A Song to Die For (39 page)

The eyes of all the pickers turned toward their recording engineer.

“Right. Well, indeed.” He looked at his wristwatch. “I've just returned from dinner, so let me know when you take the stage, and I'll go push the record button.”

A sickening silence sucked all the joy out of the bus.

“No…” Tump warned, in a homicidal tone of voice.

“Kidding!” Nigel sang. “I've got it all on tape! Every marvelous note!”

Elation imploded tenfold into the Silver Eagle as Luster playfully shook his fist at the foreigner. Trusty tossed Nigel a brew.

“Oh, lovely. American beer. How quaint. In an al-you-MEN-ium can, no less.”

“In America, that's aLUminum,” Tump instructed.

“Isn't that what I said? Al-you-MEN-ium?”

“Hey, you're in Texas now,” Metro chided. “Speak Spanish!
Cerveza in aluminio.
Just drink it, man!”

Nigel opened the can. “All right. Hip-hip and all that rot! To the best live album I've ever recorded!”

As the happy conversation filled the bus once more, Kathy stepped closer to Creed.

“You did a great job getting the band ready,” she said. “And you played some amazing licks up there.” She forced a smile.

“Thanks. But you booked the gig.”

She nodded. “We've got a good team going here. I hope nobody messes it up.”

“Me, too.”

“I mean, certainly not you or me, but…”

“No, not us, of course. What would we do to mess it up? It's these other yahoos who worry me.”

She nodded, glancing over the happy busload. “I hope the Sid situation doesn't become a problem. And I don't know how you pulled Trusty through. I thought he was going to have a heart attack before you gave him a pep talk.”

“I didn't realize you knew I had talked to him.”

“I don't miss much, Creed.”

He grinned. “I'm learning that.”

“So … the flasher backstage in the lingerie…”

He nodded. “Dixie.”

“I thought that was her, but I wasn't sure without all the hairspray and makeup. Not to mention the lack of her usual push-up bra.”

“Yeah” was all he could think of as a reply.

“She's jealous of you, you know. Professionally, I mean.”

He chuckled. “I don't think so.” He opened his arms as if to present the beat-up bus that The Pounders somehow kept rolling down the road. “What would she be jealous of?”

“Luster. You're the architect of his comeback. That has all kinds of country music credibility attached to it. You've got Luster, and now she wants him.”

“Well, she can't have him.”

“Let me make a prediction. She's going to offer Luster a touring deal. You'll be part of it at first, then she'll dump you like she did before, along with The Pounders, and claim the credit for Luster's comeback herself.”

“How long have you been in the music business?” he asked, as if he didn't know.

“I've been in the money business long enough to see greed in someone's eyes. I saw the way she flirted with you, and I saw the way she looked at Luster. No offense, Creed, but she wants Luster more than she wants you.”

“Luster won't go for that. He loves this band.”

Kathy laughed. “He won't know what hit him! He's a man. She'll wrap him around her pinkie quicker than he can tune a G string. And, by
pinkie
, I don't necessarily mean her little finger.”

Creed thought he might actually be blushing. “I'll warn him, but I don't think she'll make a move to take over the whole comeback.”

At that moment, a stranger stepped into the open door of the bus. Creed recognized him as the bodyguard he had seen outside Dixie's bus.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Mr. Burnett?”

“What can we do for you, son?” Luster said, opening another beer can.

“Dixie Houston would like to invite you to sing a duet with her during her show.”

Creed grunted as Kathy elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“Really? Well, that's a nice offer, but what would we do?”

“One of your old standards. She knows several of them. And which one of you is Creed?”

“That would be me.”

The bodyguard glanced at him. “Dixie wants you to do that one hit the two of you recorded together. I forget the name of it.”

“
‘Written in the Dust.'”

“Right. Can I tell her yes? She doesn't like to take no for an answer.”

“I don't know,” Creed said.

Kathy stuck her hand out, demanding a handshake from the bodyguard. “I'm the band manager. Tell Dixie they'd be glad to perform with her.”

“Good. Thanks.” The bodyguard nodded and left.

“Free publicity,” Kathy explained to Luster.

“Wow,” Metro said, nudging Luster on the shoulder. “A duo with Dixie. She's fine, man!
Masota!
”

“You sure this is a good idea?” Creed said to Kathy as the chatter returned to the bus.

“Just pay attention. I want you to see what she has up her satin sleeve. Don't fall for it, Creed. You and I have to hold this band together. I really don't want to go back to doing other people's taxes.”

*   *   *

The bodyguard came back and explained the plan to Creed and Luster. Dixie was going to kick off with five of her hottest songs. On the sixth song, Creed was to join her onstage for “Written in the Dust.” The seventh song would be the duet with Luster.

Darkness had fallen by the time Dixie took the stage. Strobe lights, black lights, and moving spotlights, some in vibrant colors, cast unnatural hues on the faces of the fans. Creed and Luster arrived backstage. Luster peeked out at the crowd.

“This ain't like any country show I ever played,” he said.

“It's basically a rock concert with a little twang,” Creed replied.

As the time approached, Creed was waiting in the wings, stage right, like he had been told. Dixie was shaking her ass at the crowd, making the redneck boys howl like wolves. She wore red hot pants and high-heeled cowboy boots, a sequined pink spaghetti strap top and a lavender cowgirl hat. Borrowing a bit from Tina Turner, she started gyrating through some choreography, flanked by two dancers of exactly the same size and build as Dixie herself, dressed all in pink so Dixie's scarlet hue would stand out.

Toward the end of the fifth song, she threw her lavender hat out into the audience, creating a fistfight between two frat boys, each of whom wanted the hat for his girl. Meanwhile, Dixie's hair, which had been stuffed up under the hat, now fell to her shoulders, and she shook it out in a move she had stolen from Janis Joplin.

When the fifth song ended, Dixie took a break to swill a vodka and tonic. Dabbing sweat away from her brow, she stepped up the mic. “Anybody ever heard of a song called ‘Written in the Dust'?” she asked.

The rhythm player started the intro. Dixie turned to Creed and beckoned with a seductive curl of her finger. “Come here, hotshot!” she purred.

“Oh, God…” Creed muttered, already embarrassed by the shenanigans. As he walked into a spotlight, the stage manager handed him a microphone. He happened to look beyond Dixie and saw Kathy standing beside Luster, shaking her head in disgust. He joined Dixie and began singing.

It was like the old show from the old days, when Dixie would rub herself all over him while they sang. Except now, Creed had no guitar to hold, and didn't know what the hell to do with his hands. Out of his element in this dog-and-pony show, he felt awkward and foolish, especially knowing that Kathy was watching.

Still, it was showbiz, so Creed made the best of it, and sang his parts as well as ever. The harmonies sounded pretty good, though Dixie was so winded from all her shaking and grinding that she couldn't hold the notes out very long.

Thankfully, the former hit came to a merciful end. Dixie moved away from him and said, “Boys and girls, I wrote that song and recorded it with this man.”

He took a little bow as she gestured toward him. Wait a minute! Did she just say
she
wrote the song?

“You know him now as the guitar player for the great, the legendary…”

As she turned left, Creed's spotlight shut down. In the dark, someone took his microphone away from him and pulled him offstage.

“… the one and only Luster Burnett!”

The spot hit full on the icon and the crowd went wild with adulation. As Luster and Dixie began their duet, Creed felt his mouth still hanging open.

Kathy, having walked around backstage, stepped up beside Creed.

“Did she get anything on you?”

“About a pint of perfume,” he admitted.

“Yeah, and a gallon of chagrin. I thought you wrote ‘Written in the Dust.'”

“I did.” His embarrassment was transmogrifying into anger.

“She never even mentioned your name onstage.”

“Too winded from shakin' her ass, I guess.”

“She's hell-bent on putting the cunt in country music, that's for sure.”

They stood and listened as Luster and Dixie traded verses on one of the old hits Luster had given away the rights to years ago. Now she was hanging on the legend. Not rubbing up on him as she had done with Creed, but draping herself on him rather luxuriously. Luster seemed to be enjoying the hell out of it.

At the end of the song, Luster took a glorious bow to outrageous applause.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dixie announced, “let the world know that Dixie Houston is bringing Luster Burnett back to country music fans, beginning right here, in Houston, Texas!”

Creed glanced at Kathy's I-told-you-so expression. “Okay, so you were right,” he allowed.

“Maybe I shouldn't have booked this gig after all,” Kathy moaned.

“Luster won't quit us for her. He's got too much integrity. Think about the live album we cut. You were right to book this show.”

Dixie threw Luster a kiss as he walked offstage. “You'll be seeing more of Luster Burnett soon, on tour with Dixie, baby!”

“Does she always talk about herself in the third person?” Kathy said.

“Past, present, and future tense.” He felt Kathy's hand slip around his arm. When he looked at her, he saw regret in her honest eyes.

“I'm sorry I made you do the song with her, Creed. You deserve better than that.”

He shrugged, feeling his temper cool a little. “I guess I needed the reminder.”

She smiled, and tossed her head toward the other side of the stage. “Come on, we better get over there and reclaim our legend.”

 

40

CHAPTER

Franco was already fuming with frustration when he found the stadium and saw the lights from the concert. He had had no idea Houston was so far away from Austin. He thought Nevada was spread out. How big was this freakin' state? On top of all that, he had gotten stuck in no fewer than three traffic jams. He knew the concert would be almost over by now, and that Luster Burnett's band had already performed hours ago. Not that he cared to see any of these hicks play their music, but he had hoped to hear the band leader introduce the band members, so he could get a look at Charles Biggerstaff, Jr.—the guy with stupid stage name.

Still, he wasn't giving up. He would get backstage somehow, snoop around, ask some questions. The parking spaces near the stadium were all taken. He had to park a mile away and trot to the venue. The headline band was still playing. He had heard on the car radio that the headliner at the concert was Dixie what's-her-name. Franco wasn't a country music fan, but even he knew who Dixie was. She had a knack for attracting media attention.

Once he got to the stadium, he gravitated toward the backstage area, looking through a high chain-link fence at the band buses and tractor-trailer rigs that hauled the sound equipment around. He continued to prowl this perimeter until he found a guarded gate where roadies and venue personnel were coming and going. Each wore a laminated pass on a lanyard around his neck.

Gotta get a pass, Franco reasoned. He saw a guy with a press pass and a Nikon camera around his neck leaving the secure area through the guarded gate. Scrawny guy. Easy take-down. The guy was engrossed in a notepad as he walked into the parking lot. Probably a newspaper photographer with a deadline. Franco smirked. This guy was going to miss his deadline. This was going to feel pretty good. He could take his anger out on this shutterbug.

The poor bastard's Volkswagen Bug was parked in a dark spot in the lot. As the clueless photographer slipped his key into the door lock, Franco skulked up right behind him, checking over both shoulders for witnesses, finding none. “Excuse me,” he said.

As the journalist turned, Franco broke his nose with a quick left jab and jacked his jaw with a right cross. The victim was out before he hit the asphalt beside the Volkswagen. Back in the stadium, the band ended a song and the crowd roared. Feeling clever, Franco took a bow.

Working the lanyard off around the blood from the photographer's nose, Franco tossed it on top of the car. He opened the unlocked door and muscled the little unconscious guy into the Volkswagen, slamming the door on him. He took the camera the victim had dropped. The notepad, too. He was a photographer with a press pass now.

The guard at the backstage gate looked at the press pass and nodded at Franco. He entered the compound and began to stroll around. The fancy buses caught his attention. He walked up to one with an open door.

“Yeah?” said a bodyguard.

“Looking for Luster Burnett's band.”

“Not this bus, buddy.” He pointed. “That old piece of shit parked down yonder.”

“Thanks.” Franco turned away. Had he actually said
yonder
? Hicks. He approached the antique bus, finding its door open, too. No security. He looked inside, finding the band members laughing, throwing back beers.

“Can we help you?” an attractive young woman asked.