“Hang on,” Harley said. “Everybody stop playing and come and sit down.”
“Huh?” said the drummer.
“Rule one. When we’re playing, we don’t discuss business.”
Harley pointed to the far end of the loft. At the easy chairs and leather sofa that formed part of the living area. “Let’s grab something to eat and drink, and settle in and talk about this.”
The drummer was the first to move. The others followed.
Harley stayed back a few steps and put his hand on Webb’s shoulder.
“Straight up,” Harley said. He spoke in a low voice to keep the conversation private. “That your song?”
“You steal Gerald Dean’s guitars?”
“No.”
“Then I’ve got your back.”
To Webb, those words felt like the first rays of sunshine penetrating fog.
At the other end of the loft, Harley made a point of grabbing a can of soda and handing it to Webb with everyone already seated and watching.
“First thing,” Harley said. “I invited Webb here as my friend. Someone’s your friend, you give them a good hearing if someone else makes accusations against them, right?”
“Stealing someone else’s music is a big deal in this town,” said the bass player.
“Let me ask you this,” Harley responded. “How many great songs has Gerald Dean written?”
Silence.
“How many not-so-great songs has he written?” Harley asked.
Again silence.
“See what I mean?” Harley said. “The guy’s a decent producer. We all know that. He’s not known as a writer.”
Harley kept going. “When I was busking with this kid, a guy accidentally threw a hundred into my guitar case. Kid said no way we should take it. Does that sound like someone who’d steal a guitar?”
Harley turned to Webb. “This is putting you on the spot. But I’m thinking any guy who brings breakfast to someone he believes is living on the streets has a code that would keep him from ripping someone off.”
“It’s my song,” Webb said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the papers he’d been given at the law office. “I came here to show you this and ask about—”
Harley held up a hand, smiling. “We’re music people. Not agents or managers. If you wrote that song, no way is it your first song. So I’m okay doing this to you: play us something else of yours.”
Webb understood where this was going. He went back to the center of the loft and stood alone among the cords and speakers. He picked up his guitar and strummed it a few times to be sure it was still in tune. Of course it was, but this was something he did automatically.
Webb didn’t see any point in playing another up-tempo song like “Rock the Boat.” Harley’s challenge was simple: show us you are a songwriter, because we know Gerald Dean is not. Webb would demonstrate some range and give them his favorite slow song. About a girl he missed—a girl whose smile he missed.
“Tuesday Afternoon.”
Webb started slow and kept it slow.
In my favorite spot on a Tuesday afternoon
With a coffee pot and a window to the world
Where my thoughts seem so much smarter
And my heart beats that much harder
For you…
Webb had spent some time with a girl from Alabama, who had come up to Nashville to visit. Not enough time. She’d left to go to college in California, and he’d spent long hours thinking about what might have been.
Did you leave me because I wasn’t what you hoped for?
Wish you would have told me something I could do
But there’s some things you can’t change
The way that I can’t change
That I love you…
As he sang and played, he went back in time. He was sitting in the houseboat with Ali Hawkins, watching rain streak the windows and spatter the calm water, listening to her say she was going to California and it wouldn’t make much sense for either of them to wait for the other while they were on opposite sides of the country.
The sadness and longing must have filled his voice, because when he finished the song, it was so quiet that the ticking of a clock somewhere seemed to echo across the loft.
Finally the bass player stood. He gave a single clap of his hands. Then a few seconds later, another clap. He spaced the claps far enough apart that his applause served as an ovation. The others stood and joined him.
Webb lifted his guitar strap off his shoulders and set down his guitar. He was just realizing how important this moment was. He didn’t know who these guys were—it was killing him not to go over and check out the gold records—but they were obviously a tight-knit group of Nashville insiders who believed first in music. “Tuesday Afternoon” had been make or break. If he’d messed up, he’d have been out the door.
His legs wobbled on the way back to the sitting area. He sensed that whatever had just happened was far bigger and better for him than if he’d landed a spot with the band at the audition earlier that day.
Harley met him halfway, put an arm around his shoulder and walked him the rest of the way to the guys.
“All right,” Harley said to them, his left arm still across Webb’s shoulders, “I’m thinking maybe we should put out some feelers and find out what’s really happening with Gerald Dean these days.”