Shortly after eleven the next morning, Webb stepped into a restaurant called the Pancake Pantry. Harley said it was one of the great breakfast places in Nashville. For the occasion, Webb was wearing the Saskatchewan Roughriders logo on his chest.
On the walls were the standard head shots of celebrities and musicians who had stopped by the Pancake Pantry over the years. Webb grinned when he saw one of Harley. Who knew the guy had been a major country star a generation ago?
Webb scanned the restaurant and saw Gerald Dean sitting with Elle and a man he guessed was Elle’s father.
Time to rock the boat, Webb thought. He stepped forward amid the din of conversation in the crowded restaurant.
There was an open chair at the table, and Webb stopped and said, “Hello. I’m Jim Webb. I hope you don’t mind if I join you for a few moments.”
“Yes,” Gerald said. “We do. We’re waiting for someone.”
Elle scowled at Webb. “Daddy, this is the guy from the audition.”
Elle’s father was large in the shoulders. He wore a plaid shirt and blue jeans. He looked exactly like his picture in the online advertisements for his chain of lumber stores in Minnesota. Webb had done his research before going to the Pancake Pantry. This was Steven Adams.
“The guy who stole the guitars from the studio?” Steven said.
“Since that’s just a rumor,” Webb said, “I’d appreciate a chance to explain myself.”
“No,” Gerald said. “We’ve got a guy coming from a&r. This is an important meeting. Now that Elle has a band to back her up, we’ve got a deal memo to discuss.”
a&r. Artists and Repertoire. The division of a label responsible for signing new talent.
Webb looked at Steven. “As best as I can tell from what I read about you online, you built your business on being fair. I’m just asking for a chance to be heard. Five minutes max. If I’m right, it will ensure that your investment in Elle’s career makes sense.”
“I hope you’re not implying that I’m trying to buy her a career,” Steven said. His tone suggested he was sensitive to the accusation.
“I’ve heard Elle play and I’ve heard her sing,” Webb said. “I don’t think anyone would ever make that accusation. She’s too good. Word around town is that she’s going to be the next Taylor Swift. Someone with a lot of talent who did things right with a lot of savvy investment and help from a father who knows business.”
Steven grunted, satisfied by Webb’s answer. He pointed at the empty chair. “You have five minutes.”
Gerald tried to speak. “But—”
“Five minutes,” Steven said. “There’s no downside to giving this kid a chance to tell his side of the story.”
Gerald glared at Webb.
There was a coffee cup on a saucer in front of Webb. He turned the cup upside down so the server wouldn’t offer to pour coffee. This too seemed to relax Steven. Elle, on the other hand, kept giving Webb dark looks.
“I also understand from a musician friend,” Webb began, speaking to Steven Adams, “that you and Elle went around town to some of the best producers in the business. You promised a great bonus and a percentage of future earnings for the producer who could help her break in.”
“That’s no secret,” Steven said. “I approached this like an investment.”
“We don’t need this,” Gerald said to Steven. “We need to be preparing for the a&r guy.”
Webb went steely cold and spoke to Gerald with a restrained fury that made the man shrink. “You, sir, have made a public accusation that I stole guitars from your studio. If you aren’t man enough to give me a chance to defend myself, tell all three of us right now and I’ll leave.”
Gerald blinked and looked away.
Webb turned back to Steven. He exhaled, finding calmness again. “And one other thing I’ve heard. Ahead of time, you asked each producer to come up with an idea for an original song to write with Elle.”
“Yes,” Steven said. “That’s just good business. The artist needs to be a co-writer—otherwise he or she loses out on a big percentage. It doesn’t make sense to cut songs if most of the money goes to the label and to a writer.”
Webb said to Elle, “I know you think I’m scum. But I hope you’ll still answer a question. The day before the audition, when you wrote it with him, how much did you come up with and how much did he suggest?”
“I’m a 40 percent writer on it,” she said.
“But did you write 40 percent of it?” Webb asked.
Her silence was enough of an answer.
To break the silence, she looked at her father. “Gerald was on a roll. Inspired. I didn’t want to get in the way. And he said it didn’t matter because I’d still be listed as co-writer.”
“It happens a lot,” Gerald told Steven.
“Mr. Adams,” Webb said to Steven, “I’ve heard from a few sources lately that Mr. Dean has a habit of recording everything that goes on in his studio. What would it do to your daughter’s career if people learned that he ripped that song off after I played it for him earlier? Because as co-writer, Elle is also listed as the primary witness in a legal action filed against me. She will be required to testify that the song was written on a specific date at a specific location with her. And that I was not the writer. So when I prove it was written before that date—”
“Court action?” Steven’s voice was a threatening rumble as he glanced at Gerald. “Court action? That never plays well in the media. And music is a media-driven game.”
“It won’t make it to court,” Gerald said. “That’s why I had my attorney initiate the legal action. And because it won’t go to court, I didn’t think it was anything you needed to worry about.”
“Why wouldn’t it go to court?” Steven asked, clearly unhappy. “This is not a relationship where you hide things from me.”
“It won’t go to court because he knows I can’t afford it,” Webb said. He pulled a folded paper from his pocket. “It’s all right here. A legal request from Gerald’s attorney for me to sign over the rights to the song. My attorney said I’d have to spend thousands to fight it and spend thousands more if I lost. I don’t have that kind of money.”
Dean said, “This kid can’t go around town making claims that Elle and I stole the song from him.”
Steven looked at Webb. “You are down to one minute.”
“The same musician friend of mine said this seems like a heavy-duty kind of thing to threaten somebody like me with, being new to town and with no connections,” Webb continued, “as if Dean wants to make sure I run away as soon as possible. My friend said it made him wonder why Dean is so anxious to get rid of me.”
“Gerald?” Steven asked the producer.
“I will repeat. This kid can’t go around town making claims that Elle and I stole the song from him. I’m trying to protect her reputation as much as mine.”
“Or,” Webb said to Gerald, “maybe once you heard her sing, you knew exactly how much it would be worth to you to be the producer to take Elle to a&r. And maybe you didn’t have a good song idea until you heard me play ‘Rock the Boat.’ I remember exactly what you asked after I played it for you. You asked if I had recorded it or shared it. When I said no, you told me it would be a good idea not to let anyone else hear it. To save myself the embarrassment. I think you knew that if you pretended to write the song with Elle—”
“Not if it’s true,” Webb said. “That’s why I invited my musician friend to join us.”
“We really are waiting for someone from a&r,” Steven said. “I’m not interested in a he-said/he-said argument right now. And frankly, even if Elle didn’t do the lion’s share of writing, she was there as they came up with it. You should probably take your attorney’s advice.”
“Mr. Adams,” Webb said, “my musician friend is a good buddy of your a&r person, which is why I knew where to find you. My musician friend also asked your a&r person to show up a little late. Really, it is for your benefit as much as mine if you listen to him.”
Webb lifted his hand as Harley walked into the restaurant.
Harley walked over to the table. “Hey, I’m Harley Hays. Nice to meet you.”
Steven stood so quickly that he almost knocked his chair over.
“Harley Hays?” Steven said. “The Harley Hays?”