Page 153 of My UnTrue Love
Lyrics from the folk song “Crossroads Coyote”
Two Years Later
Alan A. Dale stared at Pecos Bill, trying not to act like he was staring.
He’d interviewed lots of famous people, but he’d never interviewed anyonethisfamous.
Ever since Bill appeared onHome on the Range, he’d been a household name. His first performance of “My Own True Love” was all it took to catapult him into the stratosphere. Add to that him somehow lifting the True Love curse for coyotes and his generous support for dozens of women’s organizations, and Bill was the rarefied type of celebrity who just about everyone loved.
Nobody else even came close to his popularity. Except maybe Sir Galahad, but he hardly ever put out songs. Pecos Bill put outlotsof them. It seemed like he was always inspired and working on his next hit.
Alan felt nervous standing beside the number one recording artist in the world. It made him evenmorenervousthat the world’s number one recording artist was so very, very difficult to interview.
Bill had said all of a dozen words in the last half hour. And six of them had been “who,” “are,” and “you.” He’d asked that twice. He stood by a split rail fence, watching young horses frolicking around a paddock. He seemed far more interested in the foals than he did in generating exposure for his new album. Maybe he knew it didn’t need publicity. It was going to go platinum the second it was released, just like his last three.
Alan swallowed and pretended to know jack-shit about ranching. “Nice horses.”
Bill grunted.
“They’re really…” Alan hunted for an adjective. He was a writer. He knew a lot of words. “…horsey.”
“Who are you, again?” Bill sounded pretty sure there’d been a mistake and Alan should’ve been shot on sight by bodyguards.
Not many reporters were allowed ‘round the mountain and onto the sprawling ranch Bill called home. He’d bought Buffalo Roam with the money from his first record, offering the cattle baron who’d owned it double the value of the property, so long as he left the horses.
That old man was no dummy, so he agreed.
Now, the former owner lived on an even bigger spread in Oz, with multicolored horses and way nicer weather. Bill didn’t seem to worry about overpaying for the land. What did he care about money? He had fuckingallof it! He looked right at home, one booted foot resting on the fence rail and his eyes on all his peaceful acreage.
Alan was honestly still shocked he’d been allowed past the massive gate of the estate. He hadn’t been near Buffalo Roam’s main house, and he hadn’t seen anything worth reporting yet, but at least he’d made it this far. That was closer than most people got to Pecos Bill.
For all the man’s colossal fame, Bill’s life was a black box. His one semi-informal event had been the reopening of The Kitchen, which he’d headlined, along with Tony Beaver. That had been such a huge party that the sheriff had to shut down the whole Saloon District to control the crowd.
Tony Beaver’s drumming career exploded from all the exposure. He was now dating Mamie O’Rourke. The Kitchen was re-established as the hottest saloon in town. Dinah Hornblower was having a rekindled love affair with some coyote rodeo rider. (Their relationship was so angst-filled, tumultuous, and public in its sexual indecency that it made Alan miss his days as a tabloid reporter.) But Bill…? He just went back home.
Pecos Bill didn’t crave approval. Didn’t talk about his existence off of the stage. Didn’t sell his face for advertisements. Didn’t post on Ti-Yi-Yo much, except for supporting feminist causes with Mamie O’Rourke, and teaching songs to kids on Wednesdays. And cactus pictures. He liked to take cactus pictures.
Even Bill’s unauthorized autobiography was dull as hell, because nobody could dig up any salacious details to blow out of proportion. The man was always honest! Bill simply recorded music and released it, letting his art speak for itself without any transparent bids for adulation.
What kind of a celebrity didn’t need constant attention?
“I’m a reporter. Your publicist gave me this interview.” Alan reminded him, praying Bill didn’t just walk away and leave him standing in the yard.
“I have a publicist?”
“I mean… yeah?” He swallowed. “Her name is Nancy.”
“If Nancy was my publicist, I’d figure she’d know I’m not fond of publicity.”
“Shedidsay that, but she’s also my cousin-in-law.” Alan had nothing to lose by telling the truth. “And I’m going to lose my job, if I don’t land something big soon. The whole family knows it. I’m a scandal sheet guy, trying to go legit. Internet gossip sites take all the business away from print journalism. Have you heard of Vulture Valente?”
“Rings a bell.”
“Well, I can’t compete with that kind of instant access. I need a new line. But I’m not great at mainstream celebrity reporting. Never had a real story published.”
“Huh.”
Alan shrugged. “Plus, I played my one ace with Nancy: I told her I knew you from way back and that you’d be okay with seeing me.”
