A Song to Die For (42 page)

“Stress,” Tump corrected.

Metro shrugged.

“No, you don't understand,” Trusty Joe blubbered. “It's a metaphor. I don't want this to ever end!” Huge sobs came from his shuttering chest.

“Oh, that is so sweet.” Lindsay rose to give Trusty a hug, her arms outstretched as she approached him.

But Trusty's sobbing suddenly turned to gagging and he slammed the bathroom door, which failed to fully hide the hideous sounds of his pizza-and-beer retching from within.

“Why is it every time I go to likin' him, he goes to pukin'?” Lindsay asked, her arms still open for the undelivered hug.

Luster got up and hollered through the bathroom door. “Be careful of the beer!”

Creed rose from the bed, sensing an end to the party. “I've got to get up early and fix the bus,” he muttered. To his astonishment, Kathy sprang to her feet with him.

“I was hoping we'd shove off early,” she said. “I've got so much work to do. Good night, everybody!”

“
Turn out the lights, the party's over
,” Tump sang in a baritone growl.

Luster shot an accusing glare at him. “I thought you said you couldn't sing and you could prove it!”

“I just did.”

“The hell you say, that sounded pretty good. Didn't you think so, Lindsay?”

Lindsay put her finger to her chin thoughtfully. “It sounded like Johnny Cash making fun of Kris Kristofferson.”

“We're gonna give you a microphone from now on,” Luster promised. “Everybody likes Kristofferson and Cash.”

“Cash never hurt my feelings,” Tump agreed.

Creed shook his head as he stepped out of the room, followed closely by Kathy. They turned down the outdoor walkway toward their respective rooms, which were only a few doors apart. In any other situation, Creed would have reached for her hand by now, or wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Awkward. He saw her trying to warm her bare arms with her own palms.

“I wish I had a jacket to offer you,” he said.

She shrugged. “We're almost to my room.” She took her key from her pocket.

They were strolling very slowly. Creed took in a deep breath. “The smell of pines here reminds me of home.”

“Aromas are powerful memory makers,” she purred. “Did you know I grew up in the country?”

“No, I didn't. Where 'bouts?”

“Far from the pines,” she said. “Outside of Seguin. Flatland farm country. When I moved to the city, I never realized how much I missed that upbringing, until one day, driving out near Cedar Park, I smelled a skunk that someone had hit with a car. A skunk! Of all the aromas to take me back, I never would have dreamed a skunk would do it, but the memories of the country came flooding back to me with that odor. I missed my childhood home so much at that moment that I had to pull over and weep like Trusty Joe Crooke.”

Creed threw his head back and chuckled from his belly. “You didn't throw up, too, did you?”

She flashed him a smile. “Just a short cry.”

They stopped in front of her door. Neither spoke for a moment. Creed looked at her face in the pale, fluorescent glow from a parking lot security light. Her eyelashes rose like stage curtains and her gaze met his. She was astonishingly desirable.

“I'm kind of like Trusty right now, myself. I don't want this to ever end. But, in a way…”

“You do want it to end?”

“No. Not at all, but…”

“What?”

“At moments like this—just you and me—it's frustrating.”

Bashfully, she lowered her gaze to the concrete walk. “I know. I don't want you to think I'm that kind of girl, but I would have invited you in already. I mean, if things were different. If we didn't work together.”

“Hell of a sacrifice to make for a damned ol' band, huh?”

She smiled. “I don't want to be the one to mess this up, and I know you don't, either. Let's just do our jobs, and see what happens.”

He held his hand out to her, more as if to propose to her than to shake. She switched her room key from right to left and took his hand.

“Good night, Miss Music.”

“Good night, Creed,” she sighed.

He couldn't help bowing to kiss the back of her hand, then he turned quickly away and walked to his own room where he would lie awake for some time, wondering if he should go back and knock on her door, or call her room, or … No, he had left it—whatever it was—in its proper place.

 

44

CHAPTER

The next morning, up under the back of the bus, tightening down the fuel filter housing with a ratchet wrench, Creed heard footsteps and voices approaching the bus. He soon made out the familiar voices of Tump and Lindsay.

“So,” Tump was saying. “What are you doing tonight?”

“I have plans.”

Creed heard them loading their bags into the open luggage compartment near the back of the bus.

“I was hoping we could have a repeat performance of last night.”

“That will never happen again, Tump. You caught me at a weak moment.”

“There's a saying where I come from:
Once you go black, you'll never go back
.”

She laughed. “There's a saying where I come from, too:
If you ever go white, it's just overnight.
”

Suddenly, Creed's frustration overwhelmed him, and he came scrambling out from under the bus, oil and gravel all over him, the ratchet wrench still in his fist. He found Lindsay and Tump quite shocked to see him.

“Now listen here!” he lectured, as he rose to his feet. “I'm making sacrifices for this band. Big sacrifices. You two are not allowed to mess this up if I'm not!”

“Easy now, Creed, honey, we were just two ships passing in the night.”

“Yeah,” Tump added. “You wouldn't even know about it if you hadn't been eavesdropping.”

Creed shook the tool at Tump. “I was fixing the bus!” He threw the wrench down and stalked away to his room to shower and pack.

*   *   *

That afternoon, pulling up to the ranch house, the band members went their separate ways with their pay, with orders to meet back at Luster's ranch on Wednesday for rehearsals and more writing sessions. Trusty Joe went to the barn to visit Baldy. Kathy gave Creed a wave and left to get photos developed. After the long drive, Creed was ready for a beer, and accepted Luster's invitation to drink a few brews on the patio.

First, Luster had to check in with Virginia, taking two beers with him to her grave. Holding his hat in his hand over her headstone, apparently telling her all about the Houston show, he finished his beers, and carried the empties back to the house.

“I'll be right with you, Hoss, I'm gonna check the phone machine.”

“All right, Boss.” After the long and loud weekend, Creed reveled in the silence of the patio overlooking Onion Creek. He sat there, enjoying the feel of the cold beer pouring down his throat and into his stomach. He thought about his longing for Kathy, the power of the band on the big Houston stage, the gall of Dixie. The rush of Onion Creek seemed to shush all his worries. He felt pretty good, all things considered.

“Hoss,” Luster said, sticking his head out of the house. “You better come listen to these messages. Bring me a beer from the icebox.”

Creed entered Luster's den, saw him push the button on the Code-A-Phone device. He tossed the legend a beer. The static gave way to a beep, followed by the messages:

“Luster. Nigel. I've got the tapes at the studio. Smashing stuff, old man! I shall have this mixed and mastered by the end of the week. Cheerio!”

“Cool,” Creed said.

“That's the good news. The next one's from Gordy. I recognize his voice.”

The machine beeped again.

“
I heard you won big in Sugar Land, you ol' rascal! Hey, there's somethin' fishy goin' on. Somebody bought your markers from me. So I called around. The same somebody's bought all your gambling debts from New Mexico to Louisiana. That somebody's name is Josh Gold. Sound familiar? I thought you should know, but you didn't hear it from me.
”

“What the hell?”

“It gets stranger,” Luster warned.

Beep!

“You remember me, you son-of-a-bitch?”
The accent was from one of those New York boroughs, maybe Queens or Brooklyn.
“You shot me in the ass with a forty-five in 'fifty-seven!”
Rasping laughter.
“I heard you were making a comeback. I own a piece of The Castilian, the biggest casino in Las Vegas. I bought all your markers so I own you now. But I'll make you a deal, big shot. You and your band play two nights at The Castilian, and we'll call it even. Rooms and meals on me. National publicity. You can promote your new live album. You really don't have a choice. Be here Friday.”

A seed of sickness in the pit of Creed's stomach began to replace the good buzz from the weekend. “How'd he know about the live album?”

“Keep listening.”

Beep!

“Luster, my hero. This is Dixie-Baby. You naughty boy! You are a sneaky one, you ol' fox!”
She giggled drunkenly
. “You recorded an album through my mixer at the Houston concert. According to my silly ol' record company lawyers, that means I own the masters to the album. So…”

There was an excruciatingly long pause, then Creed heard the sound of ice cubes tinkling in a glass of something. Dixie gulped and gasped.

“… Oh, I'm sure we can work something out. But you have to bring your band to Vegas this weekend. I have a gig for you. Two nights at The Castilian. You'll be opening for me. My manager already called your agent. Pack your bags for Vegas, baby!”

As the message ended, Creed put his elbows on Luster's desktop and let his face fall into his palms. He thought he might puke like Trusty. “Dixie,” he growled.

“Don't worry about her, Hoss. She's a lightweight compared to me. I can handle her.”

“She's gonna try to steal you from your own band.”

“You have my word of honor as a southern gentleman that I won't let that happen. Hey, this ain't a bad deal, Creed. I'm gonna clear my gambling debts. We're gonna announce the new album. The band is still on salary, so why would they care? We're gonna play Vegas, Hoss! So Dixie owns a chunk of the album. So what?”

“So she can name her own price.”

“I'm a horse trader and a gambler from way back, stud. I'll tell her we can always just cut the album over again, at some other gig.”

“Yeah, but there was some kind of powerful vibe in the air at that show. We were
on
, in a real raw kind of way.”

“The power is with the band, Hoss, not the venue. We did it once. We can do it again. Anyway, I'm confident I can cut a deal with that little lush, Dixie.”

“Don't underestimate her. She's a world-class manipulator.”

“And I'm a world-class badass! You worry too much. Now, what we need is about five hundred sample copies of the new album for the press. I'll make a few calls, and the casino will be crawling with all kinds of hacks and critics. Newspaper, radio, TV.”

“Whoa, Boss, how are we gonna get five hundred discs by Friday?”

“Hell, today's only Monday. We start by lighting a fire under Nigel's ass. Then we slap a picture of the band on the album cover and go to press.”

Creed loved the way Luster could simplify almost any issue. “Where are you gonna press that many discs in four days?”

“I know a guy in Nashville who can press five hundred overnight, and another guy who will fly them to Vegas for us. I'll put Kathy on it. The little gal is a miracle worker.”

Creed was rubbing his brow, mulling this thing over, when the phone rang. Luster picked it up.

“Hello,” he said. He listened for a moment, then looked up at Creed. “It's Kathy. She's at Tomahawk.” Luster pointed the receiver toward Creed. Across the room he could hear her shrill cheerleader voice, clearly enraptured:

“
We're going to Vegas! We're going to Vegas!”

 

45

CHAPTER

The guard recognized Franco's Cobra and scurried to swing open the driveway gate to Papa Martini's high-walled Las Vegas estate. He ignored the guard's nervous welcoming gesture and parked in the shade of a palm tree. Stepping out, he breathed in the dry desert air, a welcome contrast to the humidity of Texas.

He had driven home Sunday through Tuesday, slept in till almost noon this morning. It was Wednesday afternoon now, and he had been summoned to Papa's house for a meeting. Damn, it was good to be home! He felt great walking through the familiar entryway, down the hall to Papa's office.

Stepping in, he saw Papa with a drink in his hand, and a cigarette hanging from his lips, listening to some bullshit story by that blowhard, Josh Gold—everybody called him “Goldie.”

“Pop!” he said, interrupting the story. “The smokes! Jesus! What did your doctor tell you?”

“Franco!” Papa set the drink down to bear hug his son. “You look like shit!”

“I've been in Texas—chicken-fried hell.”

Goldie laughed like the buffoon that he was. “Texas,
sheesh
! That place was almost the death of me, boy, I tell you!”

Franco looked disdainfully at his father's old flunky. He never understood why his father liked the two-bit collector so much. Franco made it his business to know everyone's background in the inner circle. Back in his youth, Joshua Goldstein had been one of those Jewish brawlers from the Lower East Side—a tough thug with more ambition than brains. Not much on religion, Joshua Goldstein became Josh Gold and parted ways with the Jewish mob, throwing his allegiance over to La Cosa Nostra, where he soon became known as “Goldie.”

One of his first assignments was to organize a protection racket in Dallas that came to a humiliating end when some redneck Texas club owner shot him up in a parking lot gunfight. Goldie had been reassigned to Vegas, where he had proven useful over the years as a closely supervised collector. Papa seemed to find Goldie's loud mouth highly entertaining, but it always grated on Franco, as did the fact that Goldie seemed to have no fear of him.