He went back to Rickey. “Okay,” he said. “The crack. Give it to me.”
Rickey was a producer—or so he said. He had produced exactly one song that charted, back in 2008, and had been riding that wave ever since. He wore snakeskin boots and a watch that was either very expensive or very fake. He slid a card across the bar to Harlan. countryboy crack
But the crack didn’t win. Not that time. He went back to Rickey
Harlan found it on a Tuesday. The Copper Spur was a dive off Music Row where the real songwriters went when they wanted to forget they were songwriters. The walls were paneled in fake wood, and the smell of stale beer and desperation hung like fog. Behind the bar was a woman named Jade, thirty-five with crow’s feet and a smile that had seen too many last calls. Give it to me