Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders

by Bill Fitzhugh

  Big Bill was in too good a mood to let Franklin bother him. “That’s true,” Big Bill said, “and if you don’t mind putting out records of performances that never happened and can never be reproduced live, then it’s the way to go. But I like the idea of something more authentic, that’s all. Call me old fashioned.”

  Franklin didn’t want to push the ProTools issue too far and spoil the festive mood, but lately he’d taken a couple of weekend seminars on modern recording techniques. Franklin was enamored of the technology and, like anyone else, he liked to talk about things he’d learned.

  Just then, Otis slid two shrimp plates across the ledge of the service window and rang the little bell. Estella picked up the plates and shambled over to Big Bill’s table. “Here we go.” She set one plate in front of the pedal steel player and one in front of the fiddler. She pulled a bottle of hot sauce from one apron pocket and a pint of scotch from the other. “Here you are, Mr. Peavy. You need more ice?”

  “No. Thank you, Estella,” he said, “I’m fine.” He unscrewed the cap and tipped the bottle over his glass.

  “All right, then. Ya’ll enjoy.” Estella turned her attention to Big Bill who was busy with his fingers, herding the remainders of his potato salad onto his fork before stuffing it into his roly-poly face. Estella watched him chew for a moment. She halfway wished he would choke and die face down on one of her plates but he just swallowed and looked at her, smiling, like he knew what she was thinking. Estella didn’t bat an eye. She just pointed at his plate which held little more than crumbs and shrimp tails. “Mr. Herrons, you gonna eat them scribbles or you done?”

  “I’m all topped off,” he said, leaning back with his mouth full. “You can take that.”

  Estella took the plate and headed for the kitchen. As she crossed the room with the plate in her hand, Estella’s eyes landed on Eddie and everything but her thoughts suddenly seemed to decelerate, as if life had slipped into slow motion. She recognized Eddie from the night he had signed with Herron and Peavy, right over there at that table. The handsome young man was with a pretty redheaded girl tonight. They were standing by the jukebox. Estella looked to her right and saw Otis through the service window. His face still and peaceful as he watched the angry oil cook another batch of shrimp. She could hear him saying, “Just let it go,” and she wondered where they might be if things had been different. If Herron hadn’t given up so quick. If Otis had had another hit. If he hadn’t drunk too much. If she hadn’t gone out in that alley.

  And then the switch flipped again and everything was full speed ahead and she smelled the shrimp frying and she heard booze splashing on ice and she felt the plate in her hand and she was standing right next to Eddie all the sudden. He looked at her and she looked right back and she said, “Mr. Herrons says you finished makin’ your record.” She sort of pointed at Eddie with the plate in her hand. “That’s real good,” she said. “You should be proud.”

  “Yes ma’am, thank you.”

  Estella glanced over her shoulder at Big Bill’s table, then back at Eddie. “Don’t tell him I said it, but you be careful with that man.”

  Eddie smiled, almost chuckling. “Yes, ma’am. I sure will.”

  She wagged a stern finger at him. “Don’t you be they fool.”

  “No, ma’am, I won’t.”

  Sensing she wasn’t going to be included in this conversation, Megan cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” she said. “Ladies room?”

  Estella pointed the way and waited until Megan was gone before turning back to Eddie. “You not careful, you might end up where you don’t want. You gotta take care of your own bidness.”

  Eddie flashed a knowing smile. “That’s the truth.” He sensed this woman knew what she was talking about. They thought along the same lines.

  Estella seemed to relax as she measured Eddie’s handsome young face. “I got a good feelin’ about you,” she said. “You’ll be all right.” She nodded several times like a little hammer driving a nail. “You’ll be fine.” Her eyes drifted away and, a moment later, she stepped over to the service window to set the plate down.

  Eddie looked back at the jukebox. He didn’t notice Estella come back. “You want my advice?” She didn’t wait for his reply. She just pointed. “C-19 and 20.”

  Eddie looked at the titles, then back at Estella. “They good?”

  Estella ducked her head to one side. “Chiiild yes they good.” Eddie squeezed a hand into his tight jeans and pulled out two quarters. He dropped them in the coin slot, punched in the numbers, and waited as the machine whirred and clanked. He heard the needle drop into the groove and a few scratchy seconds later ‘Lookin’ for Ruby’ jumped into the room with a scream that could’ve split James Brown’s pants. Otis’s head jerked sideways to see who was playing his song. “Even if you’re country,” Estella said, “you needs your soul.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Eddie said with a nod. “That’s the truth too.”

  “Lemme axe you somethin’.” Estella folded her arms and leaned forward from the waist up. “You know what the secret to the music bidness is?”

  Eddie turned sincere, nodding modestly. “You gotta write your songs from your heart.”

  Estella shrugged as if she took that for granted. Then she shook her head and looked Eddie in the eyes. “You keep control of all the publishin’ you can.”

  39.

  Born tired and raised lazy, the typical country music fan was a backwards, tobacco chewing, snaggle toothed, inbred, beer swilling boob who couldn’t pour piss from a boot with directions printed on the heel. This crude portrayal, probably a creation of the liberal East Coast media elite, might once have contained a grain of truth. However, thanks to the reams of research compiled by country radio programming consultants, we now know better. Today we know the typical country music fan is a home-owning, college educated, city-dwelling, constantly-on-the-cell-phone, Suburban driver, earning between $40,000 and $100,000 a year.

  In the not-too-distant past, country music was the exclusive domain of those with a genuine rural heritage. It was made by and for — and was about — Americans who had suffered the exacting nature of rural life, whether it be in a Kentucky coal mine or an Oklahoma corn field. The songs were about hardship and heartbreak, black lung and drought, desperation and doing time. But as the nation moved from an agricultural and industrial-based economy to an information-based economy, the audience changed and the original artists and their fans lost their death grip on the music. It was fair to say that most of today’s country music fans were all hat and no cattle in terms of their rural heritage. Oh, sure, they might own a pick up truck, ride a horse on the odd weekend, or speak with a drawl or a twang, but for the majority of them, that’s as far as it went. As such, it had become a generally accepted fact in the country music industry that even the catchiest tune about black lung disease would have a hard time getting radio play.

  The programming consultants who tracked changes in market demographics identified dozens of trivial differences between fans of country music and fans of pop and rock. But for Eddie Long, there were three differences that weren’t trivial at all. The first of those was ‘level of education.’ Contrary to the stereotyped perception, country fans were more educated than fans of pop or rock (with 14% more holding post graduate degrees). The second difference followed from the first. On average, country fans had a higher per-capita income than fans of other forms of popular music. The third difference related to ‘computer literacy.’ Research showed that the more education and money a group had, the more they used computers. And the more they used computers, the more familiar they were with the Internet.

  In other words, the demographic profile of the modern country music fan correlated neatly with the demographic profile of the typical Internet-savvy computer owner. So it was no surprise, really, that Eddie’s marketing strategy was causing such a stir.

  As it turned out, a decade or so after America went country, country went America. . .On Line. Of course Eddi
e’s band of web surfers was taking full advantage of this fact. They had sent a steady stream of hyperventilating ‘listener’ e-mails to more than half of the nation’s twenty-six hundred country radio stations, sometimes pleading for a complete version of the song, other times pretending to be local musicians offering to record an ending for it. They visited hundreds of country-music-related chat rooms and bulletin boards where they posted a variety of theories on the real identity of this ‘Eddie Long’ character, (“It’s probably Garth trying another Chris Gaines stunt”). At other sites they carried on scripted discussions about the song’s meaning and whether it was the best country song ever written. They also started a dozen fan sites, a mailing list, a Web ring, and a Usenet group.

  The result of all this was nothing short of remarkable. The extent of Internet penetration in the country radio industry was illustrated by the fact that seventy-five percent of the country stations in the US had downloaded the MP3 file based on ‘listener’ queries. One third of those stations had played the half-song at least once, and two dozen stations were actually playing it in light rotation by the end of week three of the campaign. Nearly 20 million people in America had heard the song — or had at least heard of it — by that point. The major radio and music industry trade papers, Billboard and Radio & Records had all either mentioned it in passing or had devoted an article to the mystery songwriter. Even Country Weekly was running a weekly update about ‘the search for Eddie Long’ on its ‘Cyber Country’ page.

  By the end of week four, no fewer than thirty-five radio station music directors were under orders from management to get the entire song on the air or find a new job. It was an idiotic demand, of course, but it was a well established fact that radio station managers didn’t have as much sense as you could slap in a gnat’s ass with a butter paddle.

  All this excitement about an unknown singer-songwriter was seen as a mixed blessing on Music Row. The good news was there was a song and an artist out there that their audience wanted. The bad news was twofold. First, obviously, was the fact that no one knew how to find the artist. Secondly, if and when they ever found him, there was going to be a serious bidding war for his services.

  And all this was good news for Eddie Long.

  40.

  Jimmy wasn’t worth a milk bucket under a bull when he first woke up. The randy couple next door had kept at it late into the night, long after Jimmy had satisfied his own needs. He finally drifted off around two in the morning. Unfortunately his four-button neighbor started laying pipe again at six sharp, so Jimmy didn’t get half the sleep he needed. He lay there for a while, listening as the neighbors worked to perfect their dawn coupling.

  “A little higher,” she said.

  “Okay,” he replied.

  “But hold that in your other hand, then push and twist at the same time.”

  After about fifteen minutes of this, Jimmy dragged himself out of bed, fixed a large thermos of coffee, and headed back to Quitman county.

  By the time he was halfway to Greenwood, the caffeine had him agitated and thinking bad thoughts about Eddie. In fact, he was so pissed off at the whole turn of events he was thinking about writing an article exposing the truth about the Internet scheme in the hope of ruining Eddie’s strategy. But Jimmy realized he wouldn’t even be allowed that satisfaction since his own success depended on Eddie’s. The bastard.

  Jimmy arrived at the Quitman County sheriff’s station, explained what he knew so far, then said he had a few more questions. The sheriff, a calm, patient man in his fifties, figured since Jimmy already had the coroner’s report and the other information, there was no good reason to keep any other facts from him.

  “One thing I can’t figure out,” Jimmy said, “is where the Chinese food came from.” He held up his file, fanning the air slightly. “There’s nothing in these reports about it.”

  The sheriff nodded, looking mildly dismayed but not quite embarrassed. “First on the scene saw a girl with a hole in her head,” he said. “Didn’t think a coupla Chinese food take-out boxes in the garbage were real important.” The sheriff opened a file drawer as he spoke. “Didn’t know it mattered until a coupla days later when we found out she’d been poisoned, and even then it turned out the poison was in the headache powder, not the food.” The sheriff looked at his own file, then up at Jimmy. “It’s a place called Feng Shang’s in Memphis. Never been there myself. I always go to the Rendezvous when I’m in Memphis.” He pointed vaguely out the thick glass window. “For Chinese I like Chow’s down in Clarksdale, they got that twice cooked pork I like.” The sheriff pulled a document from the file and showed it to Jimmy. “We checked Eddie’s credit card activity. He’d been at Feng Shang’s two days before and a few other times too.” The lawman sat back in his chair and thought about sending a deputy for some cashew chicken.

  Jimmy made a note: Why Memphis if local egg rolls good? He looked at the sheriff and broached the final subject. “How would you characterize the status of your investigation into Ms. Long’s death?”

  The sheriff didn’t hesitate. “Closed,” he said, sliding the file drawer shut.

  Jimmy was no homicide investigator, but that seemed premature to him. “What about the National Crime Information Center bulletin? Are they still looking at this as part of a pattern?”

  “Can’t really say. ‘Bout all I know is Louisiana State Police are talking to law enforcement in Tuscaloosa and Gulfport and a-course I sent ‘em everything we got, but until somebody somewhere proves something…” The sheriff shrugged, thinking about his friend Henry Teasdale. “My case is closed.”

  Jimmy thumbed through his notes to see if he’d forgotten anything. Satisfied that he hadn’t, he stuffed his file back in his briefcase. “You have a Memphis phone book?”

  The sheriff shook his head and again pointed vaguely out the window. “But there’s a library just down the street.”

  Jimmy made the short walk to the library and found the Memphis Yellow Pages. He turned to ‘Restaurants’ and found a quarter page ad for Feng Shang’s. It featured a serpentine dragon breathing fire and spouting the words, “NO MSG!” That can’t be right, Jimmy thought. He checked the coroner’s report again. It stated clearly that Tammy had MSG in her system, though Jimmy had no idea if the concentration in her blood was consistent with what you’d expect from a typical Chinese restaurant meal. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

  “Feng Shangs!” a woman yelled into Jimmy’s ear. In the background, he could hear the din from the kitchen, scraping metal, leaping flames, screaming.

  “Yes, this is Jimmy Rogers with the, uh, Memphis Commercial Appeal. We’re doing a story on local Chinese restaurants and I need to know if we should list you under the MSG or the no-MSG banner.”

  The woman became hysterical. “No MSG! Nevva!” Her screaming drowned out the chaos of pots and pans behind her. “You come look! No MSG, okay? Spell name right! F-E-N-G S-H-A-N-G! No MSG! You come look!”

  “No, that’s okay,” Jimmy said. “I believe you.” The woman continued yelling as if Jimmy had accused her of peeing in the egg drop soup. “I’ll put you down as a no-MSG establishment,” he said. The woman was still screaming as Jimmy flipped the phone shut. He wondered where the MSG had come from if not Feng Shangs. He also wondered if it mattered. To answer that, Jimmy would have to find out if Tammy was allergic to MSG in the first place. But, in any event, it seemed odd it was in her system when the restaurant was so adamant they didn’t use it.

  Until he had that squared away, Jimmy needed to find out about the nature of sodium fluoroacetate. He pulled a copy of the U.S. Poison Control Center Guide To Toxic Substances. The USPCC used a six point scale to rate poison toxicity. Substances with a rating of 1 were almost nontoxic, those with a rating of 6 were called ‘super toxic.’ Sodium fluoroacetate had a non-nonsense rating of 6.1. It was a botanically derived pesticide in the form of a fine white powder with no smell or taste. It blocked cellular metabolism in the entire body, including the c
entral nervous system. Depending on dosage and means of exposure, death occurred within minutes as a result of respiratory failure due to pulmonary edema or ventricular fibrillation. Sodium fluoroacetate was used as a rodenticide in some cases, but was mainly an insecticide used on fruits to combat scale insects, aphids, and mites.

  Jimmy’s mind seized on something. Fruits? His blood suddenly chilled. The peach orchard. Was it possible? He drove straight out to the Lytle’s farm and went directly to the shed where Eddie used to sit and play his guitar when he wasn’t tending the peach trees. He looked at the shelf with all the large brown bottles and the rusty cans but all he found was Benzahex, Ortho-Klor, Ethylene chlorohydrin, and Compound 1080. No sodium fluoroacetate.

  Jimmy was relieved. He was also a little embarrassed for thinking, even for a moment, that Eddie was a murderer, let alone a serial killer. It wasn’t until he was driving back towards town that another thought, perhaps slightly more evil, occurred to him. If he’d found the poison, and it turned out that Eddie was a killer, he just might be sitting on a best seller.

  41.

  Big Bill was nearly done. It was two in the morning and he was alone in his studio, lights dimmed, doing the final mix. Earlier, a cello player laid down a track for ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way.’ Big Bill put it way in the back, lurking, whispering something dark and sad. The instrument blushed a lucid warmth so low you could hear more wood than strings. It was perfect.

  As Big Bill listened to a playback, he remembered the moment he was first touched by music. He was ten years old and the teacher had Bill and his little classmates arranged in a tiny choir. They were singing a hymn, a dozen guileless voices, free of self-consciousness, united and soaring. Bill was in the middle row, his eyes closed, his soul open, and the music moved him. It was a spiritual moment and he was fully aware of it. He knew it was something special, a gift from a higher plane. And he knew, from that point forward, music would be his world.