A Song to Die For (41 page)

“I can't let her have it. It's my property. If I don't fight it, she'll claim everything I ever wrote back during the Dixie Creed days. I'll end up like Luster, unable to record my own songs.”

Kathy pouted and crossed her arms, guarding her heart. “You're sure that's all it is?”

“Are you kidding? After the way she treated me onstage? Besides, I better keep an eye on our legend.”

“I don't like it, Creed. I wish I had never booked this gig.”

He touched her, gently but firmly, cupping his palm around her arm. “When the album comes out, we'll forget Dixie was ever even here at this gig. Don't worry.”

She sighed. “Be careful. She's a conniving, manipulative…” Kathy made a
b
with her lips, but stopped short of saying the word.

“I gotta catch up before they shut the door on our future.” Creed winked at her and trotted away toward Dixie's bus slipping in just before the hydraulic door closed.

Inside, he smelled weed. Climbing up the steps, he saw one of Dixie's band members offering Luster a joint. Luster raised his hands, as if in a holdup. Dixie's guitar player—some Nashville cat Creed didn't know—slapped him on the back.

“You son-of-bitch!” the picker said, a smile on his face. “I hate your guts.”

“Backatcha,” Creed replied. “Hey, man, thanks for letting me plug into your rig. Those Twins were smokin'.”

“Any time. You want a drink or something?” He stepped aside to reveal the bar that Dixie had obviously had custom-built into her bus.

Creed shrugged, poured himself a shot of Jack Daniel's. He looked aft to see that Dixie had showered and changed out of her show clothes into jeans and a white cotton button-down shirt, her hair wrapped up in a towel. She looked like the small-town girl Creed had once fallen in love with. She was holding Luster's hand, looking into his eyes and telling him God-knows-what-all. Creed ground his teeth. What if Kathy was right? What if Dixie was offering Luster a slot on her tour right now?

As if she sensed his bad vibes, Dixie looked Creed's way, caught his eye, smiled, and waved him over. He resented being summoned, but condescended to join the conversation with Luster and Dixie.

“Welcome to my custom Prevost bus, hotshot!” she began. “A hundred and five inches wide!”

Creed knew Dixie was competitive, but he never thought she'd throw a bus width in his face. This was the kind of thing touring acts talked about when trying to one-up one another. “Yeah, it's state of the art, Dixie.”

“Better than that old ninety-six-incher you're making Luster ride in.”

“Well, it ain't too wide,” Luster said, “but at least it's short.”

Dixie snorted a laugh. “Anyway, Creed, honey, I want to thank you for bringing this wonderful man into my life. Luster has been telling me that
you
are the genius behind his comeback. He says you've made it all happen for him.”

“I don't know about that. It's a comeback for me, too, and I couldn't do it without Luster.”

Dixie smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Well now, aren't you two just the cutest thing in the world with your little mutual-admiration society?”

“Never thought of us as cute,” Luster admitted.

“Well, I want to help, too. I have some ideas for the three of us, and we need to get together tomorrow, when we're all sober, and work this thing out. It could be the biggest thing ever to hit country music. Shit, not just country. Outlaw-slash-crossover-slash-rockabilly-slash-progressive-country-slash-rock-and-frickin'-roll!”

“Slash science-fiction-bluegrass!” Luster said, mocking her.

“What, no coon-ass gospel?” Creed monotoned.

“You two are so funny. You're going to be a hoot to tour with.”

One of the band members broke in to shake Luster's hand just then, and to ask for an autograph. With Luster thus distracted, Creed turned to Dixie.

“You made me look like fool onstage tonight.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said, in a defensive tone.

“You know what I'm talkin' about. And what's this about you writing ‘Written in the Dust'?”

She scoffed. “I never said that!”

“Yes, you did. Onstage.”

“Well, if I did, it was a slip of the tongue. It's not like I don't have anything else to think about up there.”

“I was the sole writer on all our Dixie-Creed stuff. You do remember that, right?”

“Shut up, Creed!” She pushed him playfully against the chest, but he was too solid to budge much. “Anyway, I let you on my stage, you ungrateful piece of shit! Who could ask for more than that?”

Someone in the band shouted from the front of the bus: “Hey, Dixie! We're waiting on you, baby!”

She turned to scream toward the band: “Dixie-baby's comin', boys!” She turned back to her guests, Luster having finished signing his autograph. “I'll see you two gentlemen tomorrow.”

She skipped forward toward the waiting band members, one of whom handed her a rolled up hundred-dollar bill. With obvious familiarity, the drummer was chopping lines of white powder on a mirror taken from the wall and placed flat on the top of the bar.

“Is that what I think it is?” Luster said.

“What do you think it is?”

“Well, they ain't chalkin' up a turkey call. Let's get off this bus, Hoss.”

“I'm with you, Boss.”

Outside, in air as fresh as Houston could offer, Creed strolled with Luster back toward their own humble little tour bus.

“She don't waste time cuttin' deals, does she?”

Luster chuckled, put his hand on Creed's shoulder. “Hoss, that back yonder is everything I hate about the music business. I ain't even talkin' about the cocaine. I'm talkin' about the bullshit. Do you know how many times I've heard that speech about the biggest thing to hit country music since Jesus Christ learned to tune a fiddle? Makes me want to puke. We're gonna do this thing our own way, and we don't need no Dixie Houston to do it.”

Creed felt a smile spread across his face. “I'm proud to hear you say that, Boss.”

“All right. Now,” he said, shifting gears, “has Kathy collected our pay?”

“Yeah, it's on the bus. Cash.”

“Good, because I got us into a poker game tonight over in Sugar Land.”

“How'd you do that?”

“I called Gordy. He gave me a number to call.”

“Apparently he doesn't mind us shootin' up somebody else's game.”

“I guess not. With any luck, we can parley the chump change from this piss-ant gig into some real road money. You in?”

“Like Flinn.”

 

43

CHAPTER

Once Dixie's fleet of buses and semis faded from the rearview mirror, Creed began to enjoy the drive back from the Houston gig. In fact, it felt quite glorious, and he seemed to share the euphoria with the rest of the group. Each band member had a few thousand dollars in his or her pocket. The live album was in the can. The Dixie Houston nonsense had been forgotten. On top of all that, Creed had almost doubled his gig earnings at the Sugar Land poker game, and Luster had done even better. Even the bus was purring like a mountain lion today.

Creed figured he'd better enjoy the high morale while it lasted, considering the band didn't have another gig lined up. They had gotten a late start Sunday afternoon, as Creed and Luster hadn't returned to the bus until almost dawn. After a few hours of sleep, Creed was ready to drive, and they motored west on Interstate 10, past green pastures and highway medians choked with colorful wildflowers of blue, red, and yellow.

Kathy had bought a good Canon camera with her cut of the pay. Sid had given her a ride to The Galleria Mall to purchase it. Since there was no hurry getting back to Luster's ranch, Kathy had Creed pull the bus over at every likely photo op for album cover and publicity shots, including a junkyard, a field of wild flowers, a funky barbecue joint, a graveyard, an old bridge over the Brazos River, a biker bar parking lot full of Harleys. Lindsay insisted on changing clothes for every shoot.

When Trusty complained about waiting on her, she said, “What if we use one shot for the album, and another for the poster? I don't want folks thinking I just have one outfit! Kathy, hon, can I borrow your top?”

Late in the day, the mountain lion of a bus quit purring and started gasping near Bastrop. Creed managed to limp on in to a place called the Lost Pines Motel, where the band members rented individual rooms for a bit of overdue privacy. No one seemed too upset about the transportation breakdown. Creed diagnosed the problem as a fuel filter issue. He called Junior, at the bus yard.

“You didn't put a new filter on it?”
Junior asked.

“I know,” Creed lamented. “I don't know how the hell that slipped my mind.”

“Good Lord, that filter's probably got crap in it from 'sixty-one. No wonder it clogged up on you.”

“Do you have one in stock?”

“Yeah, hell, I'll drive one out there to you after work tonight.”

Sid, who had been following along in his government-issue I.R.S. car, had to get back to Austin so he could get to work hassling delinquent taxpayers Monday morning, but made a beer run with Luster and Creed before he left the band stranded.

As Creed slid into the backseat of the sedan, Sid turned to look at him from behind the wheel. “This trip is off-the-record, understood?” He shot the same warning glare at Luster, who sat in the front passenger seat.

“What?” Luster replied. “Uncle Sugar doesn't allow the company car to haul beer for the taxpayer?”

“Who's Uncle Sugar?”

“He means Uncle Sam,” Creed explained. “Don't worry. Your bootleggin' career will be our little secret.”

Sid put the car in gear and pulled out onto the highway, heading for the edge of town where they were sure to find a store that carried cheap beer.

“You don't think we'd inform the feds on one of our own band members, do you?” Luster asked.

“Band member? Me?” Sid glanced nervously in his rearview mirrors, as if his I.R.S. supervisor might be tailing him or something.

“Yes, you. You sounded great on that song you sang last night. Like a real pro.”

“Don't blow smoke up the taxman's ass, Luster. I'm no idiot. I know you guys didn't have my voice piped out to the audience.”

“Huh?” Luster said, innocently.

“What gave you that impression?” Creed asked.

“The crowd liked it way too much. I've watched people watch me sing before. Nobody's ever liked me that much.”

“Well, who do you think they were listening to?” Luster said.

“The guy in the backseat,” Sid said, jutting his thumb aft. “You didn't think I'd notice that the lead guitar player left the stage during my one song?”

Creed and Luster remained silent, wondering where Sid was taking this issue.

Sid started laughing. “Relax, guys. I loved it. I wouldn't trade that moment on the big stage for anything. They thought it was me. The crowd thought that was my voice! Man, that was a rush!”

“You sold it,” Luster said. “Where'd you come by that stage presence?”

“Cut the bullshit,” Sid groaned. “Don't worry, I'm not going to make you guys fake it again. Somebody might catch on. As it is, I can claim, for the rest of my life, that I sang onstage with Luster Burnett!”

Luster pretended to scratch the back of his head so that he could flash an emphatic “okay” sign to Creed in the backseat. “You got a point, Sid. Hey, look, there's a neon Budweiser sign in that store window!”

After unloading the cases of beer at the Lost Pines Motel, Creed waved good-bye to Sid Larue as he motored off toward Austin. He was relieved to see Sid leave. Creed had suspected that Kathy might hitch a ride back to Austin with Sid. He was inwardly elated when she didn't. Even though she was off limits, he wanted her around tonight. Was that wrong? Today, he didn't know or care if it was right or wrong. He just felt something special when she was near, and didn't want that feeling to drive off with Sid.

Junior arrived after dark with the fuel filter and some tools Creed would need. He also made a heroic pizza run for the euphorically drunk band. Because Trusty Joe's room was closest to the parking lot, they had carried the beer there and iced it down in the bathtub, all but emptying the motel ice machine. There were cases and cases of beer—Schlitz, Old Milwaukee, Falstaff, Lone Star, Texas Pride, Shiner, Pearl, and Miller High Life. Every fifteen minutes or so, Trusty Joe, like a good host, would take the tiny ice bucket down to the motel ice machine and bring back another scoop to keep the brew properly cooled.

In Trusty's room, Creed kicked his boots off and sat on the bed, his legs outstretched, his back against the wall. There, he amused himself by watching and listening to the band members as they bolted pizza, guzzled beer, and talked about the Houston gig.

After a couple of brews, Junior got up to drive back to Austin. Again, Creed was almost giddy when Kathy didn't ask for a ride back to the city, though he knew she was anxious to get back to work on band business tomorrow.

After Junior left, Trusty Joe came weaving in with another bucket of ice and, as he dumped it in the bathtub, he began to sob. The other band members looked at one another, smirking. Trusty's frequent breakdowns had long since ceased to concern or even bother them. The trait had, in fact, become almost endearing.

Lindsay smashed a half-smoked Virginia Slim cigarette in the ashtray. “Trusty Joe, honey, what is it now?”

“It's melting!” the fiddler blurted.

“This ain't Alaska,” Tump growled.

“Hey, I'll get the ice from now on, man.” Metro sprang to his feet to take the bucket from his bandmate's hand. “You need to relax. You got too much stretch.”