By the time he landed in Nashville, he was ready for bigger things.

He hit the top agencies first-Monterey Artists, William Morris, Buddy Lee Attractions-the sw.a.n.ky places on Sixteenth and Seventeenth Avenues where they had lobbies with gold records and Grammys, framed pictures of Hank Williams and Bob Wills and Patsy Cline . . . offices with genuine leather couches and ankle-deep carpets, 206 places where real live stars hung out. At Monterey, w.i.l.l.y Jack was sure that when he walked in, Brenda Lee walked out.

But walking in, it seemed, was the easy part. w.i.l.l.y Jack never got beyond the receptionists at the front desks, the thirty-something women in dark tailored suits who invited him to leave his card, his picture, his tape . . . women who smiled and said they were sorry, but their bosses were in meetings, out of town, at auditions, in taping sessions, on vacations-unavailable.

w.i.l.l.y Jack ran every bluff he could think of-the boss was his cousin, his uncle, his brother-in-law. He was there to deliver a personal message, to pick up a contract, to work on the telephones. But nothing he said got him more than a smile and an invitation to have a nice day.

Once, when he decided to push it, he got an escort to the sidewalk by security, brothers who sang backup on a Roy Acuff record twenty-five years ago.

Two days and two bottles of grain alcohol later, w.i.l.l.y Jack tried the recording companies, but with a different approach. He went to RCA with a recommendation from Dolly Parton, and was sent to Warner Brothers by Roy Orbison. MCA's head recording engineer was waiting for him to deliver a tape and Arista's director of production wanted one of his songs for Kenny Rogers' new alb.u.m. But w.i.l.l.y Jack's stories never clicked. He couldn't get in to see the janitor.

He spent his nights hanging out in the Hall of Fame Bar and Douglas Corner down in Music Square. One night he signed up to sing at the Bluebird Cafe, but by the time his turn came, he was too drunk to tune the Martin.

After ten days in Nashville, he had ducked out of two hotels and two motels and was holed up in a flophouse on Lafayette. He had given up Wild Turkey for Mad Dog Twenty-Twenty-and T-bones Where the Heart Is 207.

for corndogs and fries. He could no longer afford the cheap prost.i.tutes, so he had to settle for tired women who would give it away for a beer and a smoke or a free bed. He had called Claire Hudson twice for money, but hadn't caught her at a phone.

By the time he walked into the old Boston Building on Jefferson, he had one cigarette in his shirt and two dollars and change in his pants. And he was hungry, dirty and tired.

The building, a six-story brick with a frayed awning over the front door, smelled like stale coffee and old books. An out-of-order sign on the elevator had yellowed with age.

The two-line ad in the paper hadn't promised much-auditions for bookings in local clubs-but it was the best offer w.i.l.l.y Jack had seen. He climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and found the Ruth Meyers Agency at the end of the hall, next to the men's room.

When he stepped into a dusty gray office not much bigger than a Dumpster, no one seemed to notice. A middle-aged man sat in a corner, hunkered into his harmonica, his eyes closed in concentration.

A teenage redhead in a Western-fringed miniskirt, a fiddle case clamped between her thighs, teased her frizzy hair into a four-inch pomp.

The white-haired receptionist looked surprised when she hung up the phone and saw w.i.l.l.y Jack at her desk.

"Hi. Are you here to see Ruth Meyers or Nellie?"

"I saw an ad in the paper and-"

"Then you want to see Ruth Meyers. Just go on in," she said as she pointed to a door marked PRIVATE.

w.i.l.l.y Jack didn't knock, just barged in, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the gloom in the large, high-ceilinged room. The only light came through the grimy panes of two windows.

208.

The room was a jumble of amplifiers, filing cabinets, pianos, stereos, speakers, microphones, drums and a ma.s.sive conference table a foot deep in dead plants, take-out cartons, straw hats, sheet music, violin cases and an empty birdcage.

"Jesus Christ. Another guitar player."

She stood up then and walked around the table, came to stand against him, her hard round belly pressed to his chest.

"What's your name?"

"w.i.l.l.y Jack Pickens."

"And you didn't even have to make that up, did you?"

"What?"

She was tall, over six feet, and she smelled of Vicks. She wore a black velvet skirt with half the hem pulled loose and a satin blouse stapled together where b.u.t.tons should have been. Her stockings were rolled down to her ankles and the toes of her felt houseshoes were cut out.

"Well, do you just carry that guitar around for balance?"

"You want me to play?"

"What the f.u.c.k you think I want you to do? Call bingo?"

w.i.l.l.y Jack opened the case, took out the Martin, then slid onto the conference table, sending a doughnut box sailing to the floor. While he tuned up, the woman pulled a jar of Vicks from her pocket and rubbed some just under her nose.

"One tune," she said without interest. "Your best shot."

w.i.l.l.y Jack cleared his throat, then began playing "The Beat of a Heart," while the woman searched through the pile of debris on the table.

Just as he started to sing, she found what she was looking for-a can of Diet Pepsi.

209.

"No matter how lonely you are There's someone in this world who loves you She lifted sheet music from the top of a dead begonia, then poured a dollop of Pepsi over it. She lifted sheet music from the top of a dead begonia, then poured a dollop of Pepsi over it.

"No matter what troubles you have There's someone in the world who cares She walked the length of the table pouring Pepsi onto blackened ferns and leafless ivies. She walked the length of the table pouring Pepsi onto blackened ferns and leafless ivies.

"And if G.o.d really loves you He's not the only one Her gardening done, she uncapped a package of Alka-Seltzer, popped two of them in her mouth, then downed them with the last of the Pepsi.

When the white-haired receptionist opened the door and stuck her head inside, Ruth Meyers held up her hand, a signal to be quiet.

"Just feel it in the beat of a heart"

After the sound of the last note died away, the room was still for several moments, then: "It's gonna cost me a thousand dollars to get you cleaned up," she growled. "Pictures will be another two hundred."

Then, to the receptionist, "Jenny," she boomed, "type up a note for twelve hundred bucks, then call Doc Frazier. He can work us in.

Cancel the trio from Fort Smith and set up the bluegra.s.s singer for Friday afternoon."

210.

"Wait just a d.a.m.ned minute," w.i.l.l.y Jack said as he slid off the table.

"My name's Ruth Meyers. Call me Ruth Meyers."

"Then let me ask you something, Ruth, what's this about-"

"G.o.ddammit! Can't you hear? I said to call me Ruth Meyers. Not Ruth. Not Meyers. You call me Ruth Meyers!"

"Okay, Ruth Meyers! Ruth Meyers! What the h.e.l.l is this twelve-hundred-dollar note? And who's this doctor?" What the h.e.l.l is this twelve-hundred-dollar note? And who's this doctor?"

"Dentist. Doc's a dentist. You've got a cavity the size of a raisin between your two front teeth. And you're gonna get 'em cleaned.

They're green," she said as she made a face.

"I'll be the one who decides-"

"Jenny, call Preston's. Tell them we'll be in this afternoon for a fitting. And I want Jake Gooden or we'll go to Newman's. Jacket, trousers, shirts . . . the works. We'll go to Tooby's for boots." Then to w.i.l.l.y Jack, "What's your shoe size?"

"Nine, but-"

"Tell Tooby we want two-inch heels. Then get in touch with Nina at the Cut-n-Curl. He'll need a style and color." Ruth Meyers checked her watch. "We can be there by four. He needs a manicure, too."

w.i.l.l.y Jack said, "Now, by G.o.d . . ." but he never got to finish.

"Now here's the deal." Ruth Meyers slashed another shot of Vicks beneath her nose. "You'll sign the note and a contract. I take fifteen percent of everything you make. You'll start tomorrow night at Buffy's out on Hermitage. It pays a hundred a night. You'll work clubs until we're ready for a record deal."

"Well, that don't sound bad, but-"

"If you came to Nashville to be a star, if that's what you want, then I'll see you get it."

211.

"That's d.a.m.ned sure what I want."

"And that name? One Willie in the business is enough. You're Billy Shadow now."

"Billy Shadow," w.i.l.l.y Jack said, trying it out. "Billy Shadow."

Then he nodded his head and grinned. "Yeah. That'll do."

Ruth Meyers leaned across the table, right in w.i.l.l.y Jack's face.

"There's one other thing."

"What's that?"

"Never . . . ever ever . . . lie to me." . . . lie to me."

"Sure, Ruth . . . Ruth Meyers. You got a deal."Part Three

Chapter Twenty-Two.

T HREE YEARS LATER than when she had started, Novalee was going west. Not to Bakersfield, but to Santa Fe. Not with w.i.l.l.y Jack, not in a Plymouth with a hole in the floor and not to live in a house with a balcony, but Novalee was finally going to go west. HREE YEARS LATER than when she had started, Novalee was going west. Not to Bakersfield, but to Santa Fe. Not with w.i.l.l.y Jack, not in a Plymouth with a hole in the floor and not to live in a house with a balcony, but Novalee was finally going to go west.

When the letter had come, back in August, she had prepared herself for disappointment. But when she opened it and read, "such stunning work," her breath came fast. As her eyes raced ahead to "pleased to announce," her fingers trembled. And by the time she saw "first place winner," she was jumping up and down, sending a tremor through the trailer that caused Sister Husband to rush out of the bathroom in a panic.

"What is it? What happened?"

"The Kodak contest! The Greater Southwest! I won! My picture won!"

216.

"The boy on Rattlesnake Ridge?"

"Yes!" Novalee screamed, then grabbed Sister and danced her around the room. They took wide, prancing steps, tossing their heads like flamenco dancers. Then they collapsed on the couch, giggling and breathless as girls.

"Darlin'," Sister asked as she struggled for air, "what did you win?" a question that set them laughing again.

"A weekend in Santa Fe."

"Oh, my word. Just listen to that."

"And they're going to put my picture in an exhibit."

"Why Novalee, you're going to be famous," Sister said, suddenly struck by the gravity of the news.

In the days that followed, Sister's prediction came true, at least in Sequoyah County. Novalee's picture was in the paper with a caption that read, LOCAL PHOTOGRAPHER ACCLAIMED.

She was named Employee of the Week at Wal-Mart, the First National Bank sent a card of congratulations, and the art teacher at the high school asked her to come to his cla.s.ses to speak.

Dixie Mullins, confusing New Mexico with the Old, offered her a Spanish phrase book. Henry and Leona gave her luggage, but couldn't agree on color or brand, so she got a red suitbag by American Tourister and a blue duffel made in Taiwan.

Lexie Coop and the children took Novalee and Americus to dinner at the Pizza Hut, where all the Coops ate standing up, Lexie's latest method of combating obesity.

Moses and Certain made a star with Novalee's name on it and put it on the door of the darkroom and Moses gave her a fountain pen that had belonged to his father, Purim, who had died the previous winter.

217.

Americus had a thousand questions about "Messico," and Mr.

Sprock asked Novalee to call an old friend in Santa Fe, a World War II buddy he hadn't heard from in over forty years.

But Forney was the most excited of all because Novalee had asked him to go with her.

At first, he had said no . . . had had to say no. He did, he explained, have his sister to care for and, he insisted, the library could not just shut down. But when Retha Holloway, president of the Literary Guild, jumped at the chance to take over the library for a few days and when Sister Husband insisted on taking Mary Elizabeth's meals by, Forney's decision was made. to say no. He did, he explained, have his sister to care for and, he insisted, the library could not just shut down. But when Retha Holloway, president of the Literary Guild, jumped at the chance to take over the library for a few days and when Sister Husband insisted on taking Mary Elizabeth's meals by, Forney's decision was made.

As they drove away from the trailer, Novalee continued to wave even when she could no longer see Americus, Sister Husband or Mr.

Sprock.

"I hope Americus isn't crying."

"She wasn't upset when we said goodbye," Forney said.