A Song to Die For (24 page)

“I don't drink,” Tump said.

“And I'll tell you somethin' else…” Luster continued. A knock on the bus door interrupted him. “Aw, shit, it's probably that I.R.S. vulture. Creed, start this thing up and get us out of here.”

“Did we get paid?”

“Yes, I got it in my pocket. A whopping fifty dollars a man.”

“Or woman,” Lindsay said.

The knocking at the door came again.

“Start the bus, Creed!”

“All right, Boss,” Creed said, his morale low. This was all his fault. He was the band leader. He hadn't prepared his troops. He sat down in the driver's seat and turned the ignition. Nothing. “Something must have come loose,” he said, sheepishly. “I'll have to go look at it.”

“Shit!” Luster said. “All right, the rest of you go have a beer or something, and I'll talk to the vulture.”

Creed just wanted off the bus. He hopped out of the driver's seat and bolted for the door. Expecting to find Larue, he flung the bus door open and found, instead, the sexy dancing lawyer librarian.

“Oh, hi,” he stuttered.

“Hi,” she purred. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…”

The rest of the band filed out past them. Tump grunted a surprised “humph,” sound. Lindsay went “hmmm,” as if in mild disapproval.

“I didn't mean to disturb the band. I just wanted to know if I could buy an album. “I love the new song: ‘Fair Thee Well.'”

That was good news. “Yeah. Uh, unfortunately, we don't have any albums.”

“Huh?” she said, downright shocked.

“I know.”

“No eight tracks, even?”

“We haven't, uh…” he shrugged. “This is our second gig.” He stuck out his hand. “My name's Creed,” he said, feeling lame.

“Oh, I know who you are.” She smiled, shook his hand with a warm, firm grip. “I'm Kathy.”

“I've got to fix the bus,” he said apologetically. “Would you like to meet Luster?”

Her eyes and mouth flew open. “Oh, my God. I would
love
to meet Luster Burnett!”

“I saw you waiting in line, inside. Come on, I'll introduce you.” He nodded his head toward the inside of the bus, and she followed him in. “Boss, I've got a real pleasant surprise for you. That wasn't Larue knocking on the door. This is Kathy…” He found Luster digging around in the beer cooler, grinding the ice cubes against the plastic of the Igloo.

“Kathy Music,” she said, excitedly.

Luster reached deep. “What's that?”

“Music?” Creed said. “Really?”

“It's German. I have no musical talent whatsoever, if you're wondering.”

“You dance nice.”

She smiled.

About then, Luster looked up, his eye brightening. “Well, hello there. Beer?”

“Sure!” she said, perky as ever.

Creed left them, stepped outside, and trudged to the back of the bus. Visually, he swept the customer parking lot, empty now, except for one car—a Carmen Ghia that he had to assume belonged to one Kathy Music. He ceased to worry about the three thugs who had been eyeballing him. Maybe he was just paranoid. He couldn't be sure those were the guys from the holdup. But he was reminded that there was a poker game tomorrow night at the Jollyville location. He wondered if Luster was going.

Crawling up under the engine cowling, he used his cigarette lighter to look things over, but his mind was on the crappy gig, the ass-chewing from Luster, and that beautiful babe on the bus right now. Kathy Music. He wouldn't forget that name. Wow, she was better looking up close, which wasn't always the way things worked out on the honky-tonk circuit.

Without having to think about it too hard, his eyes found the problem. The battery cable had shaken off the ground post of the battery. He shoved it back on, made a mental note to tighten it tomorrow. Latching the engine cover, he thought about stepping back onto the bus, but felt he didn't deserve to right now. He thought he'd give Luster a little space with the beautiful fan. That would give him a chance to step into the bar and check himself over in the bathroom mirror. He hoped she wouldn't slip away too soon, but he didn't want to sniff too desperately around her, either.

“You can play it cool with the best of 'em, kid,” he said to himself.

Entering the building, he saw the band members sulking at the bar, sipping brews Bud had given them. It was late and the last customers had left. The bartenders were cleaning the place up. The local station was on the TV above the bar. It was running a commercial for the new Ford Pinto. What a stupid-looking ride that was, he thought. There was an open seat at the bar, so Creed took it, feeling he should say something to the band, but he didn't know what that might be. He had Tump and Metro to his right; Lindsay and Trusty to his left.

“Maybe I should quit,” Trusty was saying. “I'm holding the band back.”

“Maybe we should all quit,” Lindsay replied. “I don't appreciate being spoken to that way by someone who thinks he's so perfect.”

“He
was
perfect,” Creed said. “And we were far from it. Nobody quit, okay? It was just one bad night. It'll get better.”

Trusty hung his head, his lower lip jutting. He took a long pull of his beer. Lindsay pouted.

“Hey, Creed!” Bud said, coming out of the kitchen. “You want a beer?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Bud.”

“Great show!”

Creed scoffed. “What gig did you go to?”

Bud waved his big, thick hand at him. “It was great. The people loved it.”

The Ford commercial ended and the local news came back on. This time of night, they reran the ten o'clock news for night owls. They were airing some story about a car wreck that reminded Creed of the gig. He turned his attention to the discussion going on with Metro and Tump.

“But I don't rush!” Metro complained. “I'm a human metronome!”

“You were leanin' forward,” Tump assured him.

“What does that mean?”

“You're thinking of the beat like a thin line on a piece of paper.”

“I am? I thought I was just playing the drums.”

“The beat's not a thin line,” Tump continued. “Expand it, in your mind. Think of it as a pocket. You're leaning forward, hitting the front edge of the pocket. I want you to lean back. Hit the back edge of the pocket. That's where you'll find my bass note. Man, you do that, and we'll lock into a groove like waves on a beach. Like an old Indian motorbike, broke in by the miles.”

Creed kept his mouth shut. That was good advice, and more poetically expressed than he would have expected, coming from the typically taciturn Tump. The news anchor switched from his somber car-wreck voice to his cheerful, happy-story voice:

“Country music legend, Luster Burnett, came out of retirement with a surprise concert tonight at Bud's Place, west of town on Highway seventy-one…”

“Hey, that's us!” Metro blurted, watching the video of the gig.

“Oh, my God,” Linsday groaned. “He was right. We sound like crap.”

“
Caca
,” Metro agreed.

“Listen to Luster, though,” Creed said. “Even on those cheesy TV set speakers. That's a million-dollar voice.”

“Better be a seventeen-million-dollar voice,” Tump said.

Trusty Joe began to sob. “I played so many notes. Why did I do that? So many, many notes.”

“… sources say the entertainment icon has fallen upon difficult financial times, and is planning a comeback tour. Judy…”

The shot on the screen switched to the incredibly attractive, bright-eyed blond news gal who had driven the ratings up on the station.

“We've been following the story of a young Nevada woman, Rosabella Martini, who was killed on Lake L.B.J. last week. A K-eye news team tracked down Texas Ranger Captain Hooley Johnson earlier today for a comment.”

Creed watched the shot change to a boat ramp, somewhere on one of the area lakes. The ranger captain looked vaguely familiar to him as sort of a celebrity lawman.

“We're looking for a fancy, vintage, wooden boat. Maybe a Chris-Craft or something like it. Maybe damaged. If anybody's seen anything like that on or around Lake L.B.J., we'd like to know about it.”

Before the Ranger could turn away, the reporter got in another question:

“Is there any connection between Miss Martini's death and the murder of Celinda Morales, who died the same day?”

“Miss Martini's death has not been ruled a homicide. Miss Morales was possibly an acquaintance of Miss Martini through their sorority, but so far there's no connection in the two unfortunate deaths.”

Odd, Creed thought. At the end of the shot, he caught a glimpse of the ranger carrying a stringer of fish as he turned away. The blond bombshell anchorwoman was back on the screen in the studio now:

“The Texas Rangers are cooperating with the F.B.I. in the increasingly bizarre case. And, speaking of Texas Rangers, Roger has a report from spring training camp when we return.”

Smooth segue, Creed thought, wincing.

“Bud!” Tump yelled. “Turn that goddamn thing off and bring me a beer!”

Without even looking, Bud reached back and thudded a big ham against the power button while simultaneously filling a beer mug for Tump.

“I thought you didn't drink,” Metro said.

“I had quit, but if Luster thinks us gittin' drunk together will make us a tighter rhythm section, I'm willing to make that sacrifice.”

Creed wasn't sure he liked that development, but he wasn't Tump's keeper. As he grabbed his beer mug, he faintly heard a singsong voice, audible now that the television was off. It came from outside, and though he had only heard her speak a few words, Creed knew it was Miss Music's voice:

“Thank you so much, Mr. Burnett. I mean … Luster.” She giggled. “You won't regret it!”

The Carman Ghia cranked and purred, rather like Kathy herself.
Regret it?
Regret what? What had Luster done now? Before Creed could ponder the possibilities, Trusty Joe bolted from his bar stool and ran for the back door, barely making it outside before a ghastly, guttural, retching sound invaded the smoky silence of the after-hours beer joint.

Metro and Tump burst into laughter.

“Lovely,” Lindsay said, pushing her mug away. “Bud, I'm not much of a beer woman. Can you make me a Tequila Sunrise?”

“Sure, darlin'.”

“All right, Tump, let's get drunk!” Metro said, clicking his mug against Tump's. “Hey, is Tump your real name?”

“It's a nickname. And you're fixin' to find out why.” He lifted the beer mug to his lips and somehow miraculously poured it down his throat in a matter of two or three seconds.

Creed groaned.

 

23

CHAPTER

With the first ring, Creed began wondering where he was. He opened one eye and recognized the familiar interior of his houseboat, broad daylight streaming in through the cabin windows. He was home. That was good. His head hurt. Bad.

The phone rang a second time. Sitting up, he began remembering last night: the crappy gig at Bud's Place, drinking with the band after hours. Bud had begun to pour free shots of tequila. After that, the memories became spotty. Not good.

Third ring. Creed reached for the phone. “Yellow,” he said, his voice a croak.

“Sorry to wake you.” It was Luster.

“That's all right. I had to get up to answer the phone, anyway. What's up, Boss?”

“Be at the ranch about five this evening. No rehearsal tonight. We're having a band meeting. Make sure everybody's there, all right, Hoss?”

Creed rubbed his aching head. “All right. Uh … hey, Luster. Did we leave the bus…”

Luster chuckled. “I drove it home to the ranch. You don't remember? Lindsay gave the rest of y'all a ride in her car. She was the only sober one.”

“It's coming back to me,” Creed lied.

“See you at five.”

He hung up the phone and thought about lying back down, but he had to pee, and the thought of a hot shower beckoned. He got up, finding himself naked. Well, at least he had been sober enough to get undressed before he hit the rack last night. As he turned toward the tiny shower stall, he thought he saw something move under the covers of his bed. It startled him. He glanced around and found clothing strewn everywhere, not all of it his own.

Stepping quietly toward the bed, he pulled back the sheets to reveal an Afro that led to Lindsay's peaceful, lovely face. Her eyes opened, her head turned to look at him.

Creed suddenly looked like a Mickey Mouse watch at six thirty. She smiled.

“No need to cover up now, Creed, baby. I saw you in all your glory last night.”

Creed backed into the shower stall. All he could think of to say was, “Mornin'.” He took a quick shower, knowing that he had to step out and say something to her. Something like, last night shouldn't have happened. He stepped out with a towel wrapped around him, one hand covering the scar of his war wound. He found Lindsay dressed and waiting, pushing her Afro into place. She beat him to the rhetoric he had just rehearsed in his head.

“You realize, Creed, baby, that last night was a mistake. I had a couple drinks when I got here, and I let my guard down. We should just pretend it never happened.”

Creed shrugged as if a little disappointed, though he was eminently relieved at her attitude. “I guess you're right. I mean, but … I was okay, right? I mean … You had a good time?”

She smiled wickedly at the realization. “You don't remember, do you? Oh, that's really too bad for you for two reasons.”

“Two reasons?”

“Number one, because it was fantastic. Number two, because it will never happen again. So I guess you'll just never know how good it really was. Poor baby … Now, hurry up and get dressed before
they
wake up.” She jutted her thumb out of the window toward the stern.