to fight. If I sat around acting pretty and taking shit from guys like Chavez I wouldn't have lived past sixth grade."
I decided it was safest to return my attention to the letter I'd been reading.
It was poorly typed on onionskin paper. All the o's were solid black circles and the a's were cocked to the right. It read:
Dear Jason:
I really appreciate what you said you would do for me and I hope you like the songs and your publishing company will decide to take them for your catalogue. I am really willing to work hard as a staff writer and really had a wonderful time with you this weekend too. Please call soon.
Patti Glynn
The letter was dated five years ago. Patti had stapled her picture to the back of it just in case Jason forgot who she was. She was cute—roundish face, feathery brown hair, widely spaced eyes lit up with hope.
There were at least twenty letters like that dated as far back as 1982, many with photos attached, all from different women addressed to a different man's name.
Sometimes they were to Larry the label head and sometimes to Paul the producer.
Sometimes, along with veiled references to nights of passion, they mentioned checks they were sending. One woman wrote that she'd enclosed five hundred dollars because she believed Jason PaulLarry was going to buy just the right birthday present that would put her name in solid with the Artists & Repertoire director at EMICapitol.
I looked up at Allison. "These letters—"
"Sure," she said. "They're all to Les."
"Les had a reputation. He had real connections. If he wanted to use women he didn't have to lie about who he was. Why—?"
Allison paddled the toes of her shoes back and forth a few times. "I never confronted him about it, but I think I know what he'd say. He'd tell you it was harmless fun. He'd say he was weeding the crop of would bes and if they were really this stupid, they would fall for the first con man they met in Nashville anyway so he might as well save them the trip."
I couldn't quite grab on to Allison's tone. It wasn't resentment. More like wistfulness.
"You think it was harmless fun?"
Allison smiled, picking at the netting on her palm. "No, sweetie. I think Les had an addiction. He was hooked on making himself the answer to everybody's problem—at least until you left the room or signed his contract or whatever. The less you mattered to him, the crazier he could afford to get offering you what you wanted to hear, and the more he liked it. Do you see?"
"I'm not sure."
She shrugged. "I guess you'd have to meet him. It doesn't matter. The point is he couldn't have stopped selling confidence if he wanted to. He was a hell of an agent."
"So why would he want to vanish?"
Allison crossed her legs at the ankles and hunched forward, tapping her finger on her chin like she was pretending to think. "Gosh, Tres. Aside from the fact that he could never get out of his job any other way, that he was a naturalborn son of a bitch, that his client list was eroding so bad he had to pin his hopes on unknowns like Miranda, that he was drinking or snorting or popping most of his profits, that he and I fought every time we saw each other—I just can't imagine."
I stared at my lap, where I'd been collecting the most useful things from Les' desk drawers.
I held up a black leather shaving kit full of pill bottles and bags. I pulled out one Ziploc with a dozen white tablets in it.
"Amphetamines?" I asked.
Allison shrugged. "I can't keep track. He drinks Ryman whiskey straight. The pills change. I think that's Ritalin."
"The stuff they give hyperactive kids?"
She smiled. "That's my husband."
I dug through the other things—a '69 Denton High School yearbook, then some more photographs of Les with various music industry types.
"There's no will," I said.
"He won't make one. He was clear on that. He enjoys the idea of people fighting over his stuff when he's gone."
I shuffled through some other papers without really looking at them. I kept coming back to the photo of Patti Glynn.
"You said Miranda needed protecting from your husband. Is this what you meant?"
The idea seemed to amuse her. "I said she needed to kick butt for herself, sweetie—that's different than being protected. And God, no. Les wouldn't have messed with Miranda. Not like that, anyway."