A song to die for, p.31
A Song to Die For, page 31
Dixie finally grew weary of taking her bows and strutted offstage, right toward Franco. As her entourage and the stagehands showered the starlet with compliments, Franco dug deep into his wallet for his actual Las Vegas business card. She approached him, and looked blankly toward him, expecting more approbation. Franco had other things to say:
“How would you like to play Vegas?”
Her eyes actually focused on him.
“I own the biggest casino in town.” He tilted his card toward her. “I’ll get you all the crank you can snort.” He had her figured for a cokehead. Just look at those eyes.
Dixie smiled. “I’ll have my agent call you.” She reached for the card.
Franco snatched it back. “No agents. You want to play Vegas, you call me. You call me.” He gave her the card, noticing that her smile lingered and her eyes clung to him. As her entourage dragged her away, he saw her mouth the word Okay.
He shrugged. That was a long shot. She had probably already dropped his card. The cleanup crew would sweep it up with the litter. On the other hand, a guy never knew. She might actually take the bait. Who wouldn’t want to play the biggest casino in Vegas? Vegas, baby! She might prove useful to him in getting to the old-timer’s band. Franco had done his homework, and knew there was a link between Dixie and that guitar player from the other band—the guy called Creed. If he could get the old-timer’s band to Vegas—home turf—the stupid stage name would be a lot easier to deal with. He might even end up under a root ball of a pine tree on the ranch in the mountains.
Franco’s moment of euphoria quickly wore off as he realized he now had no choice but to file out of the stadium with twenty thousand idiot country fans. Great. Still, he was in a much better mood than when he had arrived. He had obtained what he came for. This thing was a hair trigger’s pull from being over. He knew who Charles Biggerstaff Jr. was now. He couldn’t wait to call Papa and tell him the good news.
41
CHAPTER
Hooley sat in his truck, thinking, brooding, reminiscing, regretting … Hours had passed as he waited for one Charles Biggerstaff Sr. to return to his home. A stakeout gave a man a lot of time to think. He missed his ex-wife sometimes. Years ago, she used to greet him at the door, no matter how late. She’d get out of bed and make him dinner, or breakfast—whatever the hour called for. That was long ago.
He had busted some real bad ones over the years. Survived a few gunfights. His career was a distinguished one. But now he was staring an imminent retirement in the face. How was he going to get by on his pension? The divorce had decimated his savings. Gasoline prices were going up every day, and that drove the price of everything else up. He’d have to hire out as a private detective, he guessed.
He was listening to the radio, fighting off sleep. KIKK, “kick” radio. Pretty good country station. They played some of the good old stuff. Earlier tonight, sitting here in his truck down the street from Biggerstaff’s mansion, he had heard a tribute to Luster Burnett. The deejay had said Luster was performing again, and was opening tonight at some stadium for Dixie what’s-her-name, the country bombshell. Hooley briefly considered abandoning his stakeout and going to the concert. Now he regretted not doing it, for it was almost midnight and Biggerstaff had not returned home.
Hooley had arrived in the afternoon, walked up the door of the Biggerstaff home, and rung the doorbell. Mrs. Biggerstaff wouldn’t let him in. Her husband had given her strict instructions not to talk to anyone. Where was Mr. Biggerstaff? Golfing. Which golf course? She had slammed the door in his face.
So now he was waiting, wondering if he had been spotted staking the place out, feeling all the boredom and loneliness and uselessness of his chosen career eat away at him inside. To hell with it. He reached for the key in the ignition. Somewhere in the neighborhood, he heard the acceleration of a big block engine. Hooley took his hand off the key. Headlights swooped around a corner, and a bronze Cadillac Coupe de Ville followed them into Biggerstaff’s driveway, like a boat sailing into harbor.
Hooley was already out of his truck and trotting toward the Cadillac. Biggerstaff had popped the trunk open from inside. He stepped out, walked aft, and muscled his golf clubs out of the open boot. Sensing Hooley’s approach, he looked over his shoulder, a sudden fear registering on his face.
Hooley had his badge out. “I’m a Texas Ranger. Hooley Johnson.”
“Jesus! You scared the hell out of me!”
“Little nervous, Mr. Biggerstaff?”
“People don’t lurk in the dark in this neighborhood.” He slammed his trunk lid. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me, it’s late.”
“Hold on. I came a long way to talk to you.”
“My lawyer has instructed me not to talk to anybody,” he said over his shoulder.
“This is off the record.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He was lifting the garage door.
“You don’t have one of those automatic openers? Fancy house like this?”
“The battery in my clicker went dead,” he said, defensively.
“Dang, that’s rough. About this lawyer of yours. Where can I have a word with him?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Biggerstaff pushed the garage door up over his head.
“You can’t even say who your own lawyer is?”
“He’s not my lawyer. He’s my insurance company’s lawyer.” Biggerstaff slammed the heavy golf bag into the corner of the garage and started pulling the garage door down, with himself inside, and Hooley outside.
Hooley caught the door and held it open. “Wait. Listen to me. They told you not to talk, but did they tell you that you weren’t allowed to listen?”
Biggerstaff looked Hooley in the eye. He looked scared. “No. I guess they didn’t tell me I couldn’t listen.”
“I’m going to reach into my shirt pocket for my card.” He did so, Biggerstaff’s eyes following his every move. He handed the card to Biggerstaff. “Don’t lose that. You’re gonna need it. Sooner or later, this thing is gonna blow up in your face, and you’re gonna find yourself in a whole lot of trouble—with the law, or something worse. You know what I mean by something worse, don’t you?”
Biggerstaff nodded, reluctantly.
“When that kind of trouble comes, who do you want on your side? The Texas Rangers, right? Right?”
“All right!”
“You sleep on it, Mr. Biggerstaff. If you can. Keep your doors and windows locked. Have your lawyer call me. Better yet, call me yourself, and I’ll tell you what you’re up against. Oh, and Mr. Biggerstaff…”
“Yeah?”
“Try to call me before you or somebody in your family ends up dead.” He took his hand away from the garage door and took a step back.
Biggerstaff rolled the door downward, slamming it with a metallic crash that made the neighbor’s poodle bark.
42
CHAPTER
Franco finally got free of the concert crowd and the resulting traffic jam and found a pay phone outside a supermarket. He happened to look up at the name of the store as he stepped into the phone booth.
“Piggly Wiggly? Are you kidding me?” he muttered.
He called Papa Martini.
“Who’s this?” his father said, gruffly.
“Hey, Pop, it’s me. What are you doing?”
“Pouring my third nightcap. Where the hell have you been?”
“I went to a country music concert in Houston.”
“What, three weeks in Texas and you’ve turned into a friggin’ redneck?”
Franco chuckled. “You’ve heard this young country singer, Dixie Houston, right?”
“I don’t listen to that crap. You know that.”
“But you’ve seen her on TV. Tits and ass and country twang. I know you’ve seen her.”
“Yeah, maybe. So what?”
“She was good, that’s all. The crowd loved her. And there was an old-timer who opened the show. I met the band.”
The line was silent for a moment. “Franco, the bug man came today. We’re clean.”
Franco knew that the “bug man” was the family expert who regularly swept the Martini mansion and phone lines for surveillance devices. “You’re sure.”
“Dead sure. Where are you calling from?”
“A phone booth in Houston.”
“That’s my boy. Now, what the hell’s going on?”
“I’ve been chasing down this lead the last couple of days. I didn’t want to bother you about it until I knew it was the real deal. The guy driving the boat that night—the night Rosa bought it—I’m ninety-nine percent sure that he’s a musician named Charles Biggerstaff Jr. He plays in a band with this old-timer trying to make a comeback in country music. That’s the band I met tonight. I got a look at the guy.”
“You looked at the guy who drove the boat?”
“Ninety-nine percent sure.”
“Not good enough.”
“Pop, I’ll beat it out of him until I’m a hundred percent sure before I whack him.”
“Okay, that’s better. How are you gonna kidnap him?”
“I don’t know yet. He’s with this band all the time. I’ll have to catch him alone somewhere.”
“Who’s the old timer making the comeback? The band leader?”
“Luster Burnett.”
Papa was quiet for several seconds.
“Pop?”
Franco heard his father break into a wheezing fit of laughter that culminated in a coughing fit.
“Jesus, Pop. The smokes. You gotta cut back.”
“Luster freakin’ Burnett! Why didn’t you say so?”
“Pop? What?”
“Come on home, Franco. We’ll handle this from here now.”
“But Pop, I found the guy. Ninety-nine percent sure.”
“I said come home. I’ll explain when you get here. We’re gonna lure the rat right into the rat trap!”
* * *
Creed felt the bus shift and looked toward the open door to find Dixie’s bodyguard stepping aboard. The guard looked past him, to Luster.
“Miss Houston extends an invitation for you to join the party on her bus.”
“The whole band, or just Luster?” Kathy said, suspiciously.
“There’s not enough room for the whole band.” He looked at Creed. “She said you could come, too.”
Luster got up. “Come on, Creed. Let’s be neighborly.”
“Don’t go,” Kathy whispered as the bodyguard shuffled off the bus and Luster walked forward.
Creed got up to follow Luster off the bus. “This is business. She’s trying to steal my song, and she needs to know that I’m on to her.”
Kathy got up, followed him off the bus, held him back as Luster walked toward Dixie’s Prevost with the bodyguard.
“Let her have the damn song. You’ve got new stuff coming out now. A whole new live album.”
“I can’t let her have it. It’s my property. If I don’t fight it, she’ll claim everything I ever wrote back during the Dixie Creed days. I’ll end up like Luster, unable to record my own songs.”
Kathy pouted and crossed her arms, guarding her heart. “You’re sure that’s all it is?”
“Are you kidding? After the way she treated me onstage? Besides, I better keep an eye on our legend.”
“I don’t like it, Creed. I wish I had never booked this gig.”
He touched her, gently but firmly, cupping his palm around her arm. “When the album comes out, we’ll forget Dixie was ever even here at this gig. Don’t worry.”
She sighed. “Be careful. She’s a conniving, manipulative…” Kathy made a b with her lips, but stopped short of saying the word.
“I gotta catch up before they shut the door on our future.” Creed winked at her and trotted away toward Dixie’s bus slipping in just before the hydraulic door closed.
Inside, he smelled weed. Climbing up the steps, he saw one of Dixie’s band members offering Luster a joint. Luster raised his hands, as if in a holdup. Dixie’s guitar player—some Nashville cat Creed didn’t know—slapped him on the back.
“You son-of-bitch!” the picker said, a smile on his face. “I hate your guts.”
“Backatcha,” Creed replied. “Hey, man, thanks for letting me plug into your rig. Those Twins were smokin’.”
“Any time. You want a drink or something?” He stepped aside to reveal the bar that Dixie had obviously had custom-built into her bus.
Creed shrugged, poured himself a shot of Jack Daniel’s. He looked aft to see that Dixie had showered and changed out of her show clothes into jeans and a white cotton button-down shirt, her hair wrapped up in a towel. She looked like the small-town girl Creed had once fallen in love with. She was holding Luster’s hand, looking into his eyes and telling him God-knows-what-all. Creed ground his teeth. What if Kathy was right? What if Dixie was offering Luster a slot on her tour right now?
As if she sensed his bad vibes, Dixie looked Creed’s way, caught his eye, smiled, and waved him over. He resented being summoned, but condescended to join the conversation with Luster and Dixie.
“Welcome to my custom Prevost bus, hotshot!” she began. “A hundred and five inches wide!”
Creed knew Dixie was competitive, but he never thought she’d throw a bus width in his face. This was the kind of thing touring acts talked about when trying to one-up one another. “Yeah, it’s state of the art, Dixie.”
“Better than that old ninety-six-incher you’re making Luster ride in.”
“Well, it ain’t too wide,” Luster said, “but at least it’s short.”
Dixie snorted a laugh. “Anyway, Creed, honey, I want to thank you for bringing this wonderful man into my life. Luster has been telling me that you are the genius behind his comeback. He says you’ve made it all happen for him.”
“I don’t know about that. It’s a comeback for me, too, and I couldn’t do it without Luster.”
Dixie smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Well now, aren’t you two just the cutest thing in the world with your little mutual-admiration society?”
“Never thought of us as cute,” Luster admitted.
“Well, I want to help, too. I have some ideas for the three of us, and we need to get together tomorrow, when we’re all sober, and work this thing out. It could be the biggest thing ever to hit country music. Shit, not just country. Outlaw-slash-crossover-slash-rockabilly-slash-progressive-country-slash-rock-and-frickin’-roll!”
“Slash science-fiction-bluegrass!” Luster said, mocking her.
“What, no coon-ass gospel?” Creed monotoned.
“You two are so funny. You’re going to be a hoot to tour with.”
One of the band members broke in to shake Luster’s hand just then, and to ask for an autograph. With Luster thus distracted, Creed turned to Dixie.
“You made me look like fool onstage tonight.”
“I beg your pardon?” she said, in a defensive tone.
“You know what I’m talkin’ about. And what’s this about you writing ‘Written in the Dust’?”
She scoffed. “I never said that!”
“Yes, you did. Onstage.”
“Well, if I did, it was a slip of the tongue. It’s not like I don’t have anything else to think about up there.”
“I was the sole writer on all our Dixie-Creed stuff. You do remember that, right?”
“Shut up, Creed!” She pushed him playfully against the chest, but he was too solid to budge much. “Anyway, I let you on my stage, you ungrateful piece of shit! Who could ask for more than that?”
Someone in the band shouted from the front of the bus: “Hey, Dixie! We’re waiting on you, baby!”
She turned to scream toward the band: “Dixie-baby’s comin’, boys!” She turned back to her guests, Luster having finished signing his autograph. “I’ll see you two gentlemen tomorrow.”
She skipped forward toward the waiting band members, one of whom handed her a rolled up hundred-dollar bill. With obvious familiarity, the drummer was chopping lines of white powder on a mirror taken from the wall and placed flat on the top of the bar.
“Is that what I think it is?” Luster said.
“What do you think it is?”
“Well, they ain’t chalkin’ up a turkey call. Let’s get off this bus, Hoss.”
“I’m with you, Boss.”
Outside, in air as fresh as Houston could offer, Creed strolled with Luster back toward their own humble little tour bus.
“She don’t waste time cuttin’ deals, does she?”
Luster chuckled, put his hand on Creed’s shoulder. “Hoss, that back yonder is everything I hate about the music business. I ain’t even talkin’ about the cocaine. I’m talkin’ about the bullshit. Do you know how many times I’ve heard that speech about the biggest thing to hit country music since Jesus Christ learned to tune a fiddle? Makes me want to puke. We’re gonna do this thing our own way, and we don’t need no Dixie Houston to do it.”
Creed felt a smile spread across his face. “I’m proud to hear you say that, Boss.”
“All right. Now,” he said, shifting gears, “has Kathy collected our pay?”
“Yeah, it’s on the bus. Cash.”
“Good, because I got us into a poker game tonight over in Sugar Land.”
“How’d you do that?”
“I called Gordy. He gave me a number to call.”
“Apparently he doesn’t mind us shootin’ up somebody else’s game.”
“I guess not. With any luck, we can parley the chump change from this piss-ant gig into some real road money. You in?”
“Like Flinn.”
43
CHAPTER
Once Dixie’s fleet of buses and semis faded from the rearview mirror, Creed began to enjoy the drive back from the Houston gig. In fact, it felt quite glorious, and he seemed to share the euphoria with the rest of the group. Each band member had a few thousand dollars in his or her pocket. The live album was in the can. The Dixie Houston nonsense had been forgotten. On top of all that, Creed had almost doubled his gig earnings at the Sugar Land poker game, and Luster had done even better. Even the bus was purring like a mountain lion today.
Creed figured he’d better enjoy the high morale while it lasted, considering the band didn’t have another gig lined up. They had gotten a late start Sunday afternoon, as Creed and Luster hadn’t returned to the bus until almost dawn. After a few hours of sleep, Creed was ready to drive, and they motored west on Interstate 10, past green pastures and highway medians choked with colorful wildflowers of blue, red, and yellow.
“How would you like to play Vegas?”
Her eyes actually focused on him.
“I own the biggest casino in town.” He tilted his card toward her. “I’ll get you all the crank you can snort.” He had her figured for a cokehead. Just look at those eyes.
Dixie smiled. “I’ll have my agent call you.” She reached for the card.
Franco snatched it back. “No agents. You want to play Vegas, you call me. You call me.” He gave her the card, noticing that her smile lingered and her eyes clung to him. As her entourage dragged her away, he saw her mouth the word Okay.
He shrugged. That was a long shot. She had probably already dropped his card. The cleanup crew would sweep it up with the litter. On the other hand, a guy never knew. She might actually take the bait. Who wouldn’t want to play the biggest casino in Vegas? Vegas, baby! She might prove useful to him in getting to the old-timer’s band. Franco had done his homework, and knew there was a link between Dixie and that guitar player from the other band—the guy called Creed. If he could get the old-timer’s band to Vegas—home turf—the stupid stage name would be a lot easier to deal with. He might even end up under a root ball of a pine tree on the ranch in the mountains.
Franco’s moment of euphoria quickly wore off as he realized he now had no choice but to file out of the stadium with twenty thousand idiot country fans. Great. Still, he was in a much better mood than when he had arrived. He had obtained what he came for. This thing was a hair trigger’s pull from being over. He knew who Charles Biggerstaff Jr. was now. He couldn’t wait to call Papa and tell him the good news.
41
CHAPTER
Hooley sat in his truck, thinking, brooding, reminiscing, regretting … Hours had passed as he waited for one Charles Biggerstaff Sr. to return to his home. A stakeout gave a man a lot of time to think. He missed his ex-wife sometimes. Years ago, she used to greet him at the door, no matter how late. She’d get out of bed and make him dinner, or breakfast—whatever the hour called for. That was long ago.
He had busted some real bad ones over the years. Survived a few gunfights. His career was a distinguished one. But now he was staring an imminent retirement in the face. How was he going to get by on his pension? The divorce had decimated his savings. Gasoline prices were going up every day, and that drove the price of everything else up. He’d have to hire out as a private detective, he guessed.
He was listening to the radio, fighting off sleep. KIKK, “kick” radio. Pretty good country station. They played some of the good old stuff. Earlier tonight, sitting here in his truck down the street from Biggerstaff’s mansion, he had heard a tribute to Luster Burnett. The deejay had said Luster was performing again, and was opening tonight at some stadium for Dixie what’s-her-name, the country bombshell. Hooley briefly considered abandoning his stakeout and going to the concert. Now he regretted not doing it, for it was almost midnight and Biggerstaff had not returned home.
Hooley had arrived in the afternoon, walked up the door of the Biggerstaff home, and rung the doorbell. Mrs. Biggerstaff wouldn’t let him in. Her husband had given her strict instructions not to talk to anyone. Where was Mr. Biggerstaff? Golfing. Which golf course? She had slammed the door in his face.
So now he was waiting, wondering if he had been spotted staking the place out, feeling all the boredom and loneliness and uselessness of his chosen career eat away at him inside. To hell with it. He reached for the key in the ignition. Somewhere in the neighborhood, he heard the acceleration of a big block engine. Hooley took his hand off the key. Headlights swooped around a corner, and a bronze Cadillac Coupe de Ville followed them into Biggerstaff’s driveway, like a boat sailing into harbor.
Hooley was already out of his truck and trotting toward the Cadillac. Biggerstaff had popped the trunk open from inside. He stepped out, walked aft, and muscled his golf clubs out of the open boot. Sensing Hooley’s approach, he looked over his shoulder, a sudden fear registering on his face.
Hooley had his badge out. “I’m a Texas Ranger. Hooley Johnson.”
“Jesus! You scared the hell out of me!”
“Little nervous, Mr. Biggerstaff?”
“People don’t lurk in the dark in this neighborhood.” He slammed his trunk lid. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me, it’s late.”
“Hold on. I came a long way to talk to you.”
“My lawyer has instructed me not to talk to anybody,” he said over his shoulder.
“This is off the record.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He was lifting the garage door.
“You don’t have one of those automatic openers? Fancy house like this?”
“The battery in my clicker went dead,” he said, defensively.
“Dang, that’s rough. About this lawyer of yours. Where can I have a word with him?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.” Biggerstaff pushed the garage door up over his head.
“You can’t even say who your own lawyer is?”
“He’s not my lawyer. He’s my insurance company’s lawyer.” Biggerstaff slammed the heavy golf bag into the corner of the garage and started pulling the garage door down, with himself inside, and Hooley outside.
Hooley caught the door and held it open. “Wait. Listen to me. They told you not to talk, but did they tell you that you weren’t allowed to listen?”
Biggerstaff looked Hooley in the eye. He looked scared. “No. I guess they didn’t tell me I couldn’t listen.”
“I’m going to reach into my shirt pocket for my card.” He did so, Biggerstaff’s eyes following his every move. He handed the card to Biggerstaff. “Don’t lose that. You’re gonna need it. Sooner or later, this thing is gonna blow up in your face, and you’re gonna find yourself in a whole lot of trouble—with the law, or something worse. You know what I mean by something worse, don’t you?”
Biggerstaff nodded, reluctantly.
“When that kind of trouble comes, who do you want on your side? The Texas Rangers, right? Right?”
“All right!”
“You sleep on it, Mr. Biggerstaff. If you can. Keep your doors and windows locked. Have your lawyer call me. Better yet, call me yourself, and I’ll tell you what you’re up against. Oh, and Mr. Biggerstaff…”
“Yeah?”
“Try to call me before you or somebody in your family ends up dead.” He took his hand away from the garage door and took a step back.
Biggerstaff rolled the door downward, slamming it with a metallic crash that made the neighbor’s poodle bark.
42
CHAPTER
Franco finally got free of the concert crowd and the resulting traffic jam and found a pay phone outside a supermarket. He happened to look up at the name of the store as he stepped into the phone booth.
“Piggly Wiggly? Are you kidding me?” he muttered.
He called Papa Martini.
“Who’s this?” his father said, gruffly.
“Hey, Pop, it’s me. What are you doing?”
“Pouring my third nightcap. Where the hell have you been?”
“I went to a country music concert in Houston.”
“What, three weeks in Texas and you’ve turned into a friggin’ redneck?”
Franco chuckled. “You’ve heard this young country singer, Dixie Houston, right?”
“I don’t listen to that crap. You know that.”
“But you’ve seen her on TV. Tits and ass and country twang. I know you’ve seen her.”
“Yeah, maybe. So what?”
“She was good, that’s all. The crowd loved her. And there was an old-timer who opened the show. I met the band.”
The line was silent for a moment. “Franco, the bug man came today. We’re clean.”
Franco knew that the “bug man” was the family expert who regularly swept the Martini mansion and phone lines for surveillance devices. “You’re sure.”
“Dead sure. Where are you calling from?”
“A phone booth in Houston.”
“That’s my boy. Now, what the hell’s going on?”
“I’ve been chasing down this lead the last couple of days. I didn’t want to bother you about it until I knew it was the real deal. The guy driving the boat that night—the night Rosa bought it—I’m ninety-nine percent sure that he’s a musician named Charles Biggerstaff Jr. He plays in a band with this old-timer trying to make a comeback in country music. That’s the band I met tonight. I got a look at the guy.”
“You looked at the guy who drove the boat?”
“Ninety-nine percent sure.”
“Not good enough.”
“Pop, I’ll beat it out of him until I’m a hundred percent sure before I whack him.”
“Okay, that’s better. How are you gonna kidnap him?”
“I don’t know yet. He’s with this band all the time. I’ll have to catch him alone somewhere.”
“Who’s the old timer making the comeback? The band leader?”
“Luster Burnett.”
Papa was quiet for several seconds.
“Pop?”
Franco heard his father break into a wheezing fit of laughter that culminated in a coughing fit.
“Jesus, Pop. The smokes. You gotta cut back.”
“Luster freakin’ Burnett! Why didn’t you say so?”
“Pop? What?”
“Come on home, Franco. We’ll handle this from here now.”
“But Pop, I found the guy. Ninety-nine percent sure.”
“I said come home. I’ll explain when you get here. We’re gonna lure the rat right into the rat trap!”
* * *
Creed felt the bus shift and looked toward the open door to find Dixie’s bodyguard stepping aboard. The guard looked past him, to Luster.
“Miss Houston extends an invitation for you to join the party on her bus.”
“The whole band, or just Luster?” Kathy said, suspiciously.
“There’s not enough room for the whole band.” He looked at Creed. “She said you could come, too.”
Luster got up. “Come on, Creed. Let’s be neighborly.”
“Don’t go,” Kathy whispered as the bodyguard shuffled off the bus and Luster walked forward.
Creed got up to follow Luster off the bus. “This is business. She’s trying to steal my song, and she needs to know that I’m on to her.”
Kathy got up, followed him off the bus, held him back as Luster walked toward Dixie’s Prevost with the bodyguard.
“Let her have the damn song. You’ve got new stuff coming out now. A whole new live album.”
“I can’t let her have it. It’s my property. If I don’t fight it, she’ll claim everything I ever wrote back during the Dixie Creed days. I’ll end up like Luster, unable to record my own songs.”
Kathy pouted and crossed her arms, guarding her heart. “You’re sure that’s all it is?”
“Are you kidding? After the way she treated me onstage? Besides, I better keep an eye on our legend.”
“I don’t like it, Creed. I wish I had never booked this gig.”
He touched her, gently but firmly, cupping his palm around her arm. “When the album comes out, we’ll forget Dixie was ever even here at this gig. Don’t worry.”
She sighed. “Be careful. She’s a conniving, manipulative…” Kathy made a b with her lips, but stopped short of saying the word.
“I gotta catch up before they shut the door on our future.” Creed winked at her and trotted away toward Dixie’s bus slipping in just before the hydraulic door closed.
Inside, he smelled weed. Climbing up the steps, he saw one of Dixie’s band members offering Luster a joint. Luster raised his hands, as if in a holdup. Dixie’s guitar player—some Nashville cat Creed didn’t know—slapped him on the back.
“You son-of-bitch!” the picker said, a smile on his face. “I hate your guts.”
“Backatcha,” Creed replied. “Hey, man, thanks for letting me plug into your rig. Those Twins were smokin’.”
“Any time. You want a drink or something?” He stepped aside to reveal the bar that Dixie had obviously had custom-built into her bus.
Creed shrugged, poured himself a shot of Jack Daniel’s. He looked aft to see that Dixie had showered and changed out of her show clothes into jeans and a white cotton button-down shirt, her hair wrapped up in a towel. She looked like the small-town girl Creed had once fallen in love with. She was holding Luster’s hand, looking into his eyes and telling him God-knows-what-all. Creed ground his teeth. What if Kathy was right? What if Dixie was offering Luster a slot on her tour right now?
As if she sensed his bad vibes, Dixie looked Creed’s way, caught his eye, smiled, and waved him over. He resented being summoned, but condescended to join the conversation with Luster and Dixie.
“Welcome to my custom Prevost bus, hotshot!” she began. “A hundred and five inches wide!”
Creed knew Dixie was competitive, but he never thought she’d throw a bus width in his face. This was the kind of thing touring acts talked about when trying to one-up one another. “Yeah, it’s state of the art, Dixie.”
“Better than that old ninety-six-incher you’re making Luster ride in.”
“Well, it ain’t too wide,” Luster said, “but at least it’s short.”
Dixie snorted a laugh. “Anyway, Creed, honey, I want to thank you for bringing this wonderful man into my life. Luster has been telling me that you are the genius behind his comeback. He says you’ve made it all happen for him.”
“I don’t know about that. It’s a comeback for me, too, and I couldn’t do it without Luster.”
Dixie smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Well now, aren’t you two just the cutest thing in the world with your little mutual-admiration society?”
“Never thought of us as cute,” Luster admitted.
“Well, I want to help, too. I have some ideas for the three of us, and we need to get together tomorrow, when we’re all sober, and work this thing out. It could be the biggest thing ever to hit country music. Shit, not just country. Outlaw-slash-crossover-slash-rockabilly-slash-progressive-country-slash-rock-and-frickin’-roll!”
“Slash science-fiction-bluegrass!” Luster said, mocking her.
“What, no coon-ass gospel?” Creed monotoned.
“You two are so funny. You’re going to be a hoot to tour with.”
One of the band members broke in to shake Luster’s hand just then, and to ask for an autograph. With Luster thus distracted, Creed turned to Dixie.
“You made me look like fool onstage tonight.”
“I beg your pardon?” she said, in a defensive tone.
“You know what I’m talkin’ about. And what’s this about you writing ‘Written in the Dust’?”
She scoffed. “I never said that!”
“Yes, you did. Onstage.”
“Well, if I did, it was a slip of the tongue. It’s not like I don’t have anything else to think about up there.”
“I was the sole writer on all our Dixie-Creed stuff. You do remember that, right?”
“Shut up, Creed!” She pushed him playfully against the chest, but he was too solid to budge much. “Anyway, I let you on my stage, you ungrateful piece of shit! Who could ask for more than that?”
Someone in the band shouted from the front of the bus: “Hey, Dixie! We’re waiting on you, baby!”
She turned to scream toward the band: “Dixie-baby’s comin’, boys!” She turned back to her guests, Luster having finished signing his autograph. “I’ll see you two gentlemen tomorrow.”
She skipped forward toward the waiting band members, one of whom handed her a rolled up hundred-dollar bill. With obvious familiarity, the drummer was chopping lines of white powder on a mirror taken from the wall and placed flat on the top of the bar.
“Is that what I think it is?” Luster said.
“What do you think it is?”
“Well, they ain’t chalkin’ up a turkey call. Let’s get off this bus, Hoss.”
“I’m with you, Boss.”
Outside, in air as fresh as Houston could offer, Creed strolled with Luster back toward their own humble little tour bus.
“She don’t waste time cuttin’ deals, does she?”
Luster chuckled, put his hand on Creed’s shoulder. “Hoss, that back yonder is everything I hate about the music business. I ain’t even talkin’ about the cocaine. I’m talkin’ about the bullshit. Do you know how many times I’ve heard that speech about the biggest thing to hit country music since Jesus Christ learned to tune a fiddle? Makes me want to puke. We’re gonna do this thing our own way, and we don’t need no Dixie Houston to do it.”
Creed felt a smile spread across his face. “I’m proud to hear you say that, Boss.”
“All right. Now,” he said, shifting gears, “has Kathy collected our pay?”
“Yeah, it’s on the bus. Cash.”
“Good, because I got us into a poker game tonight over in Sugar Land.”
“How’d you do that?”
“I called Gordy. He gave me a number to call.”
“Apparently he doesn’t mind us shootin’ up somebody else’s game.”
“I guess not. With any luck, we can parley the chump change from this piss-ant gig into some real road money. You in?”
“Like Flinn.”
43
CHAPTER
Once Dixie’s fleet of buses and semis faded from the rearview mirror, Creed began to enjoy the drive back from the Houston gig. In fact, it felt quite glorious, and he seemed to share the euphoria with the rest of the group. Each band member had a few thousand dollars in his or her pocket. The live album was in the can. The Dixie Houston nonsense had been forgotten. On top of all that, Creed had almost doubled his gig earnings at the Sugar Land poker game, and Luster had done even better. Even the bus was purring like a mountain lion today.
Creed figured he’d better enjoy the high morale while it lasted, considering the band didn’t have another gig lined up. They had gotten a late start Sunday afternoon, as Creed and Luster hadn’t returned to the bus until almost dawn. After a few hours of sleep, Creed was ready to drive, and they motored west on Interstate 10, past green pastures and highway medians choked with colorful wildflowers of blue, red, and yellow.
