A Song to Die For (43 page)

“Son, you want a whiskey?”

“Sure, Pop.”

Papa snapped his fingers at Goldie, who hopped over to the bar and poured one on the rocks, delivering it dutifully to Franco. They all sat down in plush leather chairs facing one another.

“Franco, you're looking at the new front man for The Castilian,” Papa said, gesturing toward the proud Josh Gold.

“You're shittin' me.”

Goldie laughed.

“You've heard the story of Goldie in Dallas. How some club owner shot the hell out of him for trying to sell protection.”

“Yeah,” Franco said, sipping the bourbon. “That looks real good on the ol' résumé, huh Goldie?”

“Well,” Papa continued, “the guy who shot him was none other than Luster Burnett.”

Franco swallowed a gulp of fine bourbon. He took in the information, and began to nod. Now he understood why Papa had elevated Josh to the status of front man for The Castilian. “Now I get it. I knew there had to be a reason.”

“Here's the deal,” Papa said, his voice switching to his no-bullshit business mode. “I gave Goldie enough dough to buy up Burnett's gambling markers. Now Goldie has leverage. Better still, that country singer, Dixie Tits-and-Ass called the number you gave her. You were right about her. She's got pull on Burnett.”

“Dixie called?”

Papa smirked at Franco. “Yeah, while you were driving home. What, you got a hard-on for the hick chick?”

Franco shrugged. “Some of that might be fun for the weekend, you know? So, the plan is to get Dixie to get Burnett to The Castilian, so we can deal with our problem?”

“It's already done. We just got the signed contracts from the agents on the fax machine. Both bands will be here day after tomorrow. Burnett's playing Friday and Saturday, opening for Dixie T-and-A. Friday, everything looks normal, so the band relaxes, everybody has a good time.”

“I'm gonna bury the hatchet with Luster,” Goldie said. “We're gonna become best pals.”

“What happens Saturday?” Franco asked, ignoring Goldie.

“After the show on Saturday, Goldie takes the guy with the stupid stage name for a ride to the ranch for a horticulture lesson.”

“Whore to what?” Goldie said.

“Tree planting, you imbecile. If anything goes wrong, Goldie has agreed to take the fall. But, hey, what could go wrong? These pukes are musicians. They don't have a clue.”

“I'll handle the plans,” Franco said, “and I want it planned out to the split second. You answer to me, Goldie, and if you don't,
you'll
be root fertilizer,
capice
?”

“Sure,” Goldie said. “Ain't I always a good soldier?”

“This gives us a day to prepare,” Franco said, getting to his feet, excited about the prospect of putting the entire Rosa problem to rest for good. “On Friday, we'll figure out what makes this Biggerstaff punk tick. Girls, gambling, drugs, fags … whatever. We'll find the right bait to lure the son-of-a-bitch in on Saturday.”

“I'm on it,” Goldie blurted.

Franco downed the rest of his whiskey. “Let's get down to The Castilian to look things over. Goldie, you're driving. We'll take the limo.”

“You got it, boss.”

As Goldie marched out of the office and turned toward the garage, Papa Martini abruptly doubled over in a fit of coughing.

“Jesus, Pop, if you want to live to see us clean this mess up, you've got to cut back on the coffin nails!”

Papa nodded his agreement as he reached for his smokes.

*   *   *

An Associated Press entertainment writer had been following Dixie Houston on tour, and had written a piece about Luster's comeback. It came out in the Sunday edition of newspapers all over the country, particularly in cities across the South, and as far west as the
Austin American-Statesman
. In the article, the writer made the assumption that Luster had intentionally acquired an antique bus to make a statement:

“… even the 1961 Silver Eagle bus that transports Luster Burnett and The Pounders to their shows speaks to their mission of taking country-western music back to a more honest and humble time when the songs were written and performed by men and women who had actually pushed a plow or busted a bronc.”

“I like that,” Luster said to Creed over coffee, pointing out the photo of the old bus in the paper. “That bus is part of our image now. We've got to drive that thing to Vegas.” He looked at Creed as he tossed the newspaper aside on the kitchen counter. “Do you think it will make it?”

“I'll make it make it,” Creed promised.

So now, two days later, motoring through El Paso on Interstate 10, Luster asked Creed to turn south on U.S. 85.

“Get on Stanton Street and we can cross the river into Ciudad Juarez. There's a good restaurant over there called El Herradero de Soto. And this way, we can claim we're international.”

“You want me to
drive
across?”

“Sure, I do it all the time.”

“In a bus?”

“It's only ninety-six inches wide!”

“Where are we gonna park?”

“At the motel where I always stay. They know me there.”

“What brings you to Juarez on such a regular basis, Boss?” Creed shot a knowing glance at Luster.

“Poker.”

“That's what I thought.” Creed looked into the mirror aimed back at the bus interior. “Anybody got any contraband in here?” he shouted. “They're liable to search us coming back into the States.”

“Metro and I smoked the last of ours in Austin,” Tump said.

“Where is Metro?” Luster demanded.

“Asleep in his bunk. Don't worry about him. He's clean as a fifth grader.”

“These days you don't even know about the fifth graders,” Luster complained. “Exit here, Hoss, and that'll take us to the Stanton Street Bridge.”

Creed motored across the Rio Grande and followed Luster's directions down the narrow streets to the parking lot of the motel where he said he liked to stay.

Tump woke Metro.

“Where are we?” the drummer said, rubbing his eyes as he stepped off the bus.

“Ciudad Juarez,” Luster announced, coming back from the motel office with permission to park there.

“
Chingado
!” Metro hissed. “Nobody told me we were going to Mexico! I'm wanted in Mexico, man!”

“For what?” Creed demanded.

“You don't want to know, dude. Anyway, how am I supposed to get back across the border? I don't have a U.S. ID!”

“Wait a minute,” Creed said. “The day we hired you, I asked you if you were a citizen.”

“I
am
a citizen. Of
Mexico
!”

“Oh, great,” Kathy said.

Tump began to laugh. “Y'all figure this one out. I'm going to get a beer at The Kentucky Bar.” He sauntered toward a line of taxis waiting at the edge of Chamizal Park.

“Good idea. Maybe we can drink you legal, son.” Luster followed Tump up the dirty street, past stores painted in sundry pastel shades. “A tough problem is always easier to solve after a couple of cold ones.”

Two hours later, after beers and steaks, the band decided to hide Metro in his own kick drum case in the luggage compartment in the belly of the bus. He could just curl up inside it. They took the drum itself aboard the bus and hid it in one of the bunks under some pillows and blankets.

Luckily, the ranking Border Patrol guard at the bridge turned out to be a Luster Burnett fan, and called off a search of the bus in exchange for an autograph. A few miles outside of El Paso, Creed pulled over at a Stuckey's where they could sneak Metro out of the drum case, out of sight in a corner of the parking lot. Metro cussed them all up and down, but none of them minded much, since they didn't understand most of the Spanish cuss words anyway.

Back on the road, Creed and Trusty Joe took turns driving, while the rest of the guys in the band drank beer and napped. Kathy and Lindsay spent some quality girl time together, becoming quite chummy. Creed worried about Tump, who had acquired a bottle of whiskey somewhere. He hadn't seen the bass player stay this intoxicated this long since the band formed. On the other hand, he stopped worrying over Trusty Joe, who seemed to have found some peace, as if he had come to an epiphany of some kind. No more sobbing or vomiting. His voice sounded calm, and he proved a good hand behind the wheel of the bus. Maybe he had learned to think of himself astraddle of ol' Baldy when his nerves got rattled.

The old bus drank a lot of diesel fuel, and the band fund quickly diminished. Still, it looked as if they might have just enough cash to get to Vegas. Most of the musicians had long since spent their Houston wages on past-due bills, drinking binges, loans to other broke musicians, pawnshop settlements, overdue car repairs, drum sticks and guitar strings. Now that Metro's nationality had been established, he bragged that he had sent almost all his money to his family in Mexico. Trusty Joe lamented that he had had to send most of his to his divorce lawyer.

Then, while driving north on I-25, Creed felt an odd shudder in the bus. Instinctively, he eased his foot off the accelerator. His eye caught movement in the passing lane to his left. He looked and saw his own wheel roll past him, and knew that wasn't good. The wheel, rubber tire and all, sailed across the median into the oncoming lane, where luckily no vehicle traveled to meet it head-on.

“What was that?” Kathy said.

“Part of our bus,” he admitted. He noticed a mile marker on the right. “Remember mile one ninety-seven. We'll come back and find that wheel. The tire is still good.”

Since the Silver Eagle was still pushing up a slight incline, he reasoned that the wheel had flown off the tag axle instead of the drive axle. “I guess I should have repacked those bearings,” he muttered.

He limped along for several miles, then saw a truck stop up ahead with a repair shop. He coasted into the parking lot and found a mechanic named Gus.

“You're gonna need a new tag axle,” Gus said, staring at the missing wheel. “Lucky for you, I know where one is.”

“Where's that?”

“My brother-in-law's junkyard, up the road. There's an old Model Oh-One been there for years.”

“How old?”

“Old. But not ancient, like this one. I can fix it in about four hours. Cost you about two hundred dollars.”

“I'm not sure we have two hundred. What if I help you?” Creed offered.

“Then it'll cost three hundred. I like to work alone.”

Creed kept after the mechanic, reciting his mechanic's credentials as if applying for a job, and explaining that the bus belonged to his band, and they had to get to Vegas for a big show.

“Band?” Gus said. “Country?”

“Damn straight. Luster Burnett.”

“Thought he was dead.”

“No, he's making a comeback. That's him over there in the phone booth.” Creed pointed, wondering to whom Luster was speaking.

Gus squinted through the bright desert sunlight as he wiped grimy hands on his overalls. “Be damned. Reckon he'll sign me an autograph?”

“I guarantee he will. You come to the show in Vegas and he'll sign a copy of his new record and give you front-row seats.”

“Vegas?”

“The Castilian. Biggest casino in town.”

The mechanic mulled the deal over for a few seconds. “All right, then. Half price if you help.”

“Let's get after it.”

Luster strolled up then and Creed told him the deal he had worked out. The country legend shook the mechanic's greasy hand.

“I appreciate the special deal. Fuel prices are eatin' us up.” He glanced up at the two-foot-tall digits advertising the price of diesel at the truck stop pumps. “Thirty-nine cents a gallon! Did you ever imagine diesel going that high?”

“Nope. I'll get the jacks.” The mechanic ambled into the shop.

“Y'all reckon you'll be done by nine or so?” Luster asked.

“Yeah, probably,” Creed answered. “Why?”

“I got us a gig tonight for some road money.”

“Kind of short notice for a gig.”

“Hoss, me and Bob Wills are still big stars out here in the wild west. We'll draw a crowd.”

“How are you gonna get the word out in the next few hours?”

“There's an AM radio station in Albuquerque where I once did a live show. I already called them. I'm gonna stop in for an interview and they're gonna play my old records all afternoon long. They're even gonna play me on their FM sister station.”

“Where's the gig?”

“A bar up in the Manzanos called The Blarney Stone.” He gestured toward the mountains to the east. “I played there back in 'fifty-five. Or maybe it was 'fifty-seven. Anyway, I called them, too. We can play for the door and tips, plus grub and an unlimited bar tab.”

Creed grinned. “They're gonna take a bath on the bar tab.”

Luster chuckled. “Yeah. They got their own sound system, so we don't have to lug ours in.”

“Great,” Creed groaned, imagining some antiquated PA.

About then the mechanic came back out of the shop wheeling a heavy-duty hydraulic jack.

“You wouldn't have a loaner I could borrow, would you?” Luster asked.

Gus fished some keys out of his pocket. “You can take the shop truck,” he pointed to a Ford pickup parked nearby.

While Creed helped position the first jack under the drive axle, Luster and the band moved the instruments from the bus to the pickup. On his back under the Silver Eagle, he smirked at the band members' prattle:

“You ride in back, kid,” said Tump to Metro. “That way everything will look natural.”

“
Besa mi cula,
Tump.”

“Was that a racial stereotype?” Lindsay demanded. “It was, wasn't it?”

“I was just kiddin',” Tump said. “I'll ride in back.”