A Song to Die For (30 page)

“Spin … the … disc,” she repeated. The ballpoint seemed to speak the words on the paper. “I love the jargon in this business!”

“Now we've got the live gig and radio airplay lined up, so we need to make sure the record stores in Des Moines have the LP for sale.”

“L.B.'s LP,” she whispered, underlining the note.

“People hear the record on the radio, and they'll want to buy it. We need to find a record distributor to handle that. Shouldn't be too hard with Luster's name attached to the project.”

“Got it.”

“So, all that's left to do in Des Moines is handle advertising and publicity. Problem is, we have no advertising budget, so we're going to have to get creative with the publicity. Call the entertainment writer at the
Des Moines Register
.”

“You know the name of the paper there?”

“I just pulled that out of my … hat. Let the newspaper in on this scoop—the comeback of the legendary Luster Burnett. You'll need to write up a press release, too, full of colorful quotes from Luster, whether he said them or not.”

“I don't know how to write a press release,” she admitted.

“Go talk to some flunky editor at the Austin Mistakesman,” he said, bastardizing the name of the
Statesman.

“Mistakesman!” She laughed. “That's funny!”

“Yeah, well, don't share the joke with them. Get some sample press releases from them. You'll figure it out. It's just journalism. How hard could it be? Who, what, where, when, why, and how. It ain't rocket surgery.”

“Rocket surgery! You're hilarious, Creed,” she said, scribbling.

“Yeah, I'm a one-man riot.”

“Okay, that's all four things in Des Moines.”

“Multiply that by every other town where we're booked to play. And make sure the booking agent routes the gigs—logistically, geographically.”

“Route … the … gigs.”

“Even in towns where we're not playing live, we need to work the radio, retail, and publicity angles.”

She looked up at him, biting her lower lip. “Anything else?”

“Those are the basics. That's good for now.”

“So, first I should…”

“Find a talent agency to book the gigs. They work on commission. Look in the yellow pages. Meanwhile, Luster and I will work on getting the album recorded.”

She clicked the little button at the end of her ballpoint pen, punctuating the end of the meeting. “I'm going to town. By the end of this day, we'll have a booking agency and a press release.”

“We'll need photos with that press release.”

Kathy screamed.

“Sorry. The photos can wait.”

“What is that thing?” she squealed.

Creed followed her eyes and looked over his shoulder to see Luster carrying the wild turkey, gutted and plucked, head and feet still attached.

“Supper,” he said.

Kathy scribbled a note on her pad. “Bring pizza,” she said, marching away to conquer the music business.

Trusty Joe galloped down the creek bank on Ol' Baldy.

“I guess I'm gonna have to give that horse to Trusty,” Luster said. “Which means I've got to give everybody in the band something of equal value. Y'all are like the kids I never had. I've got to treat you all equally.”

“You don't have to give me anything,” Creed said. “The salary's more than I expected.”

“I knew you'd say that. Start me a fire in the smoker, will you? I want to put about two hours of smoke on ol' Tom, here, before we wrap him in foil.”

Creed helped Luster gather kindling and some mesquite wood to get a slow-burning fire started in the smoker. The smoker was built on a trailer, a custom-made affair built by a welder out of a steel tank of some kind. Creed noticed that the tires were flat on the trailer.

“Good thing the smoker didn't sell in the auction,” he said.

“I let the air out of the tires,” Luster admitted. “Figured nobody would want it unless they could just back up to it and haul it off.”

They placed the harvested game bird in the smoker and stepped back to watch with outdoorsmanly satisfaction as the smoke boiled out of the cracks around the lid.

“Did you get our manager educated?”

“Took all of five minutes for me to teach her everything I know about the music business.”

“Good. That's no longer our worry. Our job is to make music. If we do it well, it'll find the cracks in the smoker and seep out into the world.” He spread his arms and wiggled his fingers for effect.

“Maybe somebody will catch wind of it.”

“Don't belabor the metaphor,” Luster warned.

“Right. You got any idea where we might record an album on spec?”

“You know Nigel Buttery?”

“At Bee Creek Studios?”

“No, the other Nigel Buttery. Yes, at Bee Creek. He owes me a favor.”

“Yeah? How big a favor?”

“I loaned him all my vintage microphones before the I.R.S. sent Sid to harass me. There are some things that are too valuable to be auctioned off for back taxes. He's also holding a few guitars and a couple of amps for me. All great studio stuff.”

“Maybe we should drop by.”

“Let's load up, Hoss.”

“I'm with you, Boss.”

*   *   *

A twenty-minute drive in the pickup delivered Creed and Luster to Bee Creek Recording Studio, located in a converted farmhouse near the village of Bee Creek, west of Austin.

Though by musician's time it was still early, Creed found the front door to the studio unlocked. He opened it. “Nigel?” he called out.

Nigel Buttery, a transplant from England, looked out of the control room door to see Creed and Luster enter. “Here's a brace of rogues!” he announced.

Creed always wondered if they really talked like that in England, or if Nigel simply laid it on thick for the Texans.

Nigel greeted them with a toothsome smile that complemented the wild, wavy shocks of golden hair streaming from his scalp—hair for which many women would commit larcenous acts to possess. Creed remembered that Nigel had a hip, European way of shaking hands. Luster refused to participate in any of that, and offered nothing beyond the old-fashioned pressing of palm flesh.

The three of them made small talk about Luster's comeback and the new band for a while. Of course, Nigel had seen the clip on the evening news.

“Bloody awful audio on that news footage.”

“No, we actually sounded that bad in real life,” Luster admitted. “But we're better now.”

“Super! Ready to record, I gather.”

“We ain't got no money, and we need a new album yesterday,” Luster said.

“Yesterday would have been fine. But today and the rest of this week, I've got the Lost Gonzo Band coming in for some tracks. Next week, I'm cutting jingles with an ad agency. That's where the real money is, you know. In fact, the next six weeks are booked solid.”

“Damn,” Luster said, sadly. He looked at Creed. “I guess we'd better gather up those old mics and head over to Willie's studio.”

“Listen, I've got a spendid idea!” Nigel sang. “My weekends are free and I've got a superb system for recording live shows. I'll bring it to one of your gigs, and you'll have an instant album, mixed and mastered, in a fraction of the time it would take to cut it in a studio. For a fraction of the cost, I might add.”

Creed looked at Luster. “Live?” he said, suspiciously.

Luster cocked his head. “I don't know. Our band is pretty raw.”

“I'll do it on speculation. You can cut me in on record sales until my time is paid off.”

Creed shrugged. “Suits our budget.”

“The raw sound is all the rage,” Nigel insisted. “You've heard
Frampton Comes Alive
?”

“Can't say that I have,” Luster admitted.

“It's all over pop radio,” Creed explained. “This guy never hit it big with his studio stuff, but his live record is selling faster than they can stock it.”

“Raw, huh?” Luster was pondering.

“Tump said it last night. It's like war, backwards.”

“Luster Burnett and The Pounders.
Raw
.”

“That's the name of the bloody album! Bloody
Raw
!”

“Without the
bloody
,” Creed said, for reassurance.

“Of course. I only said
bloody
for emphasis. You've noticed I'm British?”

“It's a deal, Nigel. Now, all we need is a live gig somewhere. I'll call you as soon as we get one.”

“So, I can hold on to the Neuman and the Sennheiser?”

“Consider it a semipermanent loan. Collateral on future royalties.” Luster looked at his Timex and motioned for Creed to follow him out of the studio. “Come on, Hoss, we've got to go wrap some aluminum foil around that turkey in the smoker.”

Nigel burst into laughter. “I do love your Texas colloquialisms!”

Creed smiled. “That's always been one of my favorites, too.”

Luster had one foot through the door. “Adios, Nigel!”

“Right, then! Cheerio!”

“Fruit Loops back at'cha,” Creed replied.

 

30

CHAPTER

Hooley looked up from his desk as Mel entered, the young F.B.I. agent looking over the ranger's office as if investigating the place.

“The press is out front,” Mel warned. “They're waiting for you.”

“Like vultures to dead meat,” Hooley replied, shoving a file folder at Mel.

“What's this?”

“The official report from the lab. The only prints they got were Harbaugh's, and they were found only on the door coming in from the garage, and on the murder weapon.”

“That's it?” Mel said, leafing through the report.

“The rest of the place was clean, slick as a whistle, upstairs and down.”

“That's too clean.”

“Yeah. Did you track down the owner of the lake house?” Hooley asked, referring to the fancy place in the cove where the wrecked wooden boat had been located.

“Finally.” Mel pulled a notepad from the inside pocket of his black blazer. “One Charles Biggerstaff.” He lifted his portable phone as if submitting evidence. “I caught him on the phone at his golf course clubhouse. He had an eight o'clock tee time.”

“Country club member?”

“Yep. Conroe, Texas. North of Houston.”

“I know where Conroe is.”

“I've got a one thirty flight booked to Houston. I'll interview Biggerstaff this afternoon.”

“What do we know about him?”

“He's an entrepreneur and an inventor. His company manufactures some kind of drilling equipment.”

“Oil patch?”

“I don't know if he makes patches or what, but I'll find out.”

“You do that, Slick. By the way,
oil patch
is slang for the oil field.”

“Oh.” Mel grabbed his pen and scribbled something down on his notepad. “What about the autopsy on our supposed suicide?”

Hooley stood. “Doc Brewster's waiting on us right now over at the county morgue.”

The phone rang. Reluctantly, Hooley answered it: “Captain Johnson.”

“
Hooley, it's Dolph
.”

“Good mornin', Governor. I'm gonna put you on speakerphone. I've got Special Agent Doolittle here with me.” He pushed a button and put the phone in the speaker cradle.

“Congratulations to both of you. I hear you solved the case.”

“Who told you that hogwash? We found a body and a note, but it's all fishy.”

“I'm going to ask you for a favor.”

Hooley looked at Mel. “Aw, shit,” he growled, under his breath.

“Make a statement to the press. Make it look like the case is closed.”

“Dolph, you know we can't do that.”

“I didn't say close the case. I said make it look like the case is closed. Put an end to this serial-killer hysteria. It's bad for Texas.”

Hooley sighed. “I've got to go to an autopsy briefing, Governor. I'll do what I can for you.”

“It's the right thing to do, Hooley. What if some copy-cat nut wanted in on the publicity?”

“That's far-fetched, but I guess it's possible. We'll see what Doc Brewster says about the autopsy. Maybe we can give the press just enough information to calm the public.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

“Have a splendid day, Governor.” Hooley pushed the button and hung the phone back on the hook. He looked at Mel. “All those hysterical sorority girls have rich daddies and a lot of 'em contribute to political campaigns.”

“How often does he call you?”

“Doesn't your boss ever call you?”

“Jimmy Carter?”

“Yeah.”

“Not yet.”

“How would you know? He might be trying to ring that spy phone of yours right now.”

“It works here,” Mel said defensively. “I just put a call into Samantha. By the way, she got the faxed image of the suicide note and said the print appears to match the type on Harbaugh's typewriter, but the lab needs the actual note to be sure.”

Hooley raised his eyebrows. “No shit? The spy phone actually works here in the building?”

“Yeah, it works fine.”

“Humph. Really?”

Mel nodded with some authority. “It's got a great signal here.”

Hooley reached for his hat on the rack. “You ready to go over to the morgue and talk to Doc Brewster?”

“Sure.”

“All right, but first we're gonna put that phone of yours to use.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just follow me.” Hooley left his office and turned toward the front desk of D.P.S. headquarters. Ahead, in the hallway, he saw a fellow Texas Ranger step out of a doorway, and braced himself for trouble. He was pretty sure Ranger J. D. Barlow was a clansman in his spare time.