Jimmy’s problems.

  Perhaps it was just that Megan had been captivated by Eddie’s performance that night. God knows he was good looking. And standing on stage in the spotlight with that beautiful guitar and that damn smile of his, well, Jimmy couldn’t compete with that. It made him wonder suddenly if he really had a chance with Megan. Writers weren’t sexy the way musicians were, especially unknown writers. No one wants to watch a writer perform his craft, since it pretty much looks like typing. But girls do like a handsome man with a guitar. For that matter, they seem to like any sort of man with one. Even Keith Richards has groupies for Christ’s sake.

  Jimmy sneered back at Elvis. Maybe he wasn’t giving Megan the sort of attention she deserved. That was probably it. It was a simple problem with a simple solution. He made a note to take Megan flowers the next time he saw her. With that, he returned his attention to the article he was writing. It was a piece on the Mississippi Delta Fried Catfish Blues Festival. He’d finished a first draft, about fifteen hundred words. Now all he had to do was cut a third of it. He stared at the screen for ten minutes but he couldn’t concentrate. Dammit. He had the distinct feeling, an instinct really, that the problem with Megan wasn’t going to be solved with flowers. He started to wonder if Megan was thinking about him or Eddie. He started to replay the Biloxi scene in his head. Was she being polite to Eddie because he had just finished a show or was it more than that?

  The next thing he knew he was dialing her work number. He got voice mail and thought about hanging up, but then he made the mistake of saying, “Hi, it’s me.” Then he froze, couldn’t think of what to say. Try to sound relaxed, he thought, like none of this matters, like you could take her or leave her. “Uh, you know I’ve been wondering if you…” Jimmy stopped. He couldn’t believe it. He’d almost asked if she’d been thinking about Eddie. “Uh, this is going to sound weird, and maybe I shouldn’t leave this, but I was wondering, the other night at the casino, was it just me or, I guess what I’m asking is if you’re more interested in, well, oh, hell I never should have started this. Forget you heard this. Is there a button to erase this shit? Uh, call me.” He hung up. He felt like an idiot.

  15.

  When the toxicology reports came back, the sheriff called Henry Teasdale and Eddie. He asked them to come down to the jail. They sat in the sheriff’s office. Eddie looked like he was still in shock. He had the dazed countenance of a lottery winner who didn’t think he deserved to win. He responded to questions with nods and shrugs and an occasional “yeah” or “I don’t think so.” Henry short-stopped most of the questions, thinking there was no reason for his cuckold son-in-law to go through more than he already had. But there were some questions Eddie had to answer, like whether he knew Tammy was having an affair.

  Eddie looked up, wounded and confused. “No, sir. I didn’t.” His voice was small and distant. He still couldn’t believe things had ended the way they had.

  “Well, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but we know for a fact she was. In fact, she’d been with someone the day she died.” He looked down at his hands folded on his desk. “Now if we knew who she was seein’, we could compel a blood test and that might help us clear some things up, but if you don’t know who it was… ”

  Eddie shook his head slowly. “I didn’t know.” He continued staring straight ahead, remaining expressionless even as the sheriff explained that Tammy had died of poisoning and that she’d been shot after she was already dead. Eddie didn’t react other than to blink a few times. The sheriff turned to Henry and asked if he had anything to add to his previous story. Henry shook his head, ashamed of what all he’d done.

  “All right, Henry, I understand,” the sheriff said. “Here’s what I think happened based on the facts I got. You stop me if I get something wrong.” Henry just looked at the floor and nodded. “You went looking for Tammy, just like you said. When you got to the house you found she’d killed herself with the poison and you found the note. You couldn’t stand the thought of your family’s reputation suffering further, so you took the gun, made it look like a murder, and then you got rid of the evidence, including the note. Is that pretty much it?”

  Henry nodded even though it wasn’t the truth. It was close enough and he just wanted this to be over with. He said he was sorry.

  All of this was news to Eddie. Up until now, he thought the intruder story was the truth. He thought someone had shot her. He didn’t know anything about the affair or a suicide note or that his father-in-law had tampered with evidence in the hopes of protecting the family name, or that Tammy had really died from the poison. It was such an incredible set of facts Eddie didn’t know what to think, so he just remained silent.

  “My guess,” the sheriff said, “and it’s just a guess, you understand, but my guess is that Tammy was feeling guilty about the affair she’d been having. Since Eddie was out of town, this fella had come over and they’d. . . well, you know… and afterwards, after this fella left, the guilt just got to her and she took the poison.” He paused a moment. “I’ve seen it before.”

  Henry looked up, squinting as if he had a new theory. “Maybe this fella she’d been se
ein’, maybe he’s the one who poisoned her and then made the note.”

  The sheriff shook his head. “Well, Henry, I suppose the suicide note — if that’s what it was — it mighta been intended to mislead investigators but since we don’t have it we can’t say for sure, can we?” He looked Henry in the eyes. “Do you have it? It might help us answer some questions.”

  Henry shifted in his seat and looked out the window. “It’s gone.”

  “Okay.” The sheriff was patient, like he was involved in a negotiation with a child. “I guess I expected that.” The sheriff steepled his fingers and looked from Henry to Eddie. “If it helps any, the medical examiner said she died real quick.” Eddie looked up at the sheriff, but didn’t speak. “Now I considered some other possibilities but they just ain’t flush with the facts.”

  “Like what?” Henry asked.

  “Well, like you said, it’s possible her lover gave her the poison and then shot her. But why would he shoot her if she was dead already, which she was?”

  “Unless he thought the poison hadn’t killed her.”

  “Well yeah, but that still leaves me wondering about the letters cut out of the magazine. Why would she write a note? Did it say ‘depressed,’ Henry?” Henry nodded, confirming the note’s existence. “‘Course I suppose it’s possible there was something more sordid going on, like if she was having some sort of affair with two men or a man and another woman, but if we go down that path, well, that’s a can of worms I don’t wanna open,” the sheriff said. “About all I know for sure is that poison was in her before the bullet was and, according to the medical examiner, if she took this poison, she wouldn’a been able to shoot herself. Of course somebody coulda slipped her the poison but there’d be no reason to shoot her afterwards.” The sheriff held his hands up. “I can’t make sense outta this except for the way I said.”

  “I could see that,” Henry said.

  “I’m real sorry to have to tell you this, Henry, but I’m gonna write it up as a suicide.”

  “Well, now, wait a second.”

  “I’ve got to, Henry. I’m real sorry, but without further evidence, I don’t have a better choice. We got no third party fingerprints, otherwise we might be able to find out who she was seein’ and then we might be able to compel a blood sample, but without that note or the gun—” The sheriff tilted his head slightly. “You don’t have the gun, do you Henry?”

  Henry shook his head again. “It’s gone too.”

  The sheriff let out a long breath. “Without that, I’m stuck,” the sheriff said. “It’s either a suicide or I have to open up a murder investigation that I already know don’t go anywhere. And then I’d have to drag you into it for tampering with evidence and such, and I don’t wanna do that, Henry. I think this other’s the best way.” He stood and walked Eddie and Henry to the door.

  “I understand,” Henry said. “I’m sorry I did what I did, but…”

  “I know, and I can’t say as I blame you.” The sheriff put his hand on the door knob, then stopped and looked at Henry. “Unless you got anything to add, I’m closing the case.”

  Henry shook his head.

  “All right then,” the sheriff said. He opened the door.

  Henry started out of the room but Eddie just stood there, silent, his glazed eyes staring at the floor. “Eddie?” Henry said quietly as he touched his son-in-law’s shoulder. “Eddie, let’s go. It’s over.”

  With that, Eddie looked up and said, “Good.”

  16.

  For the most part, Nashville’s fabled ‘Music Row’ consisted of a three-quarter mile stretch of two unassuming one-way streets running parallel to one another.

  16th Avenue ran one-way north while 17th Avenue ran one-way south. Looking north from the south end of either avenue, one would never guess the business resulting in ninety percent of the country music consumed in the world was conducted in this generally sleepy mile-and-a-half of road, a stone’s throw from Vanderbilt University. But such was the case. Many of the publishing companies, recording studios, law firms, and record companies were quartered in the modest houses and other simple buildings that fronted on the magnolia-lined streets. But not everyone worked out of these quaint dwellings.

  There were several large structures of courageous architectural design on Music Row, primarily at the north end. When the country music industry hit it big and the money started pouring in, the entertainment conglomerates began building on Music Row. When they did, it appeared they were not hindered by any covenants, codes, or restrictions in terms of architectural styles or the unity thereof. For example, the Gaylord Entertainment building looked like something out of a 1950’s science fiction movie. On the other hand, Reba’s corporate headquarters, just up the street, offered a more modern design, almost church-like in its motif, while the MCA building, just off the Row, presented a facade reminiscent of a Seattle Brew Pub or an enlarged Ray-O-Vac battery.

  The largest of all the structures on Music Row belonged to the two main performance rights organizations. The ASCAP and BMI buildings were so immense as to make songwriters and publishers wonder if they were getting all the money they were owed.

  Somewhere on

  16th Avenue, not far from Sony Music headquarters, was a two story house that had been converted for business purposes into Herron & Peavy Management, an artist management firm. Downstairs was the reception area and all the administrative functions. The upstairs featured two large offices with views onto Music Row. One of the offices contained a small legal library, some fine art, and a beautiful maple desk and credenza on which sat the most up-to-date computer equipment available at any given time. This was the office of Franklin Peavy, Esquire and technophile. Franklin was a serious over- clocker with a Celeron Socket 370 super-heatsink fan combo for keeping his gear cool. His CPU was always equipped with the most memory, the fastest processor, zip drives, and the latest video and audio cards on the market. He had a wireless mouse, a mounted digital camera for video e-mail, a thirty-six inch monitor, and every other cutting-edge peripheral available. “Wireless application protocol connects me to the universe,” was his motto.

  The second office consisted of three walls covered with framed platinum records, gold CDs, and cassettes of artists the firm represented. There were photos of the artists accepting awards, blown-up charts from Billboard, and racks of compact discs. It was in this office where Big Bill Herron, co-owner of Herron & Peavy, sat at his desk flipping urgently through a paper. It was the new issue of Nashville Scene — the one with the annual list of ‘Nashville’s Power 100.’ Big Bill needed to know where he stood among ‘The Most Important People in Country Music.’

  Big Bill was in his mid-sixties and liked to joke that he was suffering from what he called ‘biscuit poisoning.’ He wasn’t quite 5’8”, 220 pounds, but he was damn close. His gut was the first thing you noticed after you stopped staring at his spectacularly round head. It was a fleshy beach ball. In fact, all of Big Bill’s features, from nose to butt, were so unusually bulbous that many people in the business referred to him as Tennessee Ernie Borgnine.

  “Goddammitall!” Big Bill threw the paper on the floor, mad as a pig on ice with his tail froze in. “I don’t believe it! That can’t be right.” He snatched the magazine up off the floor and turned back to his listing and sure as God made little green apples, he was Number 99. It was a comedown, and a bad one. Less than ten years ago Bill was Number 7, and now he was Number 99? “Well shitgoddamitall!”

  Like many people in the business end of the music industry, Bill started out as an artist. But it quickly became clear he was better riding gain on the microphone than singing into it. Over the years he established himself as an innovative and successful producer as well as an artist manager. He had a good ear for a song, and he had hooked up with a good attorney, Franklin Peavy, to form a business exploiting their respective talents as well as the talents of others.

  That wasn’t to say Big Bill robbed his clients blind. You didn�
�t stay in business long if all your clients went broke. You had to be careful how and where you got that lagniappe. You had to know the intricacies of publishing, recording, performance, and merchandising contracts. You needed to know what songs were hits and which ones were filler and who was willing to give up some of their publishing just to get recorded. You also had to know when to give up some of your own points and to whom. These were the things Bill and his partner knew as well as anyone. Given that, Big Bill wondered why he was so close to being off the damn list.

  Big Bill knew the music industry was voracious, and in more ways than one. It chewed up and spit out talent as well as those who managed and produced them. The machine had to be fed. And with fresh meat arriving every day, there was always someone to feed into the teeth. It was just that Big Bill was used to doing the chewing. He wasn’t used to being the meat.

  Once a powerful and successful management firm, Herron & Peavy was now just getting by. They blamed it on the current state of country music. After a huge surge in popularity in the 1990s, which had translated into record breaking sales and staggering income for more than a few, the industry had gone into a slump. In fact if you believed all the whining on Music Row, you have thought everyone in the business was losing money. Still, Herron & Peavy had a marginal stable of artists and songwriters, and there was a steady trickle of old producing and publishing money coming in. But Big Bill needed more and being dropped to 99 on the Power 100 wasn’t going to help.