In the studio John laid the Fender in its red velvet lined case and closed the lid. He listened to his musicians as they stowed their instruments and prepared to leave for the night. They planned to be back by noon the following day to wrap up the recording session, then they’d be off for two weeks before they were scheduled to start promoting their latest attempt to charm the nation and the world.
“Well, boys,” John said walking toward the door of the sound room, “I’m going to Wimberley. I’ll see ya’ll tomorrow.”
“Hold up, Hoss,” Jake Strum, a tall, slim, black-haired and slightly cross-eyed, thirty year old drummer said. “We’ll walk with ya.”
John laughed and waited for them to catch up. They walked across the reception area and began filing out the door onto the sidewalk. They were surprised to see it was already dark.
“We gotta quit working so many hours, John,” Dempsy Monk, the bass player said, glancing across the street and seeing a pickup door open and a young man step out.
“I hear ya,” John laughed, following him out and onto the sidewalk.
Across the street Danny stood beside the front fender of his pickup with the .45 in his sweaty hand. Tears slid down his cheek. Still, he remained angry and serious as he started across the street to the group of emerging musicians.
“John Travis,” he said, stepping up on the sidewalk and coming up behind the group. “Meet your maker!” he added, raising the .45.
When John turned around to see who had called him, he saw Danny’s face and smiled. He was just getting ready to say he was glad Danny was out of jail when an awesomely, unbelievable force slammed into his upper chest and sent him stumbling back.
The .45 roared again in Danny’s hand. He grinned when the slug slammed ‘the great John Travis’ back a step. Then, he squeezed the trigger again, then again. He was tackled by several of the band members and wrestled none too gently to the sidewalk.
When Danny was on the ground and under his own gun, Jake ran over and knelt beside John. He saw the blood all over John’s chest and heard him gasping for breath. He heard the gurgle in John’s chest and throat and knew he had been hit hard. “Hold on John,” he said calmly. “I’ll call an ambulance. You’ll be fine. Just lay still, Old Son!” Jake was moving for the front door of the studio as he stopped speaking.
It seemed forever before the ambulance and cops arrived. They immediately took Danny into custody and began asking their hundred questions in twenty different ways before they were satisfied that Danny had been the only one involved in the shooting of the world famous singer.
Danny glared and smiled in satisfaction with his night’s work as the cop car drove away down the street with him handcuffed in the back seat.
“Guess one of us ought to call Judy and tell her John’s been shot,” Jake said, watching the cop car drive away. In the distance he heard the warbling of the ambulance’s siren fading into the night as John was rushed away to the hospital.
“I sure don’t want that duty, Jake,” Dempsey Monk said. “Hell, I can hardly breath as it is. My heart’s still caught in my throat! That damn kid bragged about killing a cop yesterday! Can you believe it? And his parents, too. The day before! Damn, I’m just sick, Jake. I can’t do it, man!”
“I’ll call her, Demps,” Jake assured him, gripping his friend’s shoulder firmly. “You and Ross get to the hospital and wait for me there,” Jake said, talking about Ross Adams, the forty year old, most amazing rhythm guitarist Jake had ever heard. Ross was big, a six foot six, two hundred and forty pound, black haired, blue eyed devil that had slapped Danny so hard he’d blacked the boy’s eye, split his lip and knocked a tooth out with one slap. He had then slammed one of his mighty fists into the boy’s side and they had all heard the ribs break with a loud snap. Danny had curled up into a fetal position and fought for his breath. He didn’t have the strength to try and fight his way free and make an escape.
When Dempsey and Ross disappeared down the street on their way to the hospital Jake walked back into the studio and made the call he dreaded more than the call that would inform him that his wife had finally given up the fight and slipped into death. Leona was dying of cancer and had slipped into a coma over six months earlier. It was just a matter of time until the call came. He’d go up and see her at the hospital, he decided, lifting the phone from the cradle. He wondered why bad things happened to good people. Where was God?