A Song to Die For (48 page)

“
Yes.”

“I'll be waiting for you there. You don't want to mess with these bastards on your own.”

“Okay. I'll pick you up. I'll be there in less than an hour.”

“I'll be waiting.” Hooley hung up the phone. “Please, God,” he said. “Help me save this poor dumbass.” He dialed in the numbers for Mel's spy phone. After some clicks and pops, and some static, the thing actually started to ring.

“Doolittle.”

“This is Hooley. Where the hell are you right now?”

“Bored shitless. Stakeout in Reno.”

“Get your ass to Vegas. Now! Pick me up at the airport. Private jet. Biggerstaff came clean. You copy?”

“Vegas? Now?”

“Yes! Wait at the airport!” He was shouting into the phone, as if that would help force the transmission through. “Biggerstaff's son is Franco's next victim!”

“I'll meet you at the Vegas airport. I'll be there by…”

The connection went dead, but Hooley had heard what he wanted to hear. He grabbed his holster and gun belt, his hat, wallet, and keys, and stormed out the door. As he left, he heard the crowd erupt in cheers over some basketball shot on the television.

 

52

CHAPTER

Creed's sweet spot onstage had shifted a little since last night. Funny how that could happen. Same stage, same speakers. What had changed? Maybe some stagehand had repositioned an amp, or some door was open in the back of the theater. For whatever reason, the best sound mix was a step closer to the edge of the stage tonight, which was even better, as far as he was concerned.

Likewise, Luster was better. He had put on a career performance last night, but tonight his voice was even stronger, his control of the notes sharper, his tone as smooth as an aged whiskey. Luster had also taken charge of the band the last two nights. In the beginning, he had relied on Creed to lead the group, but he had gradually assumed command, calling his own shots, announcing well-thought-out changes, challenging the band members to stray from the rehearsed versions of the songs, shorten a tune, lengthen a solo, heighten the dynamics. Creed saw the brilliance in this, for it kept the players on their toes and interested. The improvisation was fun and challenging.

Now they began the fourth and final encore. Last night, they had gone out with a big production number—a great choice with which to end. But tonight, in a set list change, Luster had told the band before the show that he would set aside “Fair Thee Well” as the final encore. Though Creed wondered about ending with their lilting ballad, he could not argue. It was a huge compliment to him that Luster would close the show with this co-written tune. This was the song, and the sentiment, he would leave to the audience.

Fair thee well

May your good times never end

May you always find a friend

At every crossroad and bend

And may the sun

Shine warm upon your trail

May a fair wind fill your sail

Fair Thee Well

As Creed closed his eyes and plunged into the vortex of vibes he had located onstage, a thought came over him. For some stupid reason, this had not occurred to him before. This song was Luster's good-bye to his fans. Not just for this show or this night, but for all time. This was his wish to his fans and to all of humanity, and his last good-bye. He had them charmed with this wish right now. At this moment, Creed could not shake the feeling that this was Luster's last show.

As if reading his mind, Luster turned his misty eyes to Creed as he sang the last verse.

May your heart

Lead you down the path you follow

May your trail soon and often cross my own

And in the end

When your wandering days are over

May the road you travel safely lead you home

And, then, with the graceful gestures of an orchestra conductor's hands, he bade the band to slow the tempo,

… May the sun shine on your trail …

so he could sing it alone,

… May your good luck never fail …

save for the sustaining notes of the guitars and the bass, the shimmering of a splash symbol that Metro tickled with the brushes, and a long low note that Trusty Joe bowed from the strings of the violin.

… May a fair wind fill your sail … And fair thee well …

Now Creed took control of the band, leading them back into the chord progression as Luster spread his arms in a huge embrace to the audience. He bowed, and the fans sprang to their feet, stunned and gratified. Creed kept the band going, for the applause lingered, and lingered longer.

“Fair thee well,” Luster said. “May God watch over you and shower you with blessings. I wish you all health and prosperity. And mostly, I wish you love. Thank you, and good-bye!”

With the eyes of all the musicians on him, Creed brought the progression around one last time in a perfectly orchestrated ending. The curtain dropped, muffling a final roar of approval from the theater.

Luster turned. “And to you all…” His eyes were glistening. “You don't know how much I love you. I
love
my band.” He spread his arms and beckoned his players near.

Lindsay and Metro rose from their seats. Creed, Tump, and Trusty Joe racked their instruments. They all came together in a huddle onstage like a six-man football team, and then locked together, arm-in-arm.

“Thank you for the best show of my life,” Luster said. “Now … Who wants a cold beer?”

*   *   *

Later, in the green room, Trusty Joe pried himself away from the blond bombshell, Clarice—or was it Sharice—for a private word with Luster and Creed.

“I've been meaning to talk to you both,” he began.

“'Bout what?” Luster said.

“Yeah, what is it, Trusty?” Creed said.

Trusty Joe looked back at the beauty waiting for him at the bar. “Not tonight. I'll tell you tomorrow. I need to get something off my chest.”

“Sounds serious,” Creed said, suspiciously.

“I'll explain it all tomorrow.” He turned back to his groupie.

“I hope he didn't go and marry that bimbo in some Vegas chapel,” Creed said.

“I don't think that's it. Why would he want her off his chest?”

“Good point.”

“You know what really worries me, Hoss?”

Creed played along. “No, Boss. What really worries you?”

“Not a cotton-pickin' thing!” they yelled together.

As if to give them something about which to worry, Dixie burst into the green room at that moment, leaving the door open behind her. Franco stepped in next, as cool as ever. Dixie, not quite as stoned as the night before, but in a much feistier mood, stormed over to Luster and Creed and dragged them both by the arm out of earshot of the others.

“I had a talk with
my
lawyers today, boys, and they assured me that you can't release your live album without my permission. I control what happens on my tour. So, Luster, if you want me to give you my blessing, your country ass had better be on my stage on the third song.”

“Now, hold up,” Creed warned.

Dixie turned on him. “Hotshot, I'm giving you one last chance to take up where we left off, and take country music by storm. If you ever want a piece of sweet Dixie again—and what red-blooded American man wouldn't—then you had better start playing my tune.” She punctuated her demand with an obnoxious finger snap in Creed's face.

“Dixie,” Creed said, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “I've seen my red American blood ooze between my fingers, and it wasn't for you. I wouldn't stoop low enough to play a note with you onstage. And as for offstage, I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole.”

“You don't have a freakin' ten-foot pole!” she hissed.

“After all the coke you've snorted up your nose, how would you even remember?”

“Oh, Dixie never forgets, hotshot! You'll see! You will ruin the day!”

“That's
rue
the day,” Luster said.

“It is not!” And she stormed out of the green room, flinging the door open to reveal a wide-eyed Kathy Music, whom she shoved aside as she stormed toward the stage.

“Kat,” Creed said, surprised to see her.

Kathy gave the men a thumbs-up and a big smile. “It's about time you two knocked her down a peg or two!” She slipped past Franco, into the green room, and proceeded to the bar for a long-awaited drink, but not before raising her eyebrows seductively at Creed, presumably for the way he had brushed off Dixie.

Tonight's the night, Creed thought. Band or not. It was time. Now he trained his eyes on Franco. He knew he was looking at a reputed killer, but Creed reminded himself that he was a killer, too. “Have you had somebody following us around?” he demanded. “A guy in a pickup truck. He had his arm in a sling a while back.”

Franco didn't falter. “I've been keeping tabs on your progress. I'm a businessman. I look for good investments.”

“You bought into Cornerstone Records,” Luster said. “Are you trying to get a piece of our live album, too?”

Franco chuckled. “That must have been some show in Houston.”

“You ought to know. You were there. You took our picture by the bus.”

Franco smiled. “You've got a good eye for detail. Like I said, I've been checking you out. I like what I see, and what I hear. I don't want a piece of the Houston album, though. In fact, I can offer a way around it.”

“Dixie's not gonna like that,” Luster said.

“Dixie hasn't been playing ball,” Franco said. “I mean, she's been playing with my balls, but she won't play ball, if you know what I mean? No offense, sport.” He slapped Creed on the shoulder.

Creed was neither offended nor surprised.

“How is there a way around the Dixie problem?” Luster demanded.

“I like to listen to good music in the comfort of my own home. So, when somebody plays here at the theater who I like, I record them.”

Creed narrowed his eyes at the mobster. “Did you get tonight?”

Franco nodded. “Last night, too. This room is designed by acoustic engineers. Our recording equipment is better than most studios use. The tapes from The Castilian will beat the hell out of your Houston recording. I guarantee you that.”

“It's nice to have options,” Luster said, forever the diplomat. “But I don't want to jump into anything right now.”

“Of course not,” Franco replied. “What's the hurry? Tonight, enjoy my hospitality. We can talk tomorrow. But, let me ask you something. That last encore tonight … Is that song on your Houston tapes?”

“No,” Luster said.

“You're going to want that song on your record. That's a song to die for.” Franco smiled and turned away.

Creed could hear Dixie introducing Luster Burnett onstage. “What do you want to do about Dixie?”

“Here's what I want to do right now,” Luster suggested. “I want to get a beer, and watch from the wings while Dixie makes an ass out of herself when I don't walk out on that stage to sing with her. Then, I want to play some poker.”

“That sounds like a plan to me,” Creed agreed.

 

53

CHAPTER

The cabin door to Charles Biggerstaff's jet, a Cessna Citation 500, swung open. Hooley rushed down the steps, his boots hitting the tarmac together. He saw Mel waving from an unmarked car, the red and blue lights blinking behind the grill to attract Hooley's attention. Hooley trotted to the car.

“We may be able to save somebody's life, after all,” Hooley said, buckling on his gun belt. “I'll brief you on the way to The Castilian.” He turned back to the jet. “Biggerstaff! Hurry up!”

Charles Biggerstaff Sr. scrambled down the steps and trotted to the F.B.I. sedan. Hooley and Biggerstaff explained the situation to Mel on the way.

“Maybe we're in time,” Mel said, racing through traffic for the short drive to The Strip. “I haven't heard any chatter on the radio about missing persons, or kidnappings, or murders.”

Biggerstaff buried his face in his hands, and started to sob in the backseat.

Hooley turned around in the front passenger seat, grabbed him by the shoulder, and shook him roughly. “Pull yourself together. We're gonna need you to ID your son.”

Biggerstaff straightened up in the backseat, nodded, and wiped tears away from his face.

“Listen,” Mel said, changing lanes, weaving among cars. “We can't just burst in there and start asking questions and flashing badges. If this is what we fear it is—if your son has been lured here by the Martinis—then they're bound to have somebody watching his every move until they can grab him and spirit him off. If we go in there causing a commotion, we're likely to rush them into what they had planned all along.”

“We should check the theater first,” Hooley said. “This time of night, the show should still be going on.”

When Mel neared The Castilian, he switched off his flashing lights and pulled into the parking lot.

“Look!” Biggerstaff said. “The marquee!”

Hooley saw the bill: Appearing Tonight. “Dixie Houston” in big letters. “Luster Burnett and The Pounders” in smaller type below.

“He's here,” Biggerstaff said.

“Let's hope.”

They parked the car in the lot and ran to the front lobby door.

“Theater's this way,” Mel said. He led the way in a brisk walk, Biggerstaff on his heels, Hooley bringing up the rear.

Hooley took in the surroundings as they hurried to the theater. Slot machines, blackjack tables, roulette wheels … Behind a big glass wall some high rollers were playing poker. He saw a young guy with a pretty girl leaning on his shoulder, an older guy smiling at the hand he had just won, raking in an armload of chips.