The Roundhouse: A Crime of Passion, Part IV

The digital clock in the Honda read 3:17 as we merged into the mess of Southbound traffic on I-65. According to WPLN, the local NPR station, someone had set the Nathan Bedford Forrest statue near the Harding Place exit on fire. The Northbound lanes of the Interstate would be closed until the blaze, flames from which were reported to be fifty feet high, could be contained. The commuters in the Southbound lanes were engaged in enough rubbernecking to slow traffic to a crawl, so Stan and I were able to get a long look at the spectacle as we approached.

The statue had long been a source of controversy, as much for the racist subtext it offered as the sheer absurdity of its execution. For the recreation of the infamous Confederate general was not a traditional rendering involving carved granite and a somber expression but rather a wildly cartoonish, forty-foot tall exaggeration featuring Forrest, the future Imperial Wizard of the KKK, madly waving a pistol while riding an oversize horse rearing up on its hind legs. The general and his steed seemed more poised to charge into straight into an animated segment of Hee-Haw than the Battle of Gettysburg.

Now completely engulfed in flames, the effigy resembled a demon sent up from the gates of Hell. Eight of the twelve Confederate flags that surrounded it were also on fire, adding a certain amount of pageantry to the slow procession of traffic now creeping by on the highway.

“It’s about time,” Stan opined from the passenger seat before cracking the seal on a fresh fifth of E&J brandy.

“But how do you set a statue on fire?” I wondered.

As if on cue, the news announcer on WPLN cut into Fresh Air to report that a break-in had occurred at the nearby National Guard Armory sometime the night before. Twenty gallons of military grade acetone had been stolen, birthing a theory that the Nathan Bedford Forrest statue might have been doused in the chemical before being set alight. Depending on how long the the highly-flammable solution had been allowed to soak into the porous clay of the statue before ignition, a local fire chief stated, the fire might burn unabated for quite some time.

A few miles after negotiating the log jam near the burning statue, we got off the Interstate at the Concord Road exit. After winding through several miles of pasture dotted with gated clusters of faceless suburban mansions, we turned into a dirt road hidden in a clump of poplar trees. We followed the bumpy drive for another half mile before coming to a stop in front of a plain white clapboard farm house with a barn behind it. Stan hopped out of the car and immediately vomited on the grass. I took in the surroundings and began making my way toward the barn, from which the unmistakable sounds of classic soft rock were emanating. We paused by the door to listen.

You’re a rich girl
And you’ve gone too far
But you know it won’t matter anyway
You can rely on the old man’s money
You can rely on the old man’s money

“What the hell,” said Stan.

“This is getting weirder by the minute,” I agreed.

The barn’s interior was fairly traditional, a long, dusty, rectangular space with hay lofts running along each side, its only incongruity a decidedly non-pastoral sound stage that had been built at the far end of it. PA speakers were stacked on either side of the stage and a rudimentary light scaffolding holding eight or nine gel pots was hung over it, suspended by the hay lofts on either side.

Two men, blond and brunette mirror images of each other, stood front and center in a group of four backing musicians, the brunette strumming an electric guitar and singing background vocals, the blond holding a microphone and singing lead, his hips gyrating ever so slightly to the beat of the kick drum. Both wore black shirts with military epaulets on the shoulders and striped skinny ties, loosened, I assumed, because of the heat. They were tall, both over six feet. And both sported hair styles featuring long, wispy bangs that recalled several female leads from early Burt Reynolds films.

The song they were playing suddenly halted for a beat, then kicked back into a dramatic new section, prompting the blond man to bend at the waist and wave his right hand in the air while singing:

And don’t you know! don’t you know?
That it’s wrong to take what is given you
So far gone! on your own
You can get along if you try to be strong
But you’ll never be strong

“This is terrible,” yelled Stan from the bale of hay upon which he had situated himself. He began barking uncontrollably, then broke into long, ear-shattering howls. Onstage, the blond singer opened his eyes, looked around him, then squinted out into the barn.

“Hold it,” he said into the microphone. The band kept playing, egged on by the dark-headed twin, who was now turned back towards the drummer, shaking his head back and forth as if afflicted with an unpleasant condition.

“STOP!” The blond singer shouted into his mic. The band stopped.

“Hi,” I waved towards the stage. “I’m Andrew. I spoke with you on the phone earlier?”

The entire band was squinting out into the barn now, some shielding their eyes from the stage lights as if staring into a blinding sunset.

“This is a closed rehearsal,” the blond singer said, his voice booming through the PA, dripping with reverb.

“No man, it’s cool, it’s cool,” said the dark one, waving his arms as if guiding a plane into a gate. “Come on up. We can’t see you out there.”

I approached the stage. “Sorry to interrupt. I thought we had a four o’clock appointment.”

“Yeah, totally,” said the brunette, who promptly took of his guitar, jumped off the front of the stage and extended his hand. “I’m Peter.”

“Peter Bradley Adams?”

“P-Bra, if you’re nasty.” He giggled and winked. “Did you bring your assistant?”

I pointed at Stan, still on the hay bale, sniffing the air intently.

“Oh,” Adams laughed, “the dog. Right. That’s totally cool. What’s his name?”

“Stan. And this must be Mr. Trebing?” I pointed toward the blond singer, who was still onstage, leaning on a microphone stand, eyeing us warily.

“Right. Hey Jonathan,” said Adams, “this is the guy from CAA. And his dog.”

"CAA?" asked Trebing.

"The booking agency, dude."

Trebing straightened and jumped off the stage, jogged over and shook my hand. “Jonathan Trebing,” he smiled, pumping my arm, “great to meet you.” He looked at Peter. “Dude,” he hissed, “you didn’t even tell me he was coming today.”

“Dude, I totally forgot. It was, like, totally last minute.”

Trebing relented. “That’s cool, man. Don’t worry about it. So, Andrew, you, like, want a beer?”

Stan had come up with the idea of impersonating a talent agent. It wasn’t much of a stretch for me as I had spent my first year in Nashville interning at Buddy Rich, an old school Music Row booking agency. The deception was necessary as neither Adams nor Trebing, or Deaderick, for that matter, knew our real motives for being there. The situation would require a certain amount of finesse.

“Why must you play that shitty geriatric music?” asked Stan, reclining on his elbows, halfway into his first E&J.

Trebing and Adams, seated together on a bale of hay, looked at each other and laughed nervously. “Uh, dude,” said Trebing. “No disrespect, but Hall and Oates did not make shitty music.”

“12 top ten singles in four years,” added Adams. “That’s like, our whole set.”

“I think what Stan really wants to know,” I interjected, “is why you stopped playing your own songs and formed One on One.”

“Oh, that,” said Trebing. “It was an aesthetic choice, really. I mean, like, dudes with acoustic guitars are, like, just not fashionable anymore. I mean, like, leave it alone already? Gordon Lightfoot had that shit totally wrapped up back in the 80’s.”

“70’s, dude,” Adams corrected.

“Whatever. Like, I’m not a fucking historian. The point is...” Trebing smoothed his bangs across his forehead a few times. “Um. We’ve totally found our audience now.”

“One on One is the premier Hall and Oates tribute band in the country. We’re unchallenged,” claimed Adams. “I mean, unbeatable.”

“Yeah,” agreed Trebing.

Stan let out a deep belch, then added, “I heard you guys really tore it up at the Tashian/Fish wedding.”

“Oh yeah, man, that was, like, an amazing gig,” said Adams.

“Dude, that gig was totally like, an artistic high point for me?” Trebing took a swig from his Miller Lite. “I’m a sucker for fat girls in tight dresses.” He stared off toward the horse stables.

“That reminds me, I think you guys know a friend of mine. Rachel Heusenstamm?” I lied.

“Oh yeah. She was my roommate before we bought this place. Not fat,” said Trebing.

“So hot,” said Adams.

“Yeah, Peter’s been so into her for, like, forever,” laughed Trebing.

“Really?” I prodded.

“Yeah, like, I totally thought I was, like, in there at the wedding, right? I was at her table during a set break, like, totally vibing with her? It was so intense. Then...”

Trebing broke into a monotone giggle that sounded like a short-circuiting fog horn.

“Shut up, dude,” said Adams.

“Then what?” I asked.

Adams placed his elbows on his knees before continuing. “I don’t know, man, it was so weird.”

“She went totally mental,” giggled Trebing, leaning to his left and almost falling of the hay bale.

“Like, this dude? John Deaderick... you know him?”

I shook my head.

“He comes up to the table to say something and, before he can even open his mouth, Rachel just, like, turns around and slaps him? Like, as hard as she can.”

“Really?” I feigned surprise. “That’s odd. Why?”

“No fucking idea man, no fucking clue,” Adams shook his head. “We thought it was funny but Deaderick got all red and walked off. I think he was, like, really pissed.”

“She creamed him,” said Trebing. “Had to hurt. We were totally laughing and shit.”

“ ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’ “ Stan added, then continued to sniff a large pile of horse excrement in the corner of the barn.

“Dude, is your dog high?” asked Adams.

“So,” I redirected, “do you think you might have said something to Miss Heusenstamm that made her hit Mr. Deaderick?”

“No way. I was, like, reciting the second verse of ‘Did It In A Minute’... which, by the way, always works with chicks, you should try it sometime.”

“Totally,” Trebing confirmed.

“Interesting. So you’re telling me that Miss Heusenstamm was totally, um, absorbed in your conversation, didn’t even see M. Deaderick approach the table?”

“Uh-uh.” Adams exchanged looks with Trebing. “Dude... Andrew... Like, no disrespect or anything, but, like, can CAA get us some corporate gigs?”

“Yeah man,” Trebing added, “that shit pays!” He and Adams high-fived and drained the rest of their beers.

The sun was just beginning to set behind the farms along Hillsboro Road. It was on this road, seven years ago, that I had driven Stan, an innocent, six-month old puppy, back to my apartment on Belmont Boulevard for the first time. The girl at the rescue shelter had described him as having a real “personality,” which he had quickly demonstrated by pooping on the passenger seat and then speaking his first words to me: “Can you do something about this?”

As I watched him staring out the passenger window, surveying the wide-open farm land, sniffing all of the scents of Summer through his adult nose, I wondered if it all might have been a mistake. Stan could have been ended up on one of those farms, running and carousing to his heart’s content, a healthy, vibrant animal untainted by the seamier aspects of urban life, herding sheep instead of chasing criminals, sleeping under a warm eiderdown with a freckled child named Jimmy instead of waking up in a dive bar with immigrant prostitutes. I could only hope that the over-socialization to which I had exposed him had not left him completely jaded, had not totally diminished his proximity to the eternal possibilities of the human race.

“What a couple of whack jobs,” he muttered, slumping back into the passenger seat. “I’ve shaken down Bull Terrier’s with more talent.”

“Well,” I reasoned, “it wasn’t a total waste of time. At least we know now that Heusenstamm wasn't reacting to something that Adams said. Unless she is habitually driven to violence by Hall and Oates lyrics.”

“Not unheard of,” said Stan.

“Did you get anything?”

“Of course,” He leaned over for me to light his fresh cigarillo, “although it was a exceptionally difficult to decipher much through the goddamn barnyard stench. However,” he continued, blowing smoke through the cracked passenger window, “I can tell you that, A, the horses have too much corn in their feed, B, the drummer has a bit of a cocaine problem, C, the wiring is faulty in the lighting rig and, D... Adams and Trebing both have traces of a very particular aromatic oil on them.”

“Well, they have the same haircut, too.”

“No, no,” he waved a paw in the air. “This was an olbilatum/lavender/sandalwood mix. A custom blend from Aveda. Distinctly feminine. There’s no way those two bought it for themselves.”

“OK, so...”

“The scent was old. I would say it had been there for a week, maybe a little over.”

"You don't think..."

“I need to get close enough to Heusenstamm to find out if it’s her scent.”

“And if it’s on both of them...”

“... this thing is darker and dirtier than I first imagined.” He flicked the cigarillo out the window and yawned. “Heusenstamm. Never trust a Kraut.”