could tell he was formulating what to say to Betsy.
“That’s right.”
“Don’t you get lonely?” he asked.
“I’m learning to be alone without feeling lonely. There’s a difference.” At least that’s what I was told.
While Spain was trying to figure out what I’d said, the waitress brought our food. Spain’s rack looked delicious and totally artery clogging.
Spain looked up from his plate long enough to ask, “How many songs have you had cut over the years?”
“Just ten,” I answered.
“You should be loaded, so you buy dinner,” he said.
“Not loaded at all, just enough to keep the wolves from the doors. I paid cash for a lot of the work I contracted for the house in the country and the apartment. I’ve only had two in the top ten, none of which went to number one. I haven’t written a song in years, and what with all the CD burning, the money’s not what it used to be.”
“Yeah, one of those was ‘Unconditionally’, the song about your wife. What was the other one?”
“Cowboys and Engines,” I said.
“That’s right,” he said, “Great song, ah . . . I like the other one too.”
“Thanks, but speaking of being loaded, Betsy’s real-estate business seems to be doing well. I see ‘Spain Real Estate’ signs all over the place, and I know you can’t afford that suit and those shoes on your pay.”
“Okay . . . Okay. I’m buying,” he said.
In between bites, he wiped his hands clean from the roll of paper towels the restaurant supplied for each table. The pile of used towels was mounting, so was something else. Spain appeared to become very serious.
“I found out something concerning those two shooters you took down. They were imported by Eddie Tuma.”
Chapter 14
Eddie Tuma, ‘the octopus’ I’d been feeling at my back, was Nashville’s turn of the century Al Capone wanna-be. I didn’t know much about him, other than he’s not one of the good guys.
Spain continued, “I’ve got it on good word that Bench borrowed a ton of money from Tuma to buy property on First and Second Avenues and was supposed to cut him in on the profits after reselling, and a percentage of the rental properties. Instead, he sent Tuma the money back with some interest. Kinda cut Tuma off at the knees. Not too bright of Bench.”
“Uh-hunh,” I said.
“I’ll tell you what’s worse,” Spain said, looking straight at me.
I pushed my beans around on my plate. Bar-B-Q beans don’t like me. I’d forgotten they came with the dinner.
“Your ex-client and apartment benefactor, Samuel Bench, has left the country with no need or intention of returning to the US, and Eddie Tuma has let it be known you’re now his new hobby. He didn’t take kindly to you spoiling his sweet revenge and his message to any other future business partners that ‘you don’t fuck with Eddie Tuma’.”
“Uh-hunh,” I said.
“You don’t seem to be too shook up over it,” he said.
“This isn’t what you wanted to see me about. You said there was someone who wanted to meet me, some kind of interview.”
The waitress came by and asked if we were through, and started clearing the table. She was all business, as if she could feel the vibe in the air.
“Do you know the name George Carr?” Spain asked.
It didn’t take but a second for the name to register. It was on the news and in the Nashville papers.
I said, “He’s the guy whose wife was killed in Houston, a car wreck, about three months ago, right?”
“Yeah. Anyway, about two months ago, he calls me. I know him through some real-estate shindigs Betsy’s hauled me to.”
The waitress brought the check and looked undecided as to which side to put it on.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Bonnie. What’s yours?” she asked, with a dash of attitude. I think she was still miffed at Spain for wiping down what was for sure a ‘Bonnie Cleaned’ table.
“My name’s Tucker,” I said. Then pointed to Spain,
“That’s right.”
“Don’t you get lonely?” he asked.
“I’m learning to be alone without feeling lonely. There’s a difference.” At least that’s what I was told.
While Spain was trying to figure out what I’d said, the waitress brought our food. Spain’s rack looked delicious and totally artery clogging.
Spain looked up from his plate long enough to ask, “How many songs have you had cut over the years?”
“Just ten,” I answered.
“You should be loaded, so you buy dinner,” he said.
“Not loaded at all, just enough to keep the wolves from the doors. I paid cash for a lot of the work I contracted for the house in the country and the apartment. I’ve only had two in the top ten, none of which went to number one. I haven’t written a song in years, and what with all the CD burning, the money’s not what it used to be.”
“Yeah, one of those was ‘Unconditionally’, the song about your wife. What was the other one?”
“Cowboys and Engines,” I said.
“That’s right,” he said, “Great song, ah . . . I like the other one too.”
“Thanks, but speaking of being loaded, Betsy’s real-estate business seems to be doing well. I see ‘Spain Real Estate’ signs all over the place, and I know you can’t afford that suit and those shoes on your pay.”
“Okay . . . Okay. I’m buying,” he said.
In between bites, he wiped his hands clean from the roll of paper towels the restaurant supplied for each table. The pile of used towels was mounting, so was something else. Spain appeared to become very serious.
“I found out something concerning those two shooters you took down. They were imported by Eddie Tuma.”
Chapter 14
Eddie Tuma, ‘the octopus’ I’d been feeling at my back, was Nashville’s turn of the century Al Capone wanna-be. I didn’t know much about him, other than he’s not one of the good guys.
Spain continued, “I’ve got it on good word that Bench borrowed a ton of money from Tuma to buy property on First and Second Avenues and was supposed to cut him in on the profits after reselling, and a percentage of the rental properties. Instead, he sent Tuma the money back with some interest. Kinda cut Tuma off at the knees. Not too bright of Bench.”
“Uh-hunh,” I said.
“I’ll tell you what’s worse,” Spain said, looking straight at me.
I pushed my beans around on my plate. Bar-B-Q beans don’t like me. I’d forgotten they came with the dinner.
“Your ex-client and apartment benefactor, Samuel Bench, has left the country with no need or intention of returning to the US, and Eddie Tuma has let it be known you’re now his new hobby. He didn’t take kindly to you spoiling his sweet revenge and his message to any other future business partners that ‘you don’t fuck with Eddie Tuma’.”
“Uh-hunh,” I said.
“You don’t seem to be too shook up over it,” he said.
“This isn’t what you wanted to see me about. You said there was someone who wanted to meet me, some kind of interview.”
The waitress came by and asked if we were through, and started clearing the table. She was all business, as if she could feel the vibe in the air.
“Do you know the name George Carr?” Spain asked.
It didn’t take but a second for the name to register. It was on the news and in the Nashville papers.
I said, “He’s the guy whose wife was killed in Houston, a car wreck, about three months ago, right?”
“Yeah. Anyway, about two months ago, he calls me. I know him through some real-estate shindigs Betsy’s hauled me to.”
The waitress brought the check and looked undecided as to which side to put it on.
“What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Bonnie. What’s yours?” she asked, with a dash of attitude. I think she was still miffed at Spain for wiping down what was for sure a ‘Bonnie Cleaned’ table.
“My name’s Tucker,” I said. Then pointed to Spain,
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