Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders

by Bill Fitzhugh

  Jimmy was dumbstruck. What the hell just happened? This had to be a mistake. He stared at the phone until he heard his tires drifting onto the gravel shoulder. He looked up just in time to see a large wooden sign on the roadside in front of him, but not soon enough to avoid it. He yanked the steering wheel but he clipped the sign and sent it flying. It landed in pieces on the side of the road behind him. The part that landed face-up said: ‘Welcome to Meridian — Home of The Singing Brakeman.’

  Adrenaline fueled Jimmy’s agitated system. His mind and body bristled. Goddammit! What the hell’s going on? A month ago, Jimmy’d been in tall cotton. He had a girl he loved and a project he was passionate about. Now all he had was a new dent in his front quarter-panel. As he drove though Meridian, Jimmy tried to assess the situation. Had Eddie betrayed him on the book deal or was this a case of gatekeeper interference? Either way, Jimmy was pissed. He’d put in too much time and invested too much of himself and his future on this book. He wasn’t going to curl up and die just because Eddie’s manager was playing hard ass. Hell, he was probably putting words in Eddie’s mouth but there was nothing Jimmy could do about that for now.

  But what if Eddie really had turned on him? What if Herron and Peavy had blown so much smoke up Eddie’s ass that he was taking their advice on the book deal? The fact that he had an unpublished number all the sudden, just like Megan, didn’t help. And, come to think of it, it wasn’t like Jimmy hadn’t noticed the way Eddie and Megan had looked at each another in the past. Maybe Eddie had betrayed him. Well, screw him, Jimmy thought. If Eddie was too much of a coward to say it to his face, fine. If Eddie didn’t want Jimmy to write his official biography, fine. He’d write the unofficial biography. They couldn’t stop him from doing that. And even if they could, Jimmy could always fall back on writing his fictional version of the story as well as the book on the serial killer. So, ha! Jimmy’s plate was still full and the rest of them could just kiss his ass.

  Jimmy was blown up like a toad by the time he pulled off the freeway. A few minutes later he pulled into the parking lot at Okatibbee Pharmaceuticals. The building, like the business itself, was in need of a face lift it would never receive. The sign was sun-faded and the whitewash on the bricks was flaking off like bad dandruff. The company spokesman met Jimmy in the lobby. He was a handsome man, a few years older than Jimmy. He was tanned and had an oily smile. He seemed nervous the way people do when the smell of downsizing is thick in the air. After introductions, the man led Jimmy down a hallway. “Okatibbee Pharmaceuticals has long held an important position in the economy of Lauderdale County.” He stopped and gestured at a large portrait hanging on the wall. “The company was founded by—”

  “Whoa,” Jimmy said, “I’m not here for the tour.”

  The man turned and looked at Jimmy. “No?”

  “No. I’m here to ask questions.”

  “Questions?”

  “Yes, the opposite of answers,” Jimmy said.

  “Questions about what?” The man seemed uneasy with Jimmy’s prickly attitude.

  “Questions about Tammy Long and Fred Babineaux and a couple other folks.”

  The man looked at the portrait, then back at Jimmy. “Uhhh, do they work here?” His tone was as feeble as his feigned ignorance.

  “No, they were customers.”

  “They’re customers?”

  “Were,” Jimmy said. “As in now they’re dead.”

  “Dead customers?”

  “Yes, quite dead,” Jimmy said, “and all with Dr. Porter’s Headache Powder in their systems.”

  The spokesman paused, thinking. He gestured toward a door. “Perhaps we’d be more comfortable talking in my office.” He showed Jimmy into the room. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Co-Cola?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “I just need some information.” He pulled a file from his satchel.

  “I don’t have any information about dead customers, I can assure you.” The man sat down behind his desk and began fidgeting. “Perhaps I could answer some other questions, like how many boxes of Dr. Porter’s Headache Powder we make in an hour, something like that?”

  Jimmy looked at the man and shook his head. “No, that wouldn’t do me any good.” He pulled a sheet of paper from the file. “This is a lot number,” he said, handing the paper over. “I want to know exactly when and where this lot was shipped.”

  The man looked at the list, then at Jimmy. “Are you sure I can’t get you a Co-Cola or something? Tastes real nice on a day like this.”

  Jimmy cleared his throat and set his elbows on the desk. “No. Thanks.” He steepled his fingers and stared at the man. “Look, this is very simple,” he said. “I’m writing a book about a guy, okay? The guy’s wife dies suddenly, so I have to look into the death, right? Turns out she died from poisoning after taking your product. So I have to look into that, right? Much to my surprise, I find out about similar deaths in Louisiana, Alabama, and the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Now, I know you’ve been contacted by all these police agencies, and you’ve given them this information. Now you just have to give it to me.”

  The man looked genuinely confused. “I do?”

  Jimmy pulled out his wallet which got the man’s attention. “Let me ask you a question,” Jimmy said. “Does the press know about this?”

  The man looked around nervously. “I don’t think so.” He was starting to imagine a hefty bribe. Maybe he’d be able to get that jet ski he’d had his eye on.

  Jimmy pulled out his laminated press credentials and tossed them onto the man’s desk. “Do you want to keep it that way?”

  The man looked at the credentials and nodded. “Maybe you’d like a Mountain Dew instead of a Co-Cola?”

  “I’m not thirsty,” Jimmy said. “But thanks. Now, here’s the deal. This book I’m writing? It might not get published. And if it does, it won’t be for a while. Meanwhile, you guys will be very quietly recalling everything on the shelves and implementing new safety packaging, right?”

  The man continued to nod, keeping a hopeful eye on Jimmy’s wallet.

  “By then the police might have already caught the perpetrator, in which case the news won’t hurt your sales too much.”

  The man shifted in his seat thinking Jimmy would reach into the wallet again at any moment. A jet ski would sure be real nice, he thought.

  “Alternatively,” Jimmy said, “in the interest of public safety, I could make a few phone calls to my friends in the news business and break the story. This would probably push your crumbling little enterprise here over the brink into financial ruin.” Jimmy smiled as he slipped his press credentials back into his wallet, all the while thinking that Big Bill Herron wasn’t the only guy who could play hard ass. “Like I said, it’s very simple.”

  Disappointed he wasn’t being bribed, the man looked at the lot number, then at Jimmy. “That’s blackmail.”

  Jimmy held up a finger, then reached into his pocket and tossed a coin on the man’s desk. “Here’s a quarter, call somebody who cares.”

  35.

  Megan opened with the traditional, “Oh my God, Eddie, you’re sooo big,” which never failed. Combined with an unnecessary readjustment of her hips and a practiced look of amazement, it was a solid confidence booster for her new sexual partner. About halfway through she started in with the “give it to me’s” and the short gasping breaths as if it was the best thing she’d ever had and she wasn’t sure how much more she could take it was so unbelievable but please don’t stop. Then, toward the end, Megan called his name with each turgid thrust. “Eddie. Eddie. Eddie.” Each call matched the flimsy percussion of the cheap headboard tapping the wall. And then, as he achieved, “Oh, Eddie! Yes!” She just hoped it sounded like she meant it.

  Megan could have been reciting a cornbread recipe as far as Eddie was concerned. He just didn’t want things to end too quickly, which was a distinct possibility given how long it had been since he’d engaged in this sort of activity. He tried thinking about NASCAR stan
dings and fishing lures to delay the countdown, but even visions of Kyle Petty in his Nomex jumpsuit couldn’t keep Megan’s expert coaxing from triggering the launch, and the mattress dance was over less than ten minutes after it started.

  “Oh my God, Eddie. That was un-be-lieve-able!” Megan sprawled across the bed, huffing like she’d just finished a four minute mile.

  Eddie couldn’t remember ever feeling this good. He was still thrilled by the recording session and was excited about returning the next night. To top that off with a steamy horizontal mambo, well, hell, he was doing fine as frog’s hair. Thinking maybe he should do some cuddling, Eddie leaned over to kiss Megan, but she was already snoring. Eddie smiled. Could things get any better, he wondered.

  36.

  Big Bill was in a pensive mood. He was thinking about how great ideas often come from the strangest places. Specifically he was thinking about the phone call he’d received from the guy calling himself Jimmie Rodgers. Because of the name Big Bill assumed the guy was a crackpot but still, it set Big Bill to thinking that a biography of Eddie Long was a terrific idea, assuming Eddie ever had a hit. Of course if you were going to do a book, Big Bill thought, now was the time to get started. You wanted it ready so you could rush into publication and cash in on what might turn out to be a flash in the pan. To that end Big Bill was thinking he would write the book himself. After all, how hard could that be?

  He’d been sitting at his kitchen table for an hour trying to think of a good title when Eddie arrived. Big Bill looked up and saw the satisfied face of a man who not only got laid the night before but figured he had it coming again tonight. “Hey now!” Big Bill said, pointing at Eddie. “Betcha dolla I know who got some gravel for his goose!” He slapped his hand down on the table and laughed. “You ready to make some music?”

  Eddie tipped his Stetson back and smiled his best Eddie Long smile. “If nothin’ breaks or comes untwisted,” he said. “How you doin’?”

  “Well, I feel more like I do now than I did when I got here,” Big Bill said. “And I felt pretty good to start with.”

  “Well, all right then.” Eddie set his guitar case down and sat at the table with his producer. “You decided when we’re gonna do ‘Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way?’ I think we oughta do it third or fourth, after we’re warmed up a bit, but not too late that we might be tired.”

  “Whatever you want. We’ll do it when it feels right,” Big Bill said. “That’s the key with a song like that, you gotta do it naturally. See, the great thing about that song is it’s, uh, what’s the word I want? It’s organic. There’s not a false note or an untrue word in it. And we gotta capture that.” Bill shook his head. “So we can’t do it on a schedule. It’s not like a bought single. I bet you didn’t write it on a schedule, did you?”

  Eddie thought about it for a second. “No, sir, that’s true.” He grew serious all the sudden, looking at his hands and where his wedding band used to be. “That song came out of me like I don’t know what. Most of my songs I have to think about and work on but that one. . . it was like… it was hard.”

  “Like splittin’ gum logs in August,” Big Bill said, nodding his giant round head. “I know. I could tell the first night I heard it.” Bill reached across the table and touched Eddie’s chest. “It came from in there.” He reached up and touched Eddie’s forehead. “Not there.”

  Eddie felt comfortable with Big Bill. They were kindred. In a way, he was a father figure and Eddie just opened up to him. He told Big Bill about Tammy’s death and how he moved to Nashville just afterwards. He told him all he could remember about the five days he spent trying to get the song to come out, and how it felt when it was over. “I’m tellin’ you,” Eddie said, “it was rough.”

  Big Bill took it all in, thinking it would be good material for the book. He’d heard others tell similar stories. Songwriting was a mysterious process even when it consisted more of steady hard work than out-of-the-clear-blue inspiration. It was mostly day-in, day-out spent working with a theme, or taking a common phrase, putting a twist to it and building a song around it, or telling a story with perfect economics. It was poetry with the added complication of being set to music. But every now and then a song would force itself on a writer, make their life hell for some time, then present itself when it was ready. This was how many of the best songs were born. Knowing this served to bolster Big Bill’s belief that Eddie’s song was a classic. He couldn’t wait to get it on tape. Big Bill stood up. “Come on,” he said, putting his arm around Eddie. “Let’s go make some music.”

  An hour later, Porky Vic and the players were back and it was like the night before had never ended. It was a recording session the likes of which everyone dreams. And it wasn’t just that everyone was playing well and getting along, though both of those things were certainly true. The thing was, they could tell they were making a great record. They didn’t know if it would be a commercial success or not, but they could tell it was something to be proud of. The confidence and camaraderie that followed from that was palpable. Each player was in perfect sync with the others, requiring no more than eye contact or body language to communicate their ideas in the middle of a song. It was a fast break with guitars. They started with a sort of rocking west Texas shuffle that sounded like it had been filtered through an early Doobie Brothers hit. After running through it a couple of times, they compared notes.

  “How ‘bout we do three bars on that to the downbeat to the chorus,” the bass player said.

  The pedal steel guy held up his hand. “Wait, wait, wait! You wanna make it four minors? That might be cool.”

  Eddie thought about it for a second. He looked at his charts, tilted his head. “11, 55, 44, 11? That’s different from what I was thinking of, but it might work. Let’s try it.”

  The pedal steel guy smiled as they played a few bars that way before pausing. “Yeah,” he said, “that works, doncha think?”

  “Yeah, four.” Eddie smiled back and nodded. “I’m diggin’ that.” He looked to the control room. “Boss?”

  Big Bill pushed the mic button. “I got special tape rolling. It captures magic. Now go!”

  Eddie counted it down and they nailed it in one take. Absolutely nailed it. It was impossible, but they did it. There was a pause as the last note faded and Eddie looked from one face to another. They ranged from sublime smiles to shit eatin’ grins. Eddie leaned into his microphone and spoke softly, like an announcer on a classic music station. “Gentlemen,” he said. “I believe we have our mojo working.” Everybody let out with hoots and hollers and high fives.

  The door behind Big Bill opened. Megan stepped into the room and waved. “Hey, everybody! That last one sounded good even through the door.”

  The sight of Megan’s wild red hair sent a charge through Eddie. “Hey girl! Glad you could make it,” he said with a wink. “We’re on a roll. Just make yourself comfy while we knock out another one.” He turned to the guitar player. “How about ‘Homeless in Love Town’ next?”

  The guitar player shrugged. “I’ll follow you anywhere, man.” So Eddie counted it down and they did a run through. It was a mournful, lovesick ballad that wouldn’t have been out of place on a Clint Black or a Randy Travis record. Afterwards, they listened to a playback and did their post mortem.

  “Something’s hinkey,” Porky Vic said.

  The guitarist agreed. “Yeah, there’s a seventh on the fiddle.”

  “It might be duckable,” someone suggested.

  “You don’t like the seventh?” The fiddle player sounded a little hurt.

  Big Bill jumped in. “No,” he said, “but only because of the harmonies we’re going to do. Can’t have that and the seventh, right?”

  The fiddler player nodded understanding. “Cool.” After three more takes, ‘Homeless in Love Town’ was in the can, save the harmony tracks Bill would record and mix in a few days.

  Megan sat in the control room admiring her new man. Even though Eddie was the youngest one in the stu
dio, she could see the rest of them were glad to have him lead them to the promised land. She kicked back on the sofa and began to imagine a plush future at Eddie’s side.

  “Hey, Bill,” Eddie said. “You think the time’s right?” He’d been waiting for Megan, for inspiration. “I’m feelin’ organic, if you know what I mean.”

  “You rascal, I know what you mean.” Big Bill was about to give a thumbs up when the door behind him opened again and Franklin walked in with Whitney. Big Bill turned around. “Hey now! Look who we got.” He waved everybody in from the studio. “Let’s take five, fellas. Eddie, we’ll do the song when we come back.”

  The players emerged from the isolation booths and headed for the control room. The pedal steel player stopped the guitarist as he passed by. “You bring your two-fifteen?”

  The picker smiled slyly. “Yeah, you got an idea for something?” He set his guitar down and pulled his 1955 Martin Style 2-15 mandolin from its case. It was a beauty, rosewood and tiger-striped maple and an unbound ebony fingerboard with 7 ivoroid dotmarkers. The pickguard clamp was an unusual shade of jade and brown. The instrument made sounds that might have come from heaven, if angels played mandolins. The picker pulled a stool up next to the pedal steel guitar. “What’ja have in mind?”

  Out in the control room some of the players chatted with Franklin, whom they knew from prior business dealings. Franklin made a joke about Big Bill’s studio being the Jurassic Park of Nashville. “I’ll take a digital rig any day,” he said. “But what do I know, right? I’m just a lawyer.”

  Big Bill introduced Whitney to everyone. Whitney tried not to look too astonished at where he suddenly found himself. After some small talk, Porky Vic and a couple of the players headed out for smokes. Big Bill corralled Eddie and brought him over. “Eddie, I want you to meet Whitney Rankin, the writer I told you about. He’s our other newest client, wrote a song that’s going to be a big hit. Whitney, this is Eddie Long.”