Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  “What’re you talkin’ about?” Big Bill said. “I didn’t hire anybody.”

  “Sure you did. She’s here takin’ dictation right now.” Megan performed some sort of fancy oral maneuver. “Whoa! And we need to give her a big raise.” Eddie explained the deal while Megan continued her work.

  Big Bill hesitated only slightly before agreeing to the terms. He knew women like Megan. He was still paying alimony to three of them. He considered saying no but he didn’t want to piss off the golden goose. He played everything upbeat. “Hey, tell her she’s got the job. ‘Specially if she gives good dictation.” Big Bill tendered a fraternal chuckle. “Hard to find an assistant willin’ to do that these days. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to sell some synchronization rights on your behalf.”

  55.

  Two days later, ‘Team Long Shot’ had four seats in first class winging east toward the Big Apple.

  The sudden success had an interesting effect on Franklin and Big Bill’s relationship. They’d become almost chummy, at least as far as you could tell by looking. Sitting next to one another across the aisle from Eddie and Megan, they were working on several things at once. Big Bill was on the phone hammering out tour details with concert promoters while Franklin was finalizing a merchandising agreement. Later, while Franklin checked in with the record label, Big Bill was hunched over a legal pad, tapping the pen against the paper, apparently unable to articulate his thoughts. After a moment he elbowed Franklin who put his hand over the mouthpiece. “What?”

  “You have any idea who said, ‘writing about music is like dancing about architecture’?”

  Franklin shook his head, shrugged, then returned to his phone call.

  Big Bill had been working on his version of Eddie’s biography ever since the call from Jimmy Rogers put the idea in his head. After nearly two months, he almost had a first draft of the opening line written. He was starting to think a better use of his time might be to farm out the actual writing of the book while retaining the ‘written by’ credit and the royalties. He stuffed the legal pad into the pocket of the seat back in front of him, then he grabbed his phone book. He’d put in a call to someone he knew in publishing, see if he couldn’t find an eager young writer, someone who was hungry. Big Bill knew he could always make a good deal with somebody whose stomach was growling.

  Eddie hung up with the guy from WUSN-FM and opened his laptop. He figured he’d try to get started on songs for the second album, which they planned to record in about six months. As he started to type, Megan eased a real estate flier onto the keyboard. “Sweetie, I think this is the best we’re going to find in Belle Meade. Six bedrooms, five baths, four fireplaces. Gourmet kitchen, three acres, gated, video security. It’s only two point eight. I spoke with Colleen Michie, the listing agent, and she says we need to get an offer in real quick at that price.” Megan snuck a glance over her shoulder at Big Bill and Franklin then lowered her voice. “But have you thought about what I said about moving to California? Much better media access, and if you’re going to be doing TV or features it makes more sense. I mean, you can live anywhere you want and write songs.” She looked at Eddie as he glanced at the flier, head nodding. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t bother you with this. Get back to writing.” She leaned over and bussed his cheek. “Just leave everything to me.”

  56.

  As he waited for a response from the literary agencies, Jimmy moved forward on the book. He’d covered Eddie’s early years in Quitman County, the first show he reviewed, Tammy’s death, the debut of ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way’ at the bar in Starkville, the Internet marketing scheme, the phenomenal record deal, and the rise to the top of the country charts. Jimmy had finished two hundred pages and he knew he was going to sell it, especially now that Eddie had the number one country song in America and was on his way to setting sales records for a debut album. Of course if I could come up with some direct evidence that Eddie was a killer, I’d have a best seller on my hands and Megan would come running back like a hungry pup. And with my corner on the lack-of-self-esteem market, I’d welcome her with open arms. He gave that a moment’s thought. I really need to work on that.

  Jimmy looked into the file of all the reviews he’d ever written on Eddie shows. Inside, he found a document Eddie had given him, listing every club, casino, and frathouse he’d ever played and the dates he’d played them. He was about to create a time line of Eddie’s early years on the road when the phone rang. Jimmy picked up. “Hello?”

  “Jimmy Rogers, please. This is Jay Colvin in New York.” Jimmy recognized the name as one of the literary agents he’d sent his book proposal to. He had an off-key-nasally-talking-at-the-speed-of-sound thing going with the voice.

  “This is Jimmy Rogers. How are you doing, Mr. Colvin?”

  “How am I? I’ll tell you how I am,” he said. “I’m excited. I’m very excited. That is unless you’ve already signed with another agent, in which case I’m depressed. Very depressed. Obviously I’ve read your book proposal. First of all, I’ve got to tell you, you’re a very gifted writer. Extremely talented, no question about it. Second I’ve got to tell you, this is the mother of all book proposals. I’m talking mother with a capital M. Forty points, all cap. And third I tell you these things not only because they are true, which they are, but also because, as we like to say in the publishing game, ‘timing is everything.’ And you, Mr. Rogers, have excellent timing. Excellent. Best timing I’ve ever seen. I saw in the trades today that your friend Mr. Long has the number one song on country radio, but I suspect you already know that. So tell me, Mr. Rogers, have you signed with another literary agent? No, wait, let me rephrase that, please tell me you haven’t signed with anybody else.”

  The guy talked so fast Jimmy could only pick up about half the words, but he got the gist of what Mr. Colvin was saying and he liked it. “No sir, I haven’t signed with—”

  “Fabulous! Do me a favor. Do you have a fax machine? Can I fax you a contract? I want to represent this book, Mr. Rogers. And not just the book. I want to represent you, the writer. I’m not in this just for the project. I believe you have a future and I want to be your agent. What’s your fax number there, Mr. Rogers? Would you at least consider signing with me? Are you there, Mr. Rogers, did we get cut off? Hello?”

  “Hey, listen,” Jimmy said, “I work on a first come, first served basis. Send me the contract and I’ll take a look at it. If it looks—”

  “It’s a standard contract. I sell your work to publishers and I take a fifteen percent commission. If my foreign co-agents make foreign publishing deals, assuming I don’t sell world-wide publishing rights to a U.S. publisher, I split a twenty percent commission with the foreign co-agent on all overseas deals. If I can scare up interest in the film rights, I’ll co-agent with someone in LA and we’ll split a fifteen percent commission on those sales unless there’s a manager involved in which case there goes another five percent and if you have an attorney there that’s another five. Absent any sales, either party can terminate the contract with thirty day’s notice.”

  “Fine,” Jimmy said. “Fax it over.” While the frantic Mr. Colvin was rattling off the details of the contract, Jimmy looked him up in his agent’s directory. The Colvin Agency represented some big hitters in publishing. He gave Colvin his fax number.

  “I’m faxing right now,” he said. “You won’t regret this, Mr. Rogers. Listen, how much of the book is finished? I think it has to cover up through wherever this first record takes him. He’ll have some more singles we’ll want to track, plus he’ll be touring. Maybe you can cover the tour. I’ll try to negotiate expenses into the advance. Oh, yeah, one more thing. I assume you approached Long’s management on being the official biographer, am I right? They turned you down, said they’d find a big name biographer, am I right?”

  “That’s pretty much it,” Jimmy said.

  “Well fuck them, if you’ll pardon the expression. They’re six or eight months behind us,”
Colvin said. “Plus you’re the only one with the early show reviews and insights. That’s not a problem. But let me ask you, this Eddie Long, is he as squeaky clean as you make him out to be? I mean, a little dirt on the guy would be nice for us. They do an official bio, they’ll make him look like some guy in Chevy truck commercial. All hard work and clean habits. If you can dig up any dirt on the guy, great. If not, don’t worry about it. I can sell this either way, but any kind of gossip or scandal is good.”

  Jimmy smiled. “You know, Mr. Colvin, it’s funny you should bring that up.”

  57.

  Eddie hit the Big Apple out of the park. With the combination of his Southern charm, his songs, and his disarming smile, even the cynics came around. Since arriving in New York, Eddie had played ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way’ on three network talk shows and one local TV news program. His next stop was the morning show on New York’s number one country station. Eddie played along as the DJs had some fun at his expense doing a send up of Eddie’s song which was retitled, ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To Bend That Way.’ Afterwards they worked the phones.

  “Hi, Eddie? My name’s Wayne Jackson. I just wanted to tell you how much I love Long Shot and not just me, everybody I work with thinks the whole disc is great, top to bottom, not a bad song on there.”

  “Well, thanks,” Eddie said, “where do you work?”

  “I’m the manager of the Tower Records on Broadway in midtown. Now I know you’re busy and all, but I was wondering if you’d consider dropping by the store to play a couple of songs and sign some autographs?”

  “Well, I. . .” Eddie looked quickly to Big Bill who shook his head ‘no’ and shrugged indifferently. He wanted to get out to the airport and relax before catching their flight to Dallas. As Eddie was about to say no, Megan banged on the glass separating the hallway from the studio. She waved her arms and pushed Big Bill aside, nodding emphatically to Eddie while urgently mouthing ‘yes!’ With eyes wide and nostrils flaring, her expression was clear. Don’t take Herron’s advice! He’s an idiot! Do this!

  “Wayne, I tell you what,” Eddie said. “I’ll be by right after lunch. How’s that?”

  “That’ll be great. Thanks a ton!”

  By two that afternoon, traffic in the 1600 block of Broadway had ground to a halt. Eddie was inside the packed store doing a solo show. But the speakers outside had drawn hundreds more. The sidewalk crowd spilled into the street and soon there were people standing on the roofs of cars and trucks listening and dancing and whooping it up. The original plan was for Eddie to do three songs, sign a few autographs, then fly. But now, six songs later, Eddie was still playing encores since it seemed like the only way to keep the show from turning into a riot.

  “Betcha dolla they gonna have to call the cops,” Big Bill said, looking out the window at the crowd. He didn’t sound pleased.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. . . Big Bill.” Megan said his name with enough sarcasm to put a fine point on it. Her smile was wide as Junior Samples as she watched the throng of fans press against the front of the store. “This is fabulous.”

  Franklin glanced at Big Bill. He could see the irritation. Franklin checked his watch. “I hope we can get out of here in time,” he said. “Flight’s in three hours, and we still have to go back to the hotel.” They were due in Dallas that afternoon for the beginning of Eddie’s thirty-five city tour that night.

  Franklin nudged Big Bill. “Oh, did I tell you Whitney Rankin called again.” He shook his head in mild amusement. “Kid really wants to talk to you about his song.”

  “Ain’t surprised,” Big Bill said. “I think he’ll get over it when we send him a little check.”

  Megan suddenly clapped her hands together. “Jesus!” She grabbed Franklin’s arm. “Give me your Palm Pilot,” she said. “Fast!”

  Franklin pulled away from her grip. “What for?”

  “PR! Now give it to me!”

  Franklin reluctantly pulled the Palm Pilot from its carrier. Big Bill waved his hand calmly in the air. “We’re doing fine, Megan. We don’t need anything else.” He made the mistake of using a patronizing tone.

  Megan shook her head. “Jesus, you two. . .” She grabbed the Palm Pilot out of Franklin’s hands. She punched in the URL and the site blinked on screen. “Okay, here we go.”

  Franklin watched as she began punching in numbers. “Hey,” he said, “that’s our corporate AmEx number. How the hell did you get that?”

  “I’m Eddie’s road manager,” Megan said. “I tend to pay attention to important details.” Returning to the Palm Pilot, Megan scrolled down through her options, made a few selections, then submitted the form for credit card clearance.

  “What is that?” Franklin asked.

  “PressCon dot com,” Megan said. “They do instant press releases to all national news outlets and wire services.” She froze Franklin with a nasty look. “You are willing to spring for some good press coverage, aren’t you? I’m sure you’ll be able to find some way to make it recoupable against Eddie’s royalties.” Megan didn’t wait for a reply. She was too busy typing. Broadway turned into a pedestrian mall for an hour as the handsome new country star, Eddie Long, lit up midtown with his bright smile and his hit song. . . Franklin cast a worried glance at Big Bill who was shaking his head, annoyed at their common enemy. Organizers estimate the crowd at. . . fifty thousand. Megan thought about it for a moment, then deleted the words, before typing again. Seventy-five thousand. Police in riot gear were called in to end the show to prevent complete midtown gridlock. Eddie Long’s debut album, Long Shot is the best selling record of the year and certain to take home some statues at next years’s Country Fanfare Awards. Megan gave it a quick proof read, then submitted it. She handed the Palm Pilot back to Franklin by poking him in the stomach with it. “That’s a handy little unit, but it helps if you know how to use it,” she said with a smart-ass smirk. “Now let’s get Eddie and get ready for Dallas.”

  58.

  Jay Colvin was beside himself. “Unfuckingbelievable,” was the first thing he said after Jimmy explained his theory about the poisoning death of Eddie’s wife. “Why didn’t you tell me before? My God! This is best seller!” he screamed into the phone. “Get to work. Find out all you can and write the book with the accusations in it!”

  “Listen,” Jimmy said, “I appreciate your enthusiasm but don’t you think we have some pretty big exposure on this? I mean, publishers are skittish about publishing unproven accusations. Slander, defamation of character, that sort of thing?”

  “Trust me,” Jay said, “I know what I’m doing.”

  “But—”

  “What’s it going to take to earn your trust? Jimmy, I promise you two things. One, I will get you a fat six figure advance and two, you will get in your contract a ‘hold harmless’ clause bigger than Al Sharpton’s mouth.”

  Jimmy couldn’t imagine how that was possible but figured he could write the book in such a way that his theory could be pulled out without causing a major rewrite. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure already,” Jay insisted, “now go dig.”

  “All right,” Jimmy said, “I’m going back to Quitman County.”

  59.

  Jay Colvin dropped the phone into the cradle with a smile. A notion had popped into his head while he was talking to Jimmy and now he had to do some research. He called his attorney and had him to do a Lexis search for civil suits featuring Bill Herron as the defendant. Meanwhile, Jay scoured the internet for all references to the man once regarded as ‘one of Nashville’s most powerful manager/producers.’ Among the hundreds of hits his internet query found was the Hot 100 list from a recent issue of Nashville Scene.

  Next Jay called a contact he had at Good Morning America. He needed to know the hotel where Herron were staying. “They’re gone,” his contact said. “Starting a tour in Dallas tonight.”

  Jay called information in Nashville to get the number for Herron & Peavy Management. A seco
nd later, Jay’s attorney called back. “You want me to fax all this over there or just give you the Reader’s Digest version?”

  “Nutshell it,” Jay said.

  “The guy’s a weasel. Unwashed.”

  “Perfect,” Jay said. “Thanks.” He clicked off then started dialing again, trying to think of how to finesse the information he needed.

  “Herron and Peavy Management,” a woman said.

  “Hi, this is Jay Colvin in New York. Mr. Herron and I met yesterday while he was in town. We discussed a publishing deal for his client, Eddie Long. I know he’s on his way to Dallas, but could you do me a favor? When he calls in for messages, would you ask him to call me as soon as possible. I have some good news for him. Thank you so much.”

  60.

  Halfway through the flight from New York to Dallas, Eddie was still staring at the screen on his laptop. He was trying to get started on a new song, but nothing was coming to him. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Megan looking at him. After a moment, he turned and looked into her violet eyes. “Can’t seem to get started on this song,” he said.

  Megan nodded. “Don’t worry, it’ll come to you.” She looked at him for a moment before leaning toward him slightly. “You know what? There’s something I’ve always wanted to do. . .”

  Eddie closed his lap top. He wasn’t getting anything written anyway. “What’s that?”

  Megan leaned closer still and whispered something in his ear. Eddie just about blushed and his eyes popped wide. “Get outta town!”

  She winked at him as her right hand slid down to his lap. “Give me five minutes, then knock twice.” She gave him a gentle squeeze then casually got up and went into the lavatory nearest the cockpit. By the time she threw the latch Eddie was so hard a cat couldn’t scratch it.