“Nice of you to show that kind of enthusiasm.” Harley grinned and pointed at Webb. “Some kids these days don’t remember the go-go years of country music in the nineties. Mind if I join you?”
Steven responded by pulling a chair from an empty table and setting it in place for Harley.
“You okay if Elle takes a photo of me with you?” Steven asked.
“We’ll do better than that if you like,” Harley answered. “Next Thursday night, why don’t you and Elle join me and my friends at my loft for a jam session? Webb says Elle is a spectacular guitarist and singer, and I’d love to have her sit in.”
Steven couldn’t even speak as a grin split his face.
“Thing is,” Harley said, “I love music. Not one for the business side myself, but I know it’s a necessity. That’s why me and the boys get together when we can. And every once in a while, just to keep my sanity, I dress scruffy, put on a ballcap to hide most of my face, and I sit on a street corner and play, with an open guitar case in front of me. I’ll tell you, that’s when you sink or swim. Everywhere else, for someone with a bunch of gold records, it’s like that story about the emperor with no clothes. Fans are going to tell you that you sound great even if you stink. When it’s me and my guitar and nobody knows me, I don’t have to deal with people who think they need to kiss my keister.”
“You couldn’t play badly if your hands were taped,” Steven said.
“And I believe you just proved my point.” Harley grinned to take the offense out of it. “Not that you were trying to kiss my keister. It’s pretty clear people in the music business these days want to keep you and your daughter happy. My buddy in a&r raves about Elle.”
Steven looked at Webb. “This is the musician friend you were just talking about?”
Webb shrugged. “Thought he needed breakfast one morning.”
“Yup,” Harley said. “I’m busking and this kid comes up and gives me a bagel and some coffee, like I’m a homeless person. I was cool with that and glad he didn’t know me. He had his own guitar, so we jammed some, and it turned out the kid could play.”
“In the nineties,” Webb said to Steven, “the iPod didn’t even exist. Neither did iTunes. How was I to know who this guy was?”
Webb grinned at Harley. “But I did know Lou Reed.”
Harley grinned back at the jab.
“I loved it,” Harley said to Steven. “And I loved how Webb sounded. Reminded me of me when I first moved to Nashville. So I figured I’d mess with him a bit—ask him to come up to my loft and jam with the guys in my band, then enjoy the expression on his face when he figured out who we were.”
“They managed to keep up,” Webb said to Elle. “You won’t have to teach them much when you get there.”
Steven groaned.
Elle looked like she was still trying to figure out what was happening.
And Gerald Dean sat upright and stiff, exuding anger.
“The reason I’m here,” Harley said, “is that when Webb was jamming with us, I asked him to play the song he’d played on the street with me. That’s when it got real quiet. I had no idea what was happening to the song, and that’s when one of the guys said he’d already heard it. Said the word was out there that some kid from Canada was trying to rip it off from Gerald Dean. Said Dean was telling everyone the kid stole a couple of guitars.”
Harley turned his gaze to Gerald. “Not cool. You should have proof before you tell people someone stole guitars from your studio. It’s a small town when it comes to the music business. You know how important reputation is.”
Gerald sputtered, “You have no right to—”
“Shut up,” Steven told Gerald. “If Harley Hays is here, there must be a good reason for it.”
“I didn’t know anything then about the legal action,” Harley said. “But I gave Webb a chance to prove he really was a songwriter. He knocked it out of the park with something called ‘Tuesday Afternoon.’ For me, that was almost all I needed if I had to choose between whether Webb wrote it or Dean wrote it. But, of course, that wouldn’t do any good in court.”
Harley paused, as if he wanted to make sure Steven was listening closely. “I’ve been around long enough to know a thing or two about the business end myself. Reputation means a lot, not only in music but also in life. The advice I gave Webb was not to push this legal business any farther or harder. Mud-throwing spatters everybody. Webb does want all the legal stuff to stop. It’s good for your daughter, it’s good for you, and it’s good for Webb.”
Harley nodded at Webb. “Where’s the other paper? From the attorney?”
Webb pulled a second paper from his back pocket and unfolded it. “This will officially assign rights to the song. I’ve signed it where I need to.”
“Would you mind giving it to Dean then?” Harley asked.
Webb passed it across. Gerald had begun to smile.
As he read it, however, Gerald’s smile turned to a frown. “This assigns rights to you!”
“It’s my song,” Webb said. “There’s a place at the bottom to sign, and if you do, there won’t be any more legal action. My attorney will confirm that with your attorney. My attorney will also expect a check from you to cover the legal expenses to this point. It might not be a lot to you, but it is to me.”
Webb let that hang a couple of beats. “And oh yeah. You’re also going to write a certified check to refund me all of the production money I spent on the songs you never delivered.”
“But—”
Webb cut Gerald off. “You really don’t want to go to court, do you? The amount you were going to sue me for is about what we’ll ask from you. It’s going to be a lot simpler if you just sign the paper. And you’ve got a deadline of five minutes to think it over.”
Steven said, “Elle, you told me you wrote the song with Dean that afternoon we met with him.”
“I’d never lie about something like that,” Elle said. “I hate liars as much as you do.”
They both looked at Gerald, but Harley spoke and drew the attention back to himself.
“Mr. Adams, I’d hate to go to court too,” Harley said. “Because as it turns out, I’d be a primary witness along with Elle. And what the judge would hear from me is that at about the same time Gerald was pretending to begin to write the song with Elle, Webb here was playing it on a street corner with me.”
Gerald blurted, “You are making this up. You have no proof.”
“Actually,” Harley said, “we do.”
Harley snorted as he spoke to Webb. “Moose Jaw, right? Of all places.”
“Moose Jaw?” Steven said.
“A town in Saskatchewan,” Harley said. “I remember touring through it once. Turns out a guy named Ward from Moose Jaw took a video of us as Webb played the song. I’ve already tracked him down, and he’s emailed it to Webb’s attorney. Time stamp and all. Plus the guy is ready to fly down from Canada any time and testify. I’m sure a judge will give that kind of evidence a lot of weight.”
Steven leaned across the table and stared directly at Gerald Dean. “I strongly suggest you sign that piece of paper. And give him all his money back. Because if it comes to a legal fight, I’ll back this Jim Webb kid as long as it takes. And I suspect my pockets are a lot deeper than yours.”