A Song to Die For, page 25
“Sure. Seven, one, three…”
Franco scribbled as she quoted the exchange. “Thanks again. It’s probably nothin’, but it doesn’t hurt to call, you know what I mean?”
“Yes, sir. You have a good day, now, you hear?”
“Thank you, and you do the same.” He slammed the phone down, held it there for a second, and picked it back up. He dialed the number for Charles Biggerstaff. He doubted that the feds had had time to get a subpoena to bug the phone line, and he knew he might be running out of chances to get to Biggerstaff first, so he was willing to call from the rental house rather than a pay phone somewhere. Anyway, he could bug out of this rental place within minutes if he had to.
The phone rang twice. “Biggerstaff,” said a voice on the other end.
“Charles Biggerstaff?”
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“Mr. Biggerstaff, my name is John Rogers, I’m a lawyer assigned to your case by your insurance company.”
“What case?”
“The boat.”
“I haven’t even put in a claim. I didn’t even know the boat was wrecked until yesterday.”
“Well, apparently, you’re the last one to find out. You’re being sued by the family of the deceased. They put in the claim. Have you talked to the police yet?”
“No. An F.B.I. agent is supposed to be here in about an hour.”
“Special Agent Doolittle?”
“Yeah.” He sounded surprised.
“I talked to him already. When he gets there, don’t let him in. Don’t tell him a thing.”
“But he’s on his way from Austin.”
“Don’t talk to him, Mr. Biggerstaff. He doesn’t have your best interest at heart. I do. Sir, you could be in real trouble. The girl that was killed on board your boat was from a mob family in Las Vegas. They play hardball. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The line went silent for several seconds. “Mob?”
“The Mafia.”
“I know what the mob means,” he said, clearly exasperated.
“So who was driving the boat that night, Mr. Biggerstaff?”
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been to that lake house in months. I was at a chamber of commerce banquet that night. I have hundreds of witnesses.”
“All right, then, listen carefully. Tell the F.B.I. that your lawyer advised you not to say anything. Tell them we’ll set up a meeting with them soon.”
“That’s gonna look funny.”
“I can’t help you if you don’t cooperate, Mr. Biggerstaff.”
He mumbled a curse at the other end of the line. “Okay, I won’t talk to the agent.”
“You’ve got good reason. Tell them you’re concerned about the Mafia angle. Tell them you need time to confer with your lawyers.”
“How did the girl’s family know to file a claim? How did they find out about the boat before I did?”
“It’s the Mafia. They have ways of making people talk.”
“Shit.”
“Now, Mr. Biggerstaff, I need to know who was driving that boat that night.”
“I have no way of knowing that. I wasn’t there.”
“Remember, everything you tell me is strictly confidential. I’m your lawyer, assigned by your insurance company. The sooner you tell me everything you know about this case, the sooner we can settle this thing, and you can get on with your life. Is there anyone else with access to the house?”
“Well…”
“Yes?”
“My son. I haven’t spoken to him in years. We had what you might call a falling out. He has a key to the house. But that doesn’t mean it was him.”
“Of course not. It probably wasn’t. It was probably some kids out for a joy ride in a stolen boat. There’s been a rash of that sort of thing on that lake, I’m told. What’s your son’s name?” Franco waited. He could feel the answer coming.
“Charles The Third.”
He clinched his fist. “And where does Charles live?”
“I have no idea. I told you I haven’t spoken to him in years. That boy has always been trouble. Always.”
“Where did he live the last time you spoke to him?”
“Somewhere near Austin. He fancies himself a musician. Lives off his trust fund. Never has worked a solid day in his life. He doesn’t go by his real name, either. He uses some stupid stage name. I can’t even remember what it is.”
“I’m going to need to know that. Here’s what I want you to do, Mr. Biggerstaff. Take down this toll free number: One, eight-hundred … Are you writing this down?”
“Yeah, yeah … Eight hundred…”
Franco quoted the rest of the Martini family’s toll free number, which came in handy for all sorts of things. “You’ll get a generic answering machine. I want you to say, ‘Hey, I remembered that guy’s nickname I couldn’t think of. They call him, blah, blah, blah…’ Then hang up. Do you understand? Your phones will probably be bugged by the feds when you turn them down for an interview, so don’t let on that it has anything to do with this case. Act like you’re just calling an old friend. I need to know your son’s stage name as soon as possible so we can find him and establish his alibi.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to let the F.B.I. do that?”
“No. Absolutely not. Don’t be naive, Mr. Biggerstaff. The cops don’t always care if they get the right guy, as long as they get a conviction. If I get to your son first, he will have an alibi. Anyway, if the feds finger your son, the mob will find out about it, and your son will be in real danger then. So let our firm handle this. This is what we do.”
“This is a nightmare.”
“Yes, it is. This is the reason you need me. I will fix this for you, and your insurance company will foot the bill. This is the reason you’ve paid those premiums all these years.”
Biggerstaff moaned at the other end of the line. “Okay. So I’ll track down Charlie’s stage name. Maybe my wife remembers. Then what do you want me to do?”
“Call the information into the toll free number I gave you.”
“I got that! What then?”
“Go out and play a round of golf, or go fishing, or see a movie with your wife.”
“Are you serious?”
“You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re not guilty and you’re not worried, so go about your business as usual. Whatever you enjoy in your spare time.”
“That would be golf.”
“Keep it in the fairway.”
“All right. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ll be calling you within forty-eight hours to set up a meeting with you. In the meantime, don’t talk to anybody other than me.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mr…”
“Rogers. John Rogers. Call that eight hundred number. Otherwise, don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
Franco hung up the phone. The gullibility of people sometimes amazed him. He had honed it to a science. Create fear, then offer a way out of it.
His next call: the information operator. How many Charles Biggerstaffs could there be in Austin, Texas? He could taste the end of this ordeal on the tip of his tongue, and it tasted like blood.
32
CHAPTER
The groove felt surprisingly good. Creed had thrown his partially finished song, “My Luck Is Gonna Change,” out to the band to finish. Tump and Trusty Joe had jumped all over it, bandying lyrics back and forth like Ping-Pong balls. Then Trusty had suggested changing “the point of view of the listener.”
“What do you mean by that?” Tump had asked.
“Instead of saying ‘Then I saw you standing by the roadside…,’ say ‘Then I saw her standing by the roadside.…’ Makes it less of a love song, and more of a story song.”
Tump had nodded. “So we’re not singing to her anymore, we’re singing about her.”
“Exactly.”
“So we can say whatever we want, without pissin’ her off. I like it.”
Creed had shrugged his agreement, and they had gone back to parrying rhymes, the song morphing into a story about getting lucky more so than meeting the woman of one’s dreams. It was a blues grinder, after all, so the story fit the feel. They created two more verses within thirty minutes.
As a simple three-chord blues shuffle, it was easy for the band to learn. They had played it through all of half a dozen times now, and it already sounded album-ready. Though it felt good, Creed had no delusions about it. It would probably never see airplay on the radio, but it was a respectable album filler, and a solid song. It would help to shape this band into something other than just a classic country comeback combo for Luster Burnett. It tapped into the unwritten Austin, Texas, Freedom-to-Play-Whatever Act. It was a bluesy biker song with an outlaw feel.
Moreover, Luster liked it. He had blues influences in his background and played a solid rhythm guitar to the tune, and even sang harmonies. Creed couldn’t believe it. Here he was, on salary, in rehearsal, with the great Luster Burnett singing backup vocals behind him! He felt he was finally back in the business.
As the song ground to a tight, pounding finale, Kathy Music burst into the studio, all smiles, clearly excited about something. Her mere presence took Creed’s breath away. He knew he should get over that.
“Wow!” she said. “Cool song!”
“It’s our new theme song,” Luster announced. “Our luck is gonna change.”
“It sure is!” Kathy sang. “I have news! Band meeting in the dining room!” She clapped her hands and did a couple of cheerleader bounces.
The band members sat and stared at her.
“I brought pizza!”
Metro threw his sticks over his shoulder and led the retreat from the studio, through the living room. Creed brought up the rear, after Luster, who had paused to get both of them a beer from the cooler. By the time Creed stepped into the dining room, he saw that the hungry musicians had already ransacked the pizza boxes. That was fine with him. He waited as Luster carved slices from the smoked wild turkey breast, and set out serving dishes of mashed potatoes and green beans. He and Luster enjoyed their own home cooking while the rest of the band bolted the junk food.
“Turned out good, Boss,” he said to Luster.
Luster shrugged. “I’ve made better, but it’ll eat.” He leaned in closer to Creed, and spoke low. “It’ll make a better turd than that gut bomb they’re devouring.”
“Like possums eatin’ shit out of a hair oil can,” he replied, quoting his grandfather, though he had never seen a hair oil can and never understood how shit might end up in one for a possum to eat.
Luster snickered along with him as they both chewed on the turkey—smoky and flavorful, but rather dry.
“What are you two conspiring about down there?” Kathy said from the other end of the table.
Creed swallowed hard. “Just wondering about your news. Thought you had an announcement.”
“And so I do!” She attempted to compose herself. “Luster Burnett and The Pounders now have a booking agent! Tomahawk Talent Agency, in Austin, Texas! She began clapping her hands to lead the band, grudgingly, into an infectious round of applause.
Creed nodded. It was a respectable agency, booking some good acts, a couple of which toured nationwide.
“But that’s not all!” Kathy continued, barely able to contain herself. “We also have a gig! A really good booking! You’re gonna love this!” she sang, pausing for affect.
“So…” Lindsay said, her languid delivery the antithesis of Kathy’s enthusiasm.
“This Saturday…” Kathy began.
“So soon?” Trusty blurted, sounding nervous.
“Houston, Texas…”
“Spit it out, girl,” Lindsay ordered.
“Jefferson Stadium…”
“Big venue,” Tump offered.
“Four bands. We’re the opener. The headliner is Dixie Houston!” Kathy raised her fist triumphantly.
Creed felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach.
“Creed’s ex?” Metro said. “She’s fine!”
“She’s not my ex,” Creed growled. “We were never married.”
“You two are still friends, right?” Kathy said.
“Doesn’t matter. A gig is a gig.”
“How did you manage that on such short notice?” Luster asked.
“That part was pure luck. There was a cancellation. They were scrambling to fill it when I walked into their office without an appointment.”
“Who canceled?” Tump asked.
“George Jones.”
“Of course.”
“So now it’s us, Mickey Gilley, Charlie Daniels, and Dixie Houston. They’ve sold over twenty thousand tickets!”
“Oh, God,” Trusty Joe groaned, holding his stomach.
“Good money, then?” Luster asked.
Kathy’s enthusiasm plunged into uncertainty. “They offered ten grand. I countered with fifteen, and they took it,” she said, more as a question than a statement.
“Holy shit!” Metro cried.
Luster shrugged and nodded. “That’ll get us to the next gig. It’s a good step. Great job, Music!”
The band burst into excited conversation, but Creed was still grappling with the idea of opening the show for the warm-up act for the lead-in artist for Dixie. Was she ever going rub his nose in that. He had often thought of running into Dixie out on the road again, somewhere, after he got his career back on track. But now it was actually going to happen. The saving grace here was that he was the band leader for a legend. And he truly believed that this band was going to kick some serious ass in that stadium. Provided Lindsay could get her makeup on in time, and Trusty Joe didn’t puke on the soundman.
He looked up at Kathy, who was waiting for his reaction. He gave her a grin and a thumbs-up. That seemed to make her day. This Kathy Music was well-nigh the opposite of Dixie Houston. She might be good for him. Creed flinched, and shook the thought off. She was off limits. No relationships within the band. Period.
* * *
Later, while Creed was talking about bands and music with Lindsay, Kathy approached the two of them and asked Creed to step outside to the patio.
“Feel free to interrupt,” Lindsay said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She turned and strutted away.
The cutest confused smirk Creed had ever seen shaped Kathy’s face.
“Is she mad at me?” Kathy asked.
“Don’t worry about her. She woke up on the wrong side of the bus.” Creed feared, however, that Lindsay was a bit jealous. He and Lindsay had shared that one night in his bed, after all—the night he couldn’t remember.
Kathy led the way outside and sat on the picnic table. “Tomahawk wants a stage plot for the Houston show.”
“Okay. What format?” Creed replied.
“I don’t even know what a stage plot is,” she admitted.
He chuckled. “I’ll help you draw one up. It’s just an overhead view of where each player stands onstage, so the sound crew onstage will know where to set amps and microphones and monitors.”
“Monitors?”
“The little floor speakers that point back at the band, so we can hear ourselves.”
Kathy sighed. “I have so much to learn.”
“We all do, darlin’.”
She shifted on the table. “You’re not upset about playing with Dixie again, are you?”
“I’m not playing with Dixie. I’m playing with L.B. and The Pounders.”
“You know what I mean. Do you miss her?”
“Hell, no. Well, maybe the old days, before she changed.” He felt comfortable talking about this with Kathy for some reason. It was the first time he had talked about Dixie with anybody since Uncle Sam forced their breakup.
“How did she change?”
“The stardom went to her head. She liked the attention too much. And she went overboard on the lifestyle. It started with whiskey before the gig, but it got out of hand real quick. She’d wake up about noon and fire up a joint. She drank all day. Even kept a bottle of vodka under her pillow at night. Hard drugs didn’t scare her, either. She was just getting in to all that when I got drafted. Mescaline, mushrooms, acid … I don’t know that she ever stuck a needle in her arm, but I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“I’m sorry, Creed.”
He looked at her, befuddled. “About what?”
“I’m sorry I booked the gig without checking with you. And I’m just sorry you’re hurting.”
He scoffed, forced a grin with one side of his mouth. “I got over Dixie Houston a long time ago.” He knew that was not completely true. “Anyway, this is a great booking for the band, and you’d have been crazy not to jump on it immediately, like you did.”
Kathy sighed, clearly relieved. She looked at her watch. “Oh! I have to go!”
Though disappointed, Creed figured it best that she should leave. He escorted her back into the living room. “Where do you have to go this time of night?”
“A record distributor I talked to on the phone today is going to be at an album release at Threadgill’s for one of the artists they handle. They want me to meet them there. They’re really excited about Luster’s comeback.”
“You mean Luster Burnett and The Pounders.”
“They don’t know they’re excited about The Pounders yet, but they will be after tonight.”
“Which distributor is it?”
“Clear Water.”
“Wow. They’re big.”
“I think they want to distribute Luster’s new project.”
“You mean the one we haven’t recorded yet?”
A cute little grimace wrinkled her features. “What should I tell them about that?”
“Tell them it’ll be a live album of the Houston gig. We arranged that today with Bee Cave Studios.”
“Oh! Far out!”
“Tell them we’ll get them two backstage passes.”
“Can we do that?”
“Tomahawk can.”
“Okay. Can you help me with the stage plot in the morning?”
“I’ll be right here. We rehearse at ten.”
“I’ll meet you at nine.” She smiled. “Bye, Creed.”
As Kathy turned away, Lindsay sauntered out of the kitchen. “Bye, Creed,” she purred, breathily.
