by Steve Brewer
“Real good,” the bartender said. “Whadja bring me this week?”
The man walked over to the jukebox, pulled out a key, and opened it. “Got the new single from Eddie Long,” he said. “Real nice song. I’ll put it on for you.”
Chester waved his empty bottle at the bartender. “Give me a’nuther one of these?”
The bartender shuffled over to the cooler. Chester looked at the big jar of pickled pig’s feet on the bar wondering if he ought to get a little something to eat or if he should just drink his lunch. A moment later the song came on the jukebox and Chester forgot whether he was hungry, thirsty, or out of his mind. The hair on his neck stood up and he felt something twist in his bones. He slowly turned around on his stool and stared at the jukebox, listening, humming along in his head like he already knew the song. Halfway through, he stood and walked over to the jukebox where the man was changing out some of the tunes. “Lemme see that record,” Chester said.
“Which one?”
“The one’s playin’.”
“Sure,” the guy shrugged, “soon as it’s done, I guess.”
Something wild flashed in Chester’s eyes and he screamed at the man. “Now, goddammit!”
The bartender reached for his baseball bat while the jukebox man did as he was told. Chester calmly took the forty-five and looked at it. It was called ‘Pothole In My Heart’ and in the parenthesis under the title, where he’d once seen his own name, Chester saw something he could hardly believe. He handed the record back to the jukebox guy, all calm and purposeful. “Pardon me,” Chester said. “I’ve got someone to kill.”
68.
‘Pothole In My Heart’ was released as the second single the day Eddie headlined a show at the Cheyenne Frontier Festival. Two days later, as they prepared for a show in Salem, Oregon, ‘Pothole’ was already the number one song on country radio, pushing ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way’ to number two. It was the first time in decades an artist had the top two singles on country radio. Eddie’s album had sold nearly two million copies so far and, with the release of the second single, a big spike would soon appear on the sales graph.
The Long Shot tour buses were parked in the lot of the L.B. Day Amphitheater. Some of the guys in the band had gone to see a movie while the roadies set up the equipment. A sound check was scheduled for later that afternoon.
Big Bill was sitting in the back in the bus, a set of headphones pinching his fat round head. He was listening to something on an old Walkman, over and over. The expression on his face grew more pained each time he listened to the tape. After the fifth time through, Franklin walked in and motioned for Big Bill to take off the headphones. “We need to talk about Eddie,” he said.
Big Bill pulled the headphones off his head and held them up. “No shit.”
Franklin pointed at the Walkman. “Are those the new songs?” He sounded hopeful in a desperate sort of way. “Are they good?”
“Let me put it this way.” Big Bill popped the tape out of the machine and held it up for inspection. “These things suck worse than a two dollar hooker.”
“Shit.”
“Shit about describes it.” He tossed the headphones onto a table.
Franklin sat down and rubbed his eyes. “I saw Eddie about an hour ago. He looks worse than I do,” Franklin said. “And I look like hell. . . or at least I feel like it. He’s been going hard for seventeen straight nights. If we don’t start getting him out of these after-show parties earlier he’ll never finish the tour.”
Big Bill nodded. “He’s not gonna like it.”
“They never do.”
Franklin and Big Bill had seen it more than a few times. It was a natural response to an unnatural situation. Coming offstage after a show wasn’t like leaving the office at 5 o’clock. After an hour or two in the spotlight, one couldn’t simply switch off the power and call it a day. Eddie was swimming in a cocktail of adrenaline, flashbulbs, adulation, sex, and drugs. It was like living in your own personal x-rated music video. Eddie was a young man with appetites. He couldn’t help himself and they knew it. They had to help him. That was their job.
Big Bill looked up at Franklin and their eyes connected. After a second they both smiled. Big Bill half rolled his eyes while Franklin shook his head. They both laughed a little, but neither said anything. There was no need. After thirty-five years of butting heads with one another, with artists, record labels, indie promoters, and everyone else they had to battle, the two had a bond, like guys who’d been to war together. And now, after all that, they had a goose laying golden eggs and they knew they’d have to work together to keep ‘em coming.
“One of the problems is that damn Megan,” Big Bill said. “She’s convinced him he has to attend all the after-show parties to schmooze the radio guys.”
“Yeah, and then she schedules radio call-ins to the morning shows and has goddamn magazine interviews in the afternoons. She’s gonna burn him out if we don’t do something.”
Big Bill placed his hands flat on the table. “I’m open to suggestions.”
Franklin nodded. “Look,” he said, “from here on out we let him make a short appearance at the after-show parties for a quick schmooze, get his picture taken with the radio guys and some fans, then we leave. Just drag him onto the bus and go.” He pointed at Big Bill. “And we tell Megan, in no uncertain terms, that she’s got to ease up on his goddam media schedule.”
Big Bill threw his hands up, then slapped them down on his legs. “Whatever. But we’ve got to do something and, more important, we gotta get another record ready while he’s still hot.” He gestured at the cassette tape. “Problem is he’s not writing any decent material.”
Franklin looked shocked. “Well, we’re not putting a notice in Row Fax, if that’s what you’re getting at. We are not going to solicit songs.”
Big Bill waved the thought away. “Hell no!” Big Bill leaned over to confide with Franklin. “We’d have to be dumber’n a barrel of hair to put a single song on his next record that we don’t publish.”
Franklin nodded solemnly. “Might as well throw money out the damn widow.”
“Okay,” Big Bill said as hoisted himself up. “I’ll go talk to him about the songs and—”
Franklin held up a finger. “Another thing,” he said, folding his arms. “You’re gonna love this. I finally talked to the people at the Country Fanfare Awards.” Franklin looked especially oily as he smiled. “They want to give Eddie a special award at this year’s show.”
“They can’t. Record’s not eligible ‘til next year.”
“Tell them that. Board of Governors voted to create a new category. They figure Eddie’s hot right now so right now’s the right time to have him on the show. They’re calling it the Tall Cotton Award.”
“Get outta here.” Big Bill snugged his hat on his head.
Franklin shrugged at the silliness of it all. “Henceforth to be awarded to any debut album going double platinum or better. They want to meet with us to discuss some things.”
Big Bill chuckled. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll go back, take care of some business then rejoin the tour in LA.” Bill headed for the door but paused to look Franklin in the eye. “We need to do whatever it takes to keep this train from derailing,” he said.
“Agreed,” Franklin said.
“Good. I’ll go talk to the conductor.”
69.
Big Bill walked over to the amphitheater where Eddie and Megan were waiting for the sound check. He tracked them down in the hospitality suite. They were drinking gin and tonics. “Hey now,” Big Bill said. “We ready for another great show?”
Eddie looked up and smiled like the sun was shining in his head. He looked alert, rested, energetic. “Steady ready Freddy,” he said. “Raring to go. Man, this is a great venue. I’ve never been to Oregon but someone was telling me there’s a place on the Columbia River we ought to book on the next tour.” He took a sip on his drink. “Oh, I talked to Franklin—”
&
nbsp; “Frankie Baby!” Megan interjected. “Frankie goes to Hollywood!” She and Eddie both laughed at what was apparently their new nickname for Franklin.
“Yeah,” Eddie said with a chuckle, “that’s right, Frankie Baby came by and told us the new SoundScan numbers. Are we the big swinging dicks or what?!”
“Yeah, man,” Big Bill said, momentarily confused by Eddie’s energy level. “The bottom rail finally gettin’ on top. Look, I—”
“Listen,” Eddie said, “we decided ‘Dixie National’ is gonna be the next single. Probably release it in four or five weeks, don’t you think, depending on how long ‘Pothole’ stays strong on the charts. Man, I can’t wait for the show tonight, I’m ready to kick some ass and move some merchandise!”
Megan put her arm around Eddie’s waist. “I keep telling him we ought to release it sooner and see if we can’t get three songs in the top ten at the same time,” Megan said, “but I guess some of your conservatism’s rubbed off on the boy.”
Big Bill smiled and nodded at the two of them. “Seems unlikely,” he said, “but we’ll do whatever Eddie decides.” Big Bill knew what they’d been up to but he also knew better than to come down hard right now. He just pretended everything was beautiful. “I mean, I ain’t proud. I’ll be the first to admit your strategy’s done us good so far.” Big Bill pulled the cassette from his pocket and held it up. “By the way, I been listening to the songs,” he said.
Megan finished her drink and went to mix another. “Aren’t they fabulous? Eddie and I co-wrote all of ‘em. We’re thinkin’ ‘Country Voodoo’ might be the first single on the next record.”
“Yeah,” Eddie agreed, “sort of a Neville Brothers meets Brooks and Dunn kinda thing.”
Bill’s head bobbed noncommittally. “You know, there’s an old saying about how you got your whole life to write your first album but you only get about six months to write your second.”
“I know, it’s unreal ain’t it?” Eddie handed his empty glass to Megan. “At the rate we’re goin’, we’ll have all the songs we need before the tour’s over.”
“Well now, Eddie, I gotta tell ya, these songs aren’t—”
“Aren’t what?” Megan said. “Those songs are hits. Nothing wrong with any of those songs. Don’t come in here trying to—”
“No, no, no. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying we can’t use some of what’s on here,” Big Bill said hoping to slow Megan down. “I just think you need more time to work on ‘em is all. Nothing unusual about it, you get on tour with a tight media schedule and show after show. All I’m saying is we need to make sure you get more time to spend on writing, that’s all.”
A roadie stuck his head in the room. “Hey, Eddie, we’re ready for the soundcheck.”
Megan waved the guy off. “We’ll be there in a minute.”
“Besides,” Eddie said, “at this point I can pretty much do a polka record and go platinum, right?”
“Well damn near,” Big Bill said. “All I’m sayin’ is—”
“Trust me,” Eddie said. “There’s plenty more good songs where the others came from. We’re fine. No, we’re better than fine!” He started singing in a mock operatic voice, “We are the champions, no time for losers,” he kept singing as he headed for the door, “for we are the champions!” He stopped and turned to Megan. “Hey, you comin’?”
Big Bill waved him on. “You go ahead, I need to talk to your road manager for a second.” He stood there smiling as Eddie headed for the stage, still singing the Queen song.
“So what’s up, Billy Boy?” Megan picked up wedge of lime and squeezed the juice into her drink.
Big Bill eased over to her and got close enough to make her uncomfortable. He spoke in a low, controlled voice. “I don’t know how stupid you think I am, but I been around. I know what’s going on. What’d you get a gram? An eightball? More?”
Megan stepped away from him, scoffing. She looked at her drink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? I’m talkin’ about cocaine, sweetheart. Bolivian marching powder. The fastest way to ruin your life anybody ever came up with, at least ‘till they came up with crack. I know a lot of folks you could ask about it if they were still alive, but—”
“You don’t know shit about it,” Megan said.
“Listen, missy, I spilled more cocaine in my day than you’ll ever see.” Big Bill grabbed her arm and pulled her close. “Now, Eddie’s can’t write any new songs as it is. You get him all fucked up on cocaine and what do you think’s gonna happen?”
“Let go of me!” She tried to jerk free, but Big Bill held on.
“And by the way, you got no business co-writing anything longer than a grocery list. Now, if you don’t straighten up I’m going to get you the hell out of Eddie’s life. And make no mistake, I know how to do that.” He let go of her arm. “I’m glad we had this little chat.”
Megan smiled her prettiest smile. “Bill,” she said sweetly, “until you start going down on Eddie? I think he’s going to do what I tell him a lot faster than what you tell him.” She sniffed her nose at him. “Trust me on that.” Megan spun around and headed for the stage.
70.
Jay Colvin was screaming into the phone. “You’re a genius! I can’t believe they haven’t caught this guy yet. You oughta be a damn detective.”
Jimmy had called Jay to report his discovery of the nearly empty container of MSG in Eddie’s kitchen cabinet. “Well, it’s all circumstantial,” Jimmy said. “You can’t convict on—”
“Hey, it’s good evidence supporting the theory,” Jay countered. “Listen, just write it up and get it ready. And leave the ending open so you can write something at the last minute, just before publication. We want it as up to date on Eddie’s career as possible.”
“I’m going through my old files to make sure I didn’t miss anything.”
“Good. Oh, your editor had a great idea. He wants to do a website where you continue writing on Eddie’s career after the book’s published. They’ll make it so people can pay to download each new chapter. Later we’ll compile the online chapters and do a follow-up book.”
After Jay explained how Jimmy would get paid for the on-line deal, Jimmy got back to work. He was at his desk, surrounded by all his files and a hundred sticky notes with little memos reminding him to go back and check this or that or another thing. He decided it was time to organize the mess, so he gathered the notes and sorted them by subject. That’s when he found a note stuck to the back of one of his files: ‘Compare Eddie’s early tour to Oak Pharm info.’
Jimmy had to think about it a minute before he remembered what the note meant. He shuffled through the files until he found the information he’d blackmailed out of the guy at Okatibbee Pharmaceuticals. The critical information here was that the poisoned packages had all come from a lot shipped to Little Rock, Arkansas.
Jimmy found copies of the police reports from the agencies that had investigated the four known poisoning deaths. Thanks to receipts found in Fred Babineaux’s car and in the wallet of the victim in Tuscaloosa, the police knew when and where those boxes had been purchased. The Gulfport Police used credit card records to determine when and where that box had been bought. The only unknown purchase date was for the box found at Eddie’s, which he knew had also come from the shipment sent to Little Rock. He made a list of the dates.
Jimmy then pulled out a document Eddie had given him. It was the list of every club and casino he’d ever played and the dates he’d played them. He put the two lists side by side and candled them. After a second something caught his eye. Not only had Eddie played in each of the cities where the poisoned powders had been sold, but it turned out he had played in each city a few days before each purchase. It didn’t cinch the case, but, logically, it failed to exclude Eddie as the killer. Jimmy looked at the touring schedule. Eddie frequently played at a club in Little Rock called Little Rock, Little Country. In fact, according to the touring schedule, he had played there
several times a year and one date coincided with the arrival of the Dr. Porter’s lot that had been tampered with and redistributed throughout the South.
Jimmy thought about it for a moment. Something seemed goofy. Somebody had violated the law of averages which suggested Eddie would have been in at least one of the cities after the poisoned dose of Dr. Porter’s was sold. But he always arrived before. Jimmy found it impossible to believe someone at Oak Pharm would take several boxes from a lot bound for Little Rock, Arkansas, poison them, and slip them into lots that consistently arrived in those particular towns just before Eddie got there. Coincidence couldn’t possibly explain it. The pattern at least hinted at Eddie’s involvement.
Jimmy paused to consider a possible alternative explanation. What if Eddie had a psychotic fan — someone who had followed him from show to show and, at the same time, was leaving a trail of poisoned headache powders? Nah, didn’t make sense. For example, why would this psychotic fan choose only three of the two dozen cities where Eddie had played? Further, Eddie had never played in Hinchcliff. Okay, maybe the fan was actually trying to kill Eddie. No, that made even less sense. It required too many reasons to explain all the actions. Given a set of facts, Jimmy believed the simplest explanation was probably the right one. Besides, he couldn’t think of a more dimwitted way to try to kill someone than hoping the intended victim would get a headache and go to the right store and buy the right box of poisoned headache powder.
Jimmy ran through a few more far-fetched scenarios, but he kept coming back to the one explanation that made sense. Eddie was the killer. But why? Maybe Eddie found out about the other man. Or maybe it was because Eddie felt Tammy was holding him back. Okay, that might explain Tammy’s death, but not the others. Unless. . . “Holy shit,” Jimmy muttered. The facts suddenly came together in his mind and hit him like a wrecking ball.
