A Song to Die For (19 page)

“Yee-ha!” Trusty Joe yelled, apparently having the time of his life on the back of Ol' Baldy.

Having loaded the cattle, Creed went back to the barn and adjusted the mic for the auctioneer. Though a professional who knew how to work a mic, the auctioneer still didn't have the vocal projection skills of a Luster Burnett, and needed to be cranked up to be heard. Luster was gallivanting around with the supposed taxman. Lindsay was gone. Trusty Joe was taking a joy ride around the property on Baldy. Tump and Metro were off somewhere, smoking God-knows-what.

The auctioneer began the proceedings, working the crowd like an old pro with a couple of jokes, then rattling off his machine-gun pricing banter for the first item up for bids, a seventy-horse John Deere tractor.

Luster broke the hypnotic trance that the auctioneer had cast over Creed: “Hey, Creed, meet Sid. Sid … uh…”

“Sid Larue,” said the man in the gray suit and the fat blue tie. “I'm a big, big country music fan. Man, I
begged
for this assignment. Got my own country band back home. We play your hit, ‘Written in the Dust.'”

“Oh, great…” Creed said, trying to force a smile.

“Sid's gonna do his best to help me out of this little bind my late manager got me into,” Luster said, slapping the tax hound on the back.

“We all are,” Creed said.

“Hey, listen! That old tractor just went for two grand!”

Larue smirked. “That's the first drop in a very big bucket. This auction money will help me hold off the vultures upstairs for a while, but what I'm interested in is the band. When do you guys play?”

“Right after the auction,” Luster said.

Larue looked at his wristwatch and frowned. “I don't have that much time. Can you play now?”

“Now? Sure!” Luster said.

“Uh, how about if we get the auctioneer to take a midway break,” Creed suggested, thinking of Lindsay's trip home for a wardrobe change. “He just got warmed up.”

Larue looked at his watch again. He shrugged. “Okay. Mr. Burnett, show me around the house and the grounds. I'll get my camera.”

Larue headed for his car, and Creed grabbed Luster by the sleeve.

“Stall,” he said. “Lindsay went home to change.”

“She what?” Luster rolled his eyes. “I knew a girl in the band was trouble!”

“Remember what worries you, though? I mean, what
really
worries you?”

Luster's glare softened, and he smiled. “Thanks for reminding me. Not a cotton pickin' thing.” He joined the taxman, put his hand around Larue's shoulder, and began showing him the grounds with the old Luster Burnett charm.

*   *   *

An hour later, Luster could stall no more. Larue demanded to hear the band. Lindsay still had not returned. The auctioneer called for an intermission, and introduced the great Luster Burnett. A crowd of a couple hundred auction attendees managed a smattering of applause and turned curiously toward the stage.

Luster addressed the crowd as if he were back at the Grand Ol' Opry: “Ladies and gentlemen, the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated!” He waited for the ripple of laughter to pass. “Seriously, I want to thank you all for turning out on such a beautiful spring day to help me celebrate the first day of my comeback in the music business…”

“What are we gonna kick with?” Tump said in a stage whisper.

“Lindsay's not back, so we'll let Trusty kick it with ‘Dear John Note.'”

“I gotta kick it?” Trusty Joe complained. “I'm shakin' like a leaf.”

Creed looked out through the barn door and saw Ol' Baldy at the hitching rail. “Just imagine you're back in the saddle on Ol' Baldy,” he suggested. “Fix your eyes on him, and just do it. Metro will click the tempo for you.”

Trusty Joe took a deep breath. Looking as if he might burst into tears at any moment, he said, “This one's for you, Baldy!”

Tump and Metro looked at each other, concern mixed with disgust.

“… so we're going to kick off our worldwide tour right here and right now,” Luster said, “with one of my old standards. I'm sure you'll recognize this one! Kick it, boys!”

As Metro clicked his sticks together, Creed saw Lindsay's Chevy winding through the pecan orchard. A teary-eyed Trusty Joe Crooke, his gaze fixed on Baldy, stroked off a perfect pickup riff with his fiddle bow, and the rest of the band, sans steel guitar, fell into the intro like a machine.

Luster turned to Creed, his wild eyes betraying his fake smile. “I thought we were going to kick with ‘Old Coyote.'”

Creed faked his own smile back. “Lindsay's not here, Boss. Trusty had to kick it. We'll play the intro again.” He palmed his guitar pick and made a circle in the air with his trigger finger, signaling the band to repeat the intro so Luster could get his head around the right song.

“How about this band!” Luster said, stalling. The crowd clapped dutifully. Then came time for the singer to sing, and that godlike voice pierced the dusty barnyard air, rattled the rafters with deep baritone vibes, and melded the silly gawks of onlookers into expressions of astonishment. Not satisfied to simply strum, Luster windmilled his guitar with a flailing right arm, threw his head back, and without any vocal warm-up, other than the first verse, belted out that note in the chorus that soared an octave and a half above the verse.

And now Creed knew. Luster had been holding back in rehearsal. Creed only
thought
he had heard the legend sing. He had been saving that edge for an audience—his first in fifteen years. He smiled through the chills that shot up and down his spine. He glanced at the players in the band, and found them as wide-eyed as he felt. Even Tump's eyes, behind those ever-present shades, had pushed his brows into peaks of surprise. Lindsay, in her flashy show clothes, her Afro teased out to the size of a beach ball, was scrambling to get onstage to be a part of this. She had the showbiz sense to slip around behind the stage and wait for the end of the song, at which point she took her seat behind the steel, her silver finger picks already in place on the tips of her long, talented digits.

Creed knew this was no time to scold Lindsay, so he flashed her a smile and mouthed the title of the next song—“Like an Old Coyote”—which she deciphered like a lip reader. As the applause for the first song finally dwindled away, Lindsay kicked the next tune with a perfect mysterious waver in the pedal steel.

Now Creed had a chance to search the audience for Sid Larue. He found the taxman standing in front of the stage and watched him as Luster added his solid gold vocal to the smooth foundation the band had laid out. He saw Larue singing along, mouthing every lyric, all misty-eyed, and Creed began to think that this multimillion-dollar comeback might just have a chance after all.

The rest of the set only escalated, the band members getting loose and beginning to relax toward the end. Creed himself stepped up and hung his toes over the edge of the stage during one lead break on the Strat, garnering a spontaneous ovation from the crowd in the middle of the song. Every soul on the premises had gravitated into the barn. Even the truck drivers. A few husband-and-wife couples who had come to bid on ranch equipment had found a vacant corner of the dance floor upon which to two-step.

Finally, the set ended, Luster introduced the band members to the audience. Amid a roar of cheers and applause from an audience that had come for bargains rather than music, Luster threw kisses out to the ladies in the crowd and announced the resumption of the auction.

Almost giddy, Creed was looking forward to cracking a beer open backstage with the band, when he heard the taxman's voice: “One more! Come on, you guys! One more song!”

“We don't know any more goddamnit songs,” Metro said.

Tump shushed him.

“You know what they say, Sid,” Luster beamed, “always leave 'em wantin' more!”

“Oh, come on!” Sid insisted. “You've almost got me sold. What's one more song? What do you say, folks? One more?”

The satisfied crowd raised an obligatory encore ovation.

“Play something new!” Sid ordered. “Don't you have anything new?”

Creed felt the panic coming on …

“As a matter of fact,” Luster began, “I found Creed under the bus the other day, writing a song. Sounded like he needed help so I finished it for him.”

Creed turned to Tump. “Play the doghouse.”

Tump racked his bass guitar and reached for the standup bass.

Creed turned to Metro. “Let Luster start it a cappella. I'll tell you when to come in. Don't overdo it.” He stepped closer to Tump. “Key of Charlie. I'll call the chords out to you.”

Tump nodded.

Creed shook his head at Lindsay and Trusty Joe so they would lay out until they learned the progression. He heard Luster finishing his introduction to the song:

“… So we'll leave you with this, folks. Thanks for being such a wonderful audience. The best I've had in fifteen years!”

Luster strummed an open C chord and began to sing:

“
Fair thee well…”

As the chorus gave way to the first verse, Creed counted four beats to Metro, who instinctively came in with a sparse kick and high hat combo as Tump struck the note indicated by Creed's guitar chord. Perfect, so far.

“…
May your hills know the shady trees of summer; that in autumn rain down gold and crimson leaves…”

It was almost a plea to Sid Larue, who was looking on in judgment, chin in hand. Winding up the first verse and a repeat of the chorus, Luster turned to Trusty Joe, who mimicked the singer's melody on the violin, note for note, then looked toward Creed, who looked toward Lindsay, who took the second half of the solo, her pedal steel swelling and quavering in a perfect compliment to the band.

These are really good musicians, Creed was thinking. They've never heard this song before and they're laying it down like a roofer with a nail gun.

“…
And in the end; when your wandering days are over; may the road you travel safely lead you home…”

The last chorus was easy. But how would Luster end the song? They hadn't had time to arrange the tune yet.

Luster signaled for the band to break, and he invented a tag:

“…
May a fair wind fill your sail; may your good luck never fail…”

That note soared two octaves above the melody, Creed thought. He was in the presence of the master. He saw Luster take the mic from the stand and wander toward Trusty Joe.

“…
May the sun shine on your trail; and fair thee well…”
Luster looked at Trusty and whispered: “Play something Irish.”

Picking up the tempo of the song, Trusty followed the chord progression of the chorus, stroking out a melody that sounded vaguely like the TV ad for Irish Spring bath soap. The rest of the band joined in for a few bars until Creed found a place to end, directing the band through a turnaround to wrap up the tune.

“Stick around for the rest of the auction, folks!” Luster said. He turned to Creed. “Well, now we know the song stands up a day later.”

Creed grinned and nodded.

Sid Larue stepped up to the edge of the stage. “That was great. World class, Luster.”

“Thanks, Sid.”

“There's only so much I can do for you, but I'll try my damnedest to buy you some time.”

“That's all I can ask. Thanks.”

Sid looked at his watch, glanced his good-byes to the band, and headed out of the barn. He stopped, turned. “You're going to send the auction money in, right?”

“You're damn skippy, I am.”

Larue left.

Luster turned to face the players. “Right after I pay my band a grand.”

“Cool,
jefe
!” said Metro. “That's two bills a man.”

“Or a woman,” Lindsay scolded.

“No, I mean a grand
apiece
,” Luster said. “I don't lowball good pickers.” He handed his mic to the auctioneer, amid great joy on the stage.

“I'm so happy, I could vomit!” said Trusty Joe, breaking into tears.

 

17

CHAPTER

Hooley drew a deep breath of cool, damp lake air and held his lure at arm's length so he could see to tie the line on. Pushing forty-five, his eyes had begun playing tricks on him lately, but he had yet to go to Walgreen's for a pair of those reading glasses. He noticed the reddish glow from the corner of his eye, and looked east to see the sun rising over Lake L.B.J., the ripples of the tiny waves catching the orange hue. He knew it would only last for seconds.

“Ain't that a thing of beauty?” he said, looking toward the back of the bass boat, where he found Special Agent Doolittle fiddling around with his spy phone. “Hey, city boy! Look around you.”

Mel glanced at his surrounds. “Yeah, it's rustic,” Mel said. He went back to fooling with the phone. He was wearing one of Hooley's denim jackets in an attempt to make him look more like a fisherman than a cop. The sleeves were too long, so he had rolled the cuffs.

“Put that damn thing away and grab that fishing pole.” He cast his lure into the rising sun.

“I'm trying to leave a message with my partner, Samantha, at headquarters.”

“Samantha!” Hooley railed. “There's female feds?”

“A few. Don't you guys have women in the Texas Rangers?”

“Ha! That'll be the day. It's called the Rangers, not the Rangerettes.”

Mel looked up from his phone. “But there's African-American Rangers, right?”

“There's plenty of colored state troopers. A lot of good ones. Good officers.”

“But not in the Rangers?”

“No. No colored boys in the Rangers.”

Mel sighed. “Hooley, would you mind saying African American?”

Hooley glared. “Huh? I said colored. What's wrong with that?”