Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders

by Bill Fitzhugh

  “I’ll keep my ears open,” Otis said. “Estella might be able to use some help cleanin’ up around here. She gets tired easy these days.”

  “I don’t want you making up a job for me, but if you need the help, I’m for hire. Pretty cheap too.” Chester ate a shrimp, then picked up another one and sort of waggled it in front of him. “Damn, Otis, these’re some fine little delectibles you cooked up.” He popped it into his mouth.

  Otis smiled. “They draw a good crowd out here. Matter of fact, old Herron and Peavy come by every now and then. They fall up in here late for a bottle and a plate. Mr. Peavy comes more than Mr. Herron, but come to think, they was both in here just—” Otis stopped and looked at Chester. “Oh Lord,” he said. “I think I seen him.”

  “Who?”

  “Your boy,” Otis said.

  Chester leaned across his plate. “When’d you see him?”

  Otis’s eyes darted left and right like he was searching for an image in his head. “They was all here after they finished that other boy’s record.” He pointed at Eddie’s disc. “This boy here.” Then he pointed at Chester and smiled. “He’s a good looking kid, your son. I’ll tell you that.”

  Chester looked proud all the sudden. “I’d sure like to see him.” Otis said he’d call Franklin and find out where he could get in touch with Whitney. “I’d appreciate that, Otis, I really would,” Chester said. “And you know I’ll return the favor any way I can.”

  76.

  The last stop for the Long Shot tour was the venerable Mississippi Memorial Coliseum in Jackson. Completed in 1963, it had a white roof pitched up in the center as if supported by a big tent pole. The sides were covered in giant panels, alternating yellow, white, and orange. The result was a sort of circus tent motif that had tremendous aesthetic appeal to anyone under the age of eight. In 1995 the facility received a long-overdue face-lift, replacing the faded carnival look with a new copper façade that had tremendous aesthetic appeal to whomever got the contract to supply the copper.

  For Jimmy, the Coliseum was a repository of odd memories. As a boy, he’d been dressed in a silly jester’s outfit and forced to participate in the Junior League’s annual Carnival Ball fund- raiser there. He was also there when Cliff Finch gave away free bar-b-qued chicken while running for governor from the seat of a tractor, or was it a bulldozer? As a teenager, he’d seen a hundred rock and roll shows under its roof, everyone from the Allman Brothers to Yes (with Rick Wakeman). And it was there, on the night of August 16, 1987, scarcely stoned on some woeful Mexican weed, that Jimmy officially got to second base with a girl named Tammy while Bob Seger played ‘Shakedown.’

  Given Eddie’s third single, Jimmy figured the Coliseum was a fitting place for the Long Shot tour to end because it was also the place where he — and Eddie, for that matter — had gone to see the Dixie National Rodeo when they were kids. He remembered the inside transformed into something he imagined was straight out of the Old West. The place was decked wall-to-wall in red, white, and blue bunting, the floor covered with dirt and sawdust, and the smell of animals filled every crevice in the building. He watched in awe as real cowboys rode the backs of wild bulls while others jumped off speeding horses to wrestle steers to the ground. Jimmy couldn’t remember the last time he’d been to the rodeo, but every time he stepped into the Coliseum he remembered the first time.

  In his twenties, Jimmy started attending events there as a member of the press. Consequently he knew just about everybody who worked the shows. As soon as he heard Eddie’s tour was wrapping at the Coliseum, Jimmy flashed his credentials and received a backstage press pass.

  He got there about two hours before the show was scheduled to start. With the tour buses parked in the back, Jimmy wandered around chatting with old acquaintances, taking photos, and waiting for Megan to show herself. He was talking to one of the concert promoters when she entered his field of vision. She was barking at a roadie and she looked great doing it. She wore a Wrangler shirt unbuttoned at the bottom and tied in a knot to reveal her pierced belly button and hip-hugging jeans. She had half a dozen shiny Montana Silversmith bracelets on both wrists, and her wild red hair was just visible under a Stetson Caldwell. Jimmy couldn’t help but stare.

  The moment he saw Megan, Jimmy felt the surge of whatever it was she always triggered in him, like the involuntary secretion of some powerful hormone. He wondered what the hell was wrong with him. She treated him like crap. Why couldn’t he get over her? She was an addiction. He had a Jones and he wished it would stop. A possible title for his unwritten song popped into his head: Doesn’t anyone have a cure for this?

  When she finished with the roadie, Megan turned and saw Jimmy. She stopped dead in her tracks as if she was about to pretend she hadn’t seen him. But then she perched on her tiptoes, faked a surprised smile, and called out his name. “Jimmy! Haaaay!” She rushed over and gave him a little hug and an air kiss. “How are you? You look great. Have you been working out?” She acted like Jimmy was someone she had dated twenty years earlier instead of being the guy she’d snuck out of town on in the middle of the night not too damn long ago.

  “I’m good, thanks.” Jimmy paused. He wanted to let her know how much she’d hurt him but all he could think of was that day in Vicksburg. And suddenly all he wanted to do was find a way to make that happen again. “How’re you doing? You look great.”

  “Ohmigod, you wouldn’t believe. This has been the wildest tour,” she said as though she’d been on a dozen others. “Thirty-five shows in forty days, sound system problems in Spokane, Teamster problems in Bakersfield, blahblahblah. It’s endless, but it’s been great fun. But what about you? What have you been up to?” Megan suddenly put a hand to her cheek. “Ohmigod, are you still working on the book?”

  Jimmy told her he had spoken to Big Bill about it. “He made it pretty clear he’d never let Eddie sign a contract to let me do the official biography, so I decided to go the unofficial route.”

  “That ass.” Megan indignantly stomped one of her cowboy boots. “You wouldn’t believe that fucking dinosaur. I can’t believe. . . you want me to talk to him? I bet I could—”

  “Too late,” Jimmy said. “I’ve already got a publishing deal for the one I’m writing.” He looked at her lips and remembered the sweet bourbon kisses.

  “Ohmigod! Congratulations! I knew you’d do it. Didn’t I tell you you were a good writer? That’s great, Jimmy. When’s it due out? I can’t wait to read it. Can we get an advance copy?” She sniffed slightly and discreetly pinched her nose.

  The depth of Megan’s insincerity finally crushed Jimmy’s fond memory. He folded his arms and looked her in the eyes. “You know, I tried to call you after you moved, but your number’s unlisted. I wanted to tell you about the book.”

  Megan looked to the ground. “I know, I’m sorry, Jimmy, I just, well, I got the job in Nashville and we were, well, you know…” She reached over and gently touched his arm, as if confirming her sincerity. “I should’ve called, but, I know, I’m terrible.” She looked up to see if Jimmy had a forgiving look on his face. He didn’t. He was looking at her as if he thought she ought to continue talking about how terrible she was. But Megan didn’t have all day and she sure wasn’t going to stand around groveling for no good reason, so she returned to her perky showbiz demeanor. “But tell me about the book and your deal, I am so excited for you.”

  “I found out some things about Eddie.” He paused. “And about how Tammy died.”

  “Really? What kind of things?”

  “I think he killed her.”

  Megan looked at Jimmy blankly for a second. “What?” Like she misunderstood.

  “And two or three other people.”

  Megan looked at Jimmy in all seriousness. “Are you crazy?”

  Jimmy went through all the evidence, piece by piece. “I tried to come up with alternative explanations, but nothing else works. I think you should leave him. He’s not the guy you think he is. He’s not the guy I thought
he was. And its a pretty safe bet if you dig Tammy up and ask her, she’ll say he’s not the guy she thought he was either.”

  Megan looked genuinely shocked. “I don’t believe you, Jimmy. I mean, I can understand you being jealous, but this? This is what’s in your book?” She looked up at the ceiling for a moment then back at Jimmy. “Nobody’s going to publish a bunch of, I don’t know, it’s all. . . coincidental evidence.”

  “Circumstantial.”

  “Whatever.” She lowered her voice and wagged a finger at Jimmy. “Nobody is going to publish a book accusing a major star of murder based only on circumstantial evidence.”

  “I got the contract,” he shrugged. “Deal’s done.” He couldn’t help it. He had to say it. “Got a six hundred thousand dollar advance.”

  Megan’s face went slack. First she learned that she might be sleeping with a murderer, then the boyfriend she left for the murderer announced he’d signed a six hundred thousand dollar book deal. Talk about your bad judgment. “Jimmy,” she said disapprovingly, “I am so disappointed. After what we had, all we shared, this is how you pay me back?”

  “I didn’t realize we’d been engaged in a transaction.”

  She rolled her eyes. “First of all, Eddie’s a killer? Puh-lease…” She shook her head. “You know you’ll get sued all over hell and half of Georgia if you published that nonsense.”

  “You’ll have to talk to Atlas Publishing about that,” Jimmy said.

  Megan’s face suddenly softened. She seemed to be thinking, then she smiled. “Wait a second.” She put her hands on her hips and cocked them to one side. “Ohhh, this is so sweet,” she said. “You want me to leave Eddie so bad you’re willing to come in here with this silly story?” She made a ‘tsk’ sound with her tongue and teeth. “You are so adorable. You’ll find someone else, don’t worry.” Megan glanced at her watch. “Listen, I’ve got to go check on some stuff, but it was great to see you again.”

  As Megan turned to leave, Jimmy grabbed her arm and fixed her with an incredulous stare. “Exactly what part of ‘serial killer’ don’t you understand?”

  77.

  There were a couple of things Big Bill didn’t understand. One was how Eddie had lost the ability to write a decent song. Forget about great songs, Big Bill would have been satisfied with a pretty good one, something that didn’t stink would’ve been nice. For the last thirty minutes he’d been sitting on the bus listening to Eddie’s two newest songs, both co-written with Megan. He put his finger on the ‘stop’ button of the cassette player and pressed so hard the plastic snapped.

  The other thing he didn’t understand was a recent ruling in a Nashville civil court tripling the monthly amount of alimony and child support he was required to pay. His ex-wives had banded together to petition the court for higher payments in light of Big Bill’s recent windfall. The court handed down the ruling faster than you could say just when I was getting ahead.

  All things considered, Big Bill knew he was a lucky man. He’d produced a hit record late in his career — and a huge one at that. He had his name on the best selling debut record in history and even if Eddie never wrote another decent song, it looked like Big Bill would have a little money for his Golden Years. At least that’s how it looked before the lawyers showed up.

  While it would be nice, Big Bill thought, if his three ex-wives suddenly died, he didn’t think the odds favored such an exceptional event happening without his involvement, and he just wasn’t up to that. But was there something he could do to get a good song out of Eddie? The publishing money on the next record alone, well, Big Bill hated to think about not having it. But he knew he’d rather go out with a good record he didn’t control the publishing on than a bad one he did. It was a close call, but that’s how he felt.

  Still, he thought, if he could get Eddie to write at least one good song for the second album, Big Bill would be satisfied. Then no matter how much money his ex-wives bled him for, he’d be fine. All he needed was to figure out a way to make that happen. He thought about it. First of all, he knew time was an issue. Between the tour and the brutal media schedule Megan had arranged, Eddie hadn’t had time to write. With the tour over, that problem would be solved. Next, Big Bill knew he had to get Megan out of the room while Eddie worked. As a songwriter, Megan was somewhere between useless and a complete idiot. But Big Bill knew that trying to remove her from the process would lead to conflict and maybe to a power struggle that he could lose, so the remaining question was how to solve that.

  Something in the back of Big Bill’s mind started to push forward. He began thinking about the conversation he had with Eddie the second night of their recording session. They were in Big Bill’s kitchen talking about the difficulties of songwriting in general when Eddie made a comment about what had led him to write ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way.’ Big Bill remembered Eddie saying the song came to him as a result of the tragic death of his wife.

  Big Bill squinted as he considered the implications of Eddie’s comment. After a few moments, Big Bill’s pinched, pug-like face settled into a smile. In fact, he almost chuckled when he had the idea. It was a kill-two-birds-with-one-stone idea. He knew it was appalling but at the same time it was perfect, or close to it. He mulled it over for a moment and decided, what the hell, I’m only gonna get one superstar client in this life. I have to protect it. Of course I’ll have to be careful. But all things considered, it’s worth the risk. He nodded his head slowly. It’s time to put the hammer down.

  78.

  Despite her doctor’s orders, Estella fried herself up half a chicken for lunch. But I took off most of the skin was her rationale. She balanced her plate with the usual side of potato salad and some slices of white bread. She sat at a table near the kitchen, said grace, and then, as they say, she crammed it in with both fingers and stomped it down with both feet. No question about it, Estella could put it away. When she was done, her belly was tight enough to crack a tick on. She sat back and let out a long satisfied sigh.

  A few minutes later Estella got busy cleaning the place the way she always did. She pushed all the tables to one side of the restaurant and swept up before she started to mop. Estella kept the place spotless. Her name was over the door. She was proud of it. She kept the cleanest linoleum in Nashville. And she sang while she worked. Somebody once said Estella had a voice like finely tuned V-8 engine. Otis always gave her a solo slot during his shows and people always ended up comparing her to Aretha. There was talk of a solo career and Estella let herself dream big dreams. But things never quite worked out and Estella had been carrying that with her ever since. A chance so close she could touch it. But Otis went to prison and Estella had to let the dream go. It still ate at her.

  Estella was about halfway done with the floor when she pulled up short of breath. She figured she was just putting too much elbow grease behind that mop. She pulled up a chair to catch her breath and let her stomach settle.

  Estella’s mistake was a common one. She dismissed the pain as an upset stomach at first. It would pass. But it didn’t. It got worse and she started to sweat. She tried to convince herself it was just gas. She needed to get a Co-Cola and burp it up, then she’d feel better. But that didn’t help either. Finally she had to accept that the pain wasn’t so much in her stomach as it was in her chest and it was starting to radiate out. Estella was afraid she knew what that meant. I can’t be havin’ no heart attack, she told herself. I already had one.

  Estella sat there with a growing sense of anxiety. She was alone and didn’t know when Otis would arrive. She got up to go to the phone but collapsed halfway across the room. The plaque in a coronary artery had ruptured. A blood clot had formed. She lay on the floor, trying to breath. Unable to do anything to help herself, she began to pray.

  Otis walked in a couple minutes later and found her. He called 911 and administered CPR the way they’d showed him at the hospital the last time Estella was there. The ambulance got there quick and carried Estella to the hospita
l. She was still alive, but unconscious, they said. They didn’t know if she’d make it.

  79.

  Megan loved the new house. It had so many possibilities. It was a ten thousand square foot Belle Meade Colonial, once owned by Wanda Jackson. A gated property, it sat on three and a half rustic acres. Megan had rented some furniture while she worked on the interior scheme.

  She’d read part of a book on Feng Shui and had done her own element analysis. The house would be a haven for the creation of music. This was clearly related to the harmony element, which was used to sweeten the music. Thus, Megan figured, it was important to enhance this aspect. She decided the harmony element would be energized by blues and light greens. These colors, in turn, called to mind the water element. So Megan was in the kitchen looking through magazines for an indoor fountain to go with the blue and green sofa.

  Eddie was in the living room just glad she was working on something other than one of his songs. He was sitting at the big wrought iron and glass top table in the center of the room thinking he was just one good line from having a great song. His big flat top Gibson leaned against a chair while Eddie leaned over the table to the line in question. It was a long sparkling stripe he hoped contained his inspiration. He snorted it and threw his head back, putting a finger to his nose so he wouldn’t lose anything. He sniffed once or twice, grabbed the Gibson, and tried to think of another rhyme for heart. “Cart. . . smart… apart… K-Mart. . . shit!” He grabbed the legal pad, ripped off the page, and crumpled it. The floor was littered with yellow paper balls. Eddie told himself to relax, that he still had plenty of good songs inside. He just needed something to pry them out. He set his guitar down, hunkered over the glass top table, and snorted another line. Maybe that would do it.