Read Online The First Rule of Ten by Gay Hendricks and Tinker Lindsay - Free Book Online Page B

time in as many days, I relayed the story of Barbara Maxey: her visit to me, and all that followed.
    “It’s just too weird. I don’t think about her for years, then I do, and now this?” His voice broke. “Ah, Jesus.”
    He put down the phone. Blew his nose. When he came back on, his voice was firmer.
    “Thanks for calling to tell me,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
    That’s Zimmy for you, in a nutshell.
    “Maybe,” I said. “Barbara wasn’t just looking you up for old time’s sake. She wanted to warn you. Something to do with your royalties. Any idea what she meant?”
    He went silent. Finally he said, “I might. I had a situation recently, a run-in with somebody over royalties. But I don’t see how Barbara could possibly fit into the picture.”
    “She said it was heavy. ‘Something bad’ were her exact words. Was your situation bad enough to kill for?”
    “Jesus, Ten, I don’t think so, but …”
    “But what?”
    “I sort of got threatened myself the other day. I thought I took care of it.”
    “Sort of? What happened?”
    “Some guy came by the ranch. That was strange all by itself. I’m way off the grid up here.”
    “So I noticed.”
    “Hey, that’s the way I like it. I spent close to thirty years on the road, twenty of them grinding it—I must have sung in every dingy dive in every Podunk town in America. God, those places were depressing. No wonder I self-medicated. Then I had a hit or two, and it was the same thing, only bigger—bigger stages, bigger tours, bigger excuses to do bigger drugs. Different venues, same ol’ same ol’.”
    He drifted off for a moment. I waited.
    “Yeah, so these days I try to stay in one place as much as I can. Today it’s all about Jilly and Burroughs. Keeping it simple, you know? So when this asshole in fancy slip-ons showed up at my front gate, he was dragging some bad memories along with him.”
    “Who was he?”
    “Wasn’t so much who as what. Sharp suit. Ostrich loafers that set him back at least a thousand. He was straight out of the old music-business days, Ten. Godfather time. You know, the Mob.”
    I knew next to nothing about the music business. I certainly didn’t know there was a Mob connection.
    “How’d he find you?”
    “Good question. I’m guessing the Internet. Can’t hardly hide anywhere, anymore. Anyway, my foreman left him cooling his designer heels on the dirt road outside the entrance. Came and got me.”
    “So you talked to him?”
    “Yeah, I figured I’d better. I never unlocked the gate for him, though. I took one look at the punk and knew whatever he was selling, I wasn’t buying.”
    Fascinating as all this was, I couldn’t see what it had to do with Barbara. I glanced at the clock. It was nearing two in the morning. I swallowed a yawn. Maybe Zimmy heard, because he picked up the pace.
    “Long story short, he said his name was Tommy Florio, and he wanted to talk comeback tours. Another bullshit artist is what I thought. I told him I wasn’t interested in any comeback tour, because I wasn’t interested in coming back. Then he handed over some papers, along with a fancy basket of gourmet foods. Said did I know I was owed a bunch of royalties? That my record company had scammed me? He claimed he knew how to make it right.”
    My ears perked up.
    “So, is that true? About the royalties?”
    “Well, yeah. Probably. I mean, record companies skimmed from just about everybody in the early days. We all bitched about it. Still do. But back then if you bitched too much, you found yourself without a contract.”
    “Did you take him up on his offer?”
    “Hell, no. I like money as much as the next guy, but no way was I going to have some goon ‘make things right’ for me. I refused his offer and told him where he could shove his bribe. And that’s when things got heavy, like you said.”
    I grabbed a notebook. Wrote down: Tommy Florio. Royalty scam. Heavy.
    “Florio tells me I’m making a big