Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders

by Bill Fitzhugh

  Like far too many people in this state of mind, Jimmy started to think his brand of heartache was special and would make a great song. He quickly came up with a title: The number you’ve reached (is no longer in service). But what rhymed with service? Nervous? Purvis? No good. Back to the drawing board. How about, If you reached this recording in error (please hang up and dial again)? No, that was too long. He struggled with the idea late into the night but he couldn’t make it work. Rhymes were hard to come by and those that came didn’t say what he wanted.

  Outside it was dark but Jimmy didn’t notice. He was preoccupied by his own darkness, a lonely black melancholy that tended to make him melodramatic and fatalistic. His girl had left him and he couldn’t even come up with a song title to express his anguish. Oddly that’s when he saw a faint glimmer. All things considered, Jimmy realized he wasn’t as bad off as he could be. At least he still had the book, nonfiction or otherwise. Maybe he could win Megan back with that.

  Jimmy stood and went to pack. He’d be leaving for Quitman County in the morning.

  30.

  Whitney called Big Bill the Monday after his open mic performance at the Bluebird and, to his surprise, Big Bill invited him to dinner to discuss his career.

  Even though his mama had warned him against it since he was little, Whitney allowed himself to feel a little more important than he’d allowed the day before. He’d have bet not everyone got invited to dinner with Big Bill Herron and Franklin Peavy. He just wished him mom was still alive so he could tell her the news. The restaurant wasn’t far from Whitney’s place, probably a ten minute walk. Since his truck was still at the repair shop and the hole in his boot wasn’t getting any smaller, it was a good thing Mr. Herron had picked a place close by. A guy just couldn’t get any luckier than that, Whitney thought.

  He cut out a new piece of cardboard and slipped it into his boot. Then he put on his black Wranglers, a dark plaid shirt, and his dark gray vest. He stood in front of the mirror as he put on his black Lancer. He took a good look and told himself things were going to work out, then he headed over to the restaurant.

  Whitney stopped cold on the sidewalk across the street from the restaurant. The moment he saw the Mercedes pull up to the valet his outsider status was reconfirmed. He hadn’t dressed for this sort of place, but it was too late to turn back. Inside the hostess took one look at him and tried not to smirk. She’d seen an untold number of hopefuls come through here looking for their future, but she’d never seen one dressed so mal à propos. Sometimes she wished they’d just stop coming to town. All they did was muddy the water for real singers and songwriters like herself. “Welcome to the Sunset Grill,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  Whitney took his hat off and ran his fingers through his long hair. “Yes ma’am. I’m here to meet Mr. Bill Herron and Mr. Franklin Peavy.” He could tell by the way she looked at him that she disapproved.

  The hostess smiled mechanically. “Right this way.” She took Whitney to the table where Herron and Peavy were waiting. More than a few heads turned to eye the skinny kid in the belligerent outfit.

  “Hey now!” Big Bill said as he stood to shake hands. “We was startin’ to worry you’d signed with Fitzgerald-Hartley or something. C’mon, sit down. Thanks for joining us.”

  “Thank you for inviting me.” Whitney turned to Franklin and shook his hand too. “I mean, both of you. I appreciate it.” Whitney generally wasn’t the nervous type, but he’d never felt so out of place. Here he was, shaking hands with two people who were, by his reckoning, among the most influential in Nashville. He didn’t know what to say. He spoke best through his music and never had to talk business with anyone more influential than the bar owners who usually hired him. He sat down and looked around. He’d never seen a crowd of people like this. They all looked and dressed different from what he’d been expecting. Whitney sensed the disdain.

  Big Bill saw Whitney was somewhat unsettled. “I gotta tell ya, I hadn’t been able to get your song outta my head since I heard it.”

  “Which one?”

  “Oh, the, uh, slow, pretty one,” Big Bill said.

  “Night’s Devotion?”

  “That’s it,” Big Bill said. “You know, it all starts with the song. Sure does. A good song can do a lot more for a mediocre performer than a good performer can do for a mediocre song, if you know what I’m sayin’. And your song is a good one.”

  “Well, thank you,” Whitney said. “I got more of ‘em too.”

  “You got a gift,” Big Bill said. “No doubt about it.” After seeing Whitney in a better light, Big Bill made a career decision for him. It wasn’t fair but, given the importance of videos in marketing music these days, he sometimes had to steer some kids toward songwriting from the beginning so they didn’t get it in their heads that they might be on a big stage some day. “You are one helluva songwriter.”

  “I appreciate that,” Whitney said. “Especially coming from you.” He began to relax and enjoy the unlikely situation where he found himself the center of attention. Big Bill pulled a bottle from the bucket of ice next to the table. “Wine?”

  “Uh, sure.” Whitney had never been a big drinker, and he preferred beer on the occasions when he did drink, but he didn’t want to seem like a rube. It was bad enough he felt like one.

  “You like chardonnay?”

  “You bet,” Whitney said, not knowing chardonnay from shinola. “It’s. . . real nice.”

  For the next hour, Herron and Peavy blew enough balloon juice to float Whitney over the Cumberland River and into Adelphia Coliseum on the other side. They predicted his songs would be at the top of the charts and that he was looking at a big money future with more beautiful women than you’d find at a Miss Mississippi pageant. The two industry giants poured it on thick, insisting over and over that Whitney had that something special. Actually, the only thing they were sure of was that Whitney had a couple of songs, one of which Big Bill felt was a hit. If it turned out the kid had more than that, well, there might end up being some truth to what Herron and Peavy were saying. But for now they just wanted the one song.

  Whitney absorbed everything, including the chardonnay. He found that sipping the wine only accentuated it’s bitterness, so he took to gulping it. “Well, that’s flattering and all, but—”

  Big Bill held up his hand and gave Whitney a serious look. “Son, we’re not in the flattery business. We’re in the music business so don’t think we’re here to blow smoke up your skirt and buy you dinner. We wanna sign you as a client.”

  Big Bill poured more wine while Franklin reached into his briefcase and pulled out a contract — one that Big Bill had already checked for covert producer credits. “This is our standard agreement.” Franklin flipped page to page, pointing as he spoke. “It covers publishing rights, mechanicals, sync rights, compulsory license, all the boilerplate that’s in everybody’s contracts.” Franklin pulled a pen from his coat and clicked the push-button with his thumb. “By the way, what’s the name of your publishing company?”

  Whitney shrugged. “Uh, I don’t think I have one, really. Should I get one?”

  Big Bill smiled broad as a double-wide. “It’s no big deal, some writers use publishers, most of ‘em just let their managers handle that kind of stuff.”

  “All this is real standard,” Franklin said.

  Whitney nodded. He didn’t have the slightest idea if any of what they were saying was true, but he couldn’t see any reason they’d lie to him. “I’m just a songwriter and a singer. I figure you guys know all that other stuff.”

  Franklin could barely hide his contempt. One of the few things he and Big Bill agreed on was that it wasn’t their job to educate anyone who wasn’t their client. In fact, the way they saw it, it was against the basic tenets of business to do so. As far as they were concerned it was the potential client’s responsibility either to learn about the business or to hire an attorney to handle their affairs. Otherwise it was in Herron’s and Peavy’s best inte
rest to operate under the assumption that the potential client was a competent party. It was like football. Each team arrives at the field assuming the other understands how the game is played. If one of them doesn’t, they get their butts kicked and learn a valuable lesson for next time.

  From a contract law perspective, Franklin felt they were on solid ground. If a client didn’t know any better and felt like he got a good deal earning thirty thousand dollars even when he could have earned a hundred thousand, well, in Franklin’s experience the courts tended not to consider the adequacy of the consideration in most contract situations, unless the difference was startling. Of course, for obvious reasons, once Herron and Peavy signed a client it was in their best interest to continue not educating them, lest they go back and read their contract.

  Whitney flipped through the thick document. “This looks pretty complicated. You think I should get a lawyer to look at it?”

  “A lawyer?” Franklin pointed at Whitney. “Absolutely. Best thing you can do.”

  Big Bill waved the waitress over. “Sugar, could you bring me the Yellow Pages?” He passed the hors d’oeuvres to Whitney. “Have you tried these little ham and goat cheese things? Man are they good!” He picked up the bottle and refilled Whitney’s glass. “And try ‘em with this wine. It’s a great combo.”

  The waitress returned with the phone book. Big Bill opened it to ‘Attorneys’ and slid it in front of Whitney. He ran his finger down a column of names. “I know all these fellas. They’re all real smart. This ole boy went to Vandy with Franklin. That one went to Ole Miss. I betcha dolla there’s even a Harvard guy or two in there. And I’m tellin’ you, these guys know their contracts.” Big Bill leaned across the table to share a secret with Whitney. “But I tell you what, every last one of ‘em’ll charge you five grand just to tell you this is all standard stuff.”

  “Five thousand dollars?” He turned to Franklin. “Just to read this?”

  “Up front.” Franklin shrugged. “That’s pretty standard.” He held the appetizers out to Whitney. “Care for another?” Whitney ate another one and gulped some more chardonnay. It was starting to taste pretty good, especially with the salty ham and cheese things.

  They ordered their dinners. The waitress talked Whitney into the pan-seared catfish with okra and fig chutney. Franklin got the pasta with crawfish and andouille in a heavy cream sauce. Big Bill ordered prime rib with the crabmeat topping then held up their empty bottle. “Honey, could you bring us another one of these?”

  Franklin took the contract from Whitney, turned back a few pages and pointed at a long obfuscating paragraph. “Here’s the most important part of this as far as you’re concerned. The standard songwriter royalty for Herron and Peavy clients is five percent. Of course after a little success, we’ll negotiate that up, but for starters you gotta admit, that’s good money.”

  Whitney looked unsure. “Five percent doesn’t seem like much.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Big Bill said, picking up his pen. He took the contract, turned it over and started doing the math. “Say you sell a million records at an average price of, well, let’s just say ten dollars to make the math easy, right? I mean otherwise you gotta go through the calculation of suggested retail list price, recoupable advances, packaging deductions and all that, so five percent of ten dollars is fifty cents, right? Times a million units is half a million dollars.” Bill circled the $500,000 several times for emphasis. “Can you imagine? The heck would you do with five hundred thousand dollars? And that’s just one record.”

  “Wow.” Whitney smiled and shook his head. He’d never allowed himself to think such thoughts, and now these guys were telling him it was not only possible, but they were making it sound like it was more likely than not. Whitney didn’t know what had him feeling better, the wine or the endless promises, so he slugged down the rest of his chardonnay and urged them on.

  Big Bill refilled Whitney’s glass while Franklin flipped the contract over and turned to the back. “Have you already got a personal services corporation set up?” He made it sound like this was something every songwriter should have done a long time ago.

  “No sir. You know, I just got to town and. . .is that something where I just go down to the courthouse and fill out some forms?”

  Big Bill pushed the Yellow Pages back in front of Whitney. “Any one of these fellas will help you set it up. Probably cost another five or seven thousand, no more than that. But most of our clients save the money by running their income through our corporation since we already got it set up for that sort of thing.”

  “Well that makes sense,” Whitney said. “It sure does.”

  The waitress brought their dinners and, before long, a third bottle of wine. Herron and Peavy eased off the contract talk while they ate. Instead, they regaled Whitney with ribald tales of country music celebrities. Big Bill ticked off the names of famous players and singers who were serious cocaine and heroin users, then Franklin shocked Whitney with news of the sexual orientation of one of the industry’s biggest stars.

  Whitney stared drunkenly at Franklin, his mouth agape. “He’s. . . gay?”

  “Queer as a blind guide dog,” Big Bill said.

  “But I read where he was datin’ that TV actress.”

  Big Bill arched his brows. “Oh yeah, we got some fine public relations firms here in Nashville. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”

  Later, as the waitress cleared their plates, Franklin rolled the contract into a tight tube and wagged it at Whitney. “Think about this,” he said. “We want to sign you and we’ve only heard two of your songs. You know how many other artists we’ve signed after hearing just two songs? None. Not a one. Now that must mean we see something in you we don’t see in others, right?”

  “I got a whole lot more than just those two,” Whitney said. “If you want, we can go back to my place and I can play some of the others.” Whitney wondered if they were ever going to ask him to sign the contract.

  Big Bill ordered brandies all around. He was surprised Whitney hadn’t offered to sign the contract yet. Most newcomers signed before dinner was brought to the table. Big Bill swirled his brandy around his snifter for a moment, then looked up. “Franklin, show him page eight.”

  Franklin flipped through the contract. “This is something else we don’t do very often,” he said, pointing to the clause in question. “We’re prepared to offer you a one thousand dollar signing bonus if you’ll let us manage and produce you and publish your songs.”

  Whitney took a deep breath. He couldn’t believe it. “You’ll pay me to be my manager?” He could get his truck out of hock and get his boots fixed with that kind of money. He smiled and started to think maybe he’d come to the right place after all. “Where do I sign?”

  31.

  It was another sleepy, dusty Delta day when Jimmy arrived in Quitman County. He had lunch with two of Eddie’s childhood friends, then met with his high school algebra teacher. After that he went to see two of Eddie’s former employers. There was no one at the Hegman farm where Eddie used to help out during harvesting, so he went over to the Lytle’s property. Lamont Lytle said Eddie had been a good worker, tending their small peach orchard. “He mostly did pruning and fertilizing and keeping the bugs away,” Lamont said. “Some folks don’t like that kind of work, but Eddie didn’t seem to mind. And I’ll tell you, we never lost much crop when he was here.” Mr. Lytle said he wasn’t surprised to hear Eddie had moved to Nashville. He pointed to a rickety out-building down by the grove of peach trees. “That boy used to set down there by the tool shed and play his songs whenever he was waitin’ on me. He’s got talent, they ain’t no question ‘bout that.”

  Jimmy went to take some photographs around the old tool shed. Inside were ancient rusting shears and rakes and peach picking tools. A thick network of spider webs connected everything. Rat traps were stacked high on the shelves next to a dozen old brown glass gallon-size bottles and some big rusty cans containing an array of pest
icides and fertilizers and other tools of the trade. Jimmy noticed a beam of sunlight blooming through the colored glass, casting amber light on an old pair of boots with high Cuban heels. He took a couple of shots of that and several from the exterior before heading off to track down the public records on Tammy’s death.

  The County Clerk’s office and the Sheriff’s Department shared a new, one story brick building with thick tempered glass windows and good air conditioning. Walking in the front door Jimmy could smell fresh paint and caulk that was still curing. Behind the counter was a small, skinny man wearing a maroon knit polo shirt. Jimmy introduced himself and explained why he was there. The man looked at Jimmy with suspicion. “So, what is it you want?”

  “I just need to take a look at the coroner’s report and the death certificate for Tammy Long,” Jimmy said. “She died about—”

  “Oh,” the man interrupted. “That’s something you need, is it? Not just something you want, but need.” The man squinted in Jimmy’s direction. “Well, if that don’t tear the rag off the bush, you comin’ up here nosin’ around other people’s affairs. You might as well be peepin’ in windows far as I’m concerned.” He leaned on the counter that separated him from Jimmy. “I’m not sure I’m gonna let you see ‘em. Whaddya think about that?”

  Jimmy was new at this, having done very little investigative reporting, but he was surprised by the man’s aggressive attitude. He could understand if he was at the Pentagon trying to get some compromising federal documents, but a Quitman County coroner’s report? “I’m writing a book on her husband and I just want to get the facts right.”