He swallowed hard and lowered his voice again. “Well, this is something that only the very top people in the industry are aware of. The execs don’t like to talk about it, and the acts themselves often don’t know about it. But it’s very common practice among record companies, management firms, and the like to take out the industry’s own version of
“Key-man insurance? You mean-” I was trying to figure out how this all fit together.
“Look, it’s like this,” he said, using his greasy fork as a lecture pointer, “you’re a manager or a record company. You’ve taken some ignorant hillbilly with an eighth-grade education and a dynamite twang under your wing and you’ve nurtured him along for, say, two or three years with barely a return. If they up and decide to leave you or fire you, there’s nothing you can do about it. That’s the risk you run, and it’s acceptable. But say your next Billy Ray Cyrus or Garth Brooks or Mary-Chapin Carpenter goes out and gets sloshed one night to celebrate the first gold record and drives head-on into a tractor-trailer.”
“So the people behind the stars have insurance on them? I mean, they can do that?”
“If you’re willing to pay the premiums, you can take out that kind of life insurance on just about anybody.
Nobody wants to suffer through another Patsy Cline or Hank Williams. Can you imagine how much their booking agents lost?”
I stared at what was left of Agon’s lunch for a second. He’d snarfed down the steak like a hungry mastiff. “I guess I can dig around and try to find out. It’s not exactly public record, but it can be done.”
“I can help you there, too, if you’re willing to stick by our bargain.”
“If I dig up a story, you get it, right?”
He grinned and wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin.
“Okay,” I said. “The deal stands.”
“I have a little network of people,” he said, lowering his voice yet once again to the cloak-and-dagger level, “who keep me informed about things in the industry. They provide me with information, and in return, I supplement their largely meager paychecks. You’d be amazed how much secretaries know.”
“Okay,” I said. “So you’ve got a mole in Ford’s office.”
“And I’m willing to share her with you.”
I smiled. “Great, who is she?”
He raised the glass of wine to his lips and downed a third of it in one gulp. Good, I thought, he’s slowing down. Then he set the glass down a bit too dramatically.
“Alvy Barnes,” he said.
My jaw dropped and a little chunk of white bread fell out of the corner of my mouth onto the plate.
Agon Dumbler leaned back in the booth, stared at his empty plate, nodded his fat, pink head, and grinned.
Agon Dumbler’s second lunch appointment showed up a couple of minutes later, and I was left holding a check for $54.68, counting the tip. I stared in amazement as Agon waddled to a table inside the main dining room. His forty-five minutes with me had just been the appetizer.
I paid the check and left the Sunset Grille in shock. So Mac Ford’s loyal assistant had been paid to funnel insider information to a syndicated columnist and
The sky was darkening outside, and the first few rumbles of a springtime thunderstorm were audible in the distance. The wind had picked up as well, with the poor suckers who’d waited an hour to eat outside in the courtyard now struggling to hold down their napkins and wishing they could get inside before the rain came.
I stood on the sidewalk while the valet parker retrieved my car. Just as the kid pulled up I glanced across the street as a white Rolls stopped in front of Faison’s. I ducked down and got into my car quickly as Mac Ford parked on the street and got out of the car. His long hair was pulled back over an expensive sport coat. He wore a faded pair of jeans that probably set him back a hundred bucks. He was music-industry bullshit, all the way to his nonexistent bank account.
I jerked the car into gear and sped away, catching a convenient hole in the traffic on Twenty-first Avenue. I drove past the old Peabody campus, now part of Vanderbilt University, and all the way down to Division Street. My eyes still hurt from lack of sleep and lunch was sitting in my gut like a brick. The worst part, though, was that the thought processes were still fuzzy. I couldn’t seem to get a clear picture of everything. Couldn’t fit the pieces together …
Of course I couldn’t fit them together; I didn’t have them all. Somehow, I’ve got to nail down whether or not Mac Ford had key-man insurance on Rebecca Gibson. If he did, that didn’t mean anything beyond the fact that I’d finally found someone who benefited from her murder.
But that was a hell of a lot more than I had now.
Would that be enough to take to the police? Would that be enough reasonable doubt to get Sergeant E. D. Fouch of the Metro Homicide Squad back on the case? Fouch would no doubt deny that he was even off the case, but I knew better. Once the police had someone in custody that they felt they could hang the crime on, they usually throttled back to a slow idle.
Which was the last thing I could do, no matter how tired I’d become. Fatigue at this level acts almost as a tranquilizer. Consequently, I didn’t even care about the thickening Friday-afternoon traffic, which grew worse by the minute as the thunderstorms moved closer. I crossed the river and headed back into East Nashville.
And what about Faye Morgan? I’d liked her, felt something decent about her. How could she be involved with a sleazeball like Mac Ford?
“There’s no accounting for taste,” I said out loud.
It was nearly two in the afternoon by the time I made it over to Lonnie’s. I remembered to make sure Shadow recognized me before I entered the gate, then knocked loudly on the metal door. It took a few moments, then Lonnie slowly pushed it open, yawning and scratching his side.
“Sorry, I’d dropped off,” he explained, yawning again. “Got to make a run up to Kentucky tonight. Trying to get a little sleep.”
“Stop yawning,” I said, walking past him into the trailer. “You’ll get me started and I won’t be able to quit. You get my message?”
“Yeah, but I haven’t had a chance to get to the bank yet.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I said. “The credit report.”
He nodded his head. “Yeah, hold on.” I heard him yawn loudly as he walked down the narrow hallway to his office.
I paced the floor nervously, wishing he’d get a move on.
“Here you go,” he said, coming back with the shiny fax paper. “But it ain’t pretty.”
I sat down, then scanned the columns and the codes. My credit-report interpretation skills had become a little rusty since I’d largely given up skip-tracing the past six months or so, but I still recognized financial collapse when I saw it. There were two outstanding judgments against him, one for a default on a co-op mortgage in Manhattan; the other a signature loan to First American Bank in Nashville.
He was also months behind on credit-card payments, two other loans, and, of course, car payments. The Rolls was going this month; my guess is the year-old Ford Ranger pickup would be next. Even his house payment in Nashville was two months behind. And to top it all off, a check-clearing agency had reported a series of bounced checks, which in this state could land you in jail if there weren’t so many of them being written that the jails couldn’t hold us all.
Ford McKenna Ford was truly and genuinely in desperate straits. Everything he’d worked for, fought for, lied for, cheated for, and screwed anybody who got in his way for, was about to be lost. When word got out in the industry that everything had collapsed, Mac Ford would be history.
After all, nobody remembers a loser.
Alvy Barnes had an unlisted number, but a quick stop by the public library got me an address out of the city directory, which I verified through the Tennessee Department of Safety. If people ever find out how easy it is to
