Fic: In the Land of the Delta Blues
Author: rivlee
Title: In the Land of the Delta Blues
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Hoosier, Runner, Leckie, Lip. Gen.
Summary: The search for Lipton Marshall sends Leckie all over. Part of the Popstar/Nashville AU.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. Title and cut-text from Marc Cohn’s Walking in Memphis.
A/N: Unbeated. From a prompt requested by uniformly. I have a feeling there will be a ton more “Hoosier sends Leckie all over the South” filler fics. Consider this one establishing the timeline of all the others.
Bill “Hoosier” Smith wasn’t actually a sadistic man. He just took joy in watching other people make a fool of themselves. Asshole, yes. Sadistic, no. And frankly, any reporter sniffing around town trying to dig up the next great Behind the Music story deserved any shit he threw their way. Bill, Lip, and their fellow members of 3B, George Luz, Joe Toye, and Lewis Nixon earned their rights to a private life over a decade ago. They’d all played the fame game, and while Nix, Luz, and Toye still sometimes liked to bask in the limelight, Lip and Bill liked their anonymity just where it was.
Which was why, when country crossover stars started to become more common, and paparazzi and reporters for major news outlets started coming to Nashville in noticeable numbers, Bill created a contingency plan to throw any and every one, crazy fans included, off their scent.
Honestly, none of them were really here for Bill anyway. Hoosier Smith, his name in the band and real life, was never the heartthrob of the group. He was there for vocal support and to round-out the required boy band number of five. He was the one they sent out to give interviews with the serious trade mags, knowing they’d waste more space talking about his attitude than any of their personal lives. Hoosier was practically anonymous within the band, and outside of it, years later, only people who actually still observed and paid attention to things recognized him.
Lip, though, he was another matter. Lip was the dependable one, the one moms loved and adored and good girls and boys dreamed of marrying. He was always calm, always polite, and always gave the diplomatic answers. He was their leader, and their best voice. Lip never did court the press, or the fame, never squandered anything or took much for granted. The man deserved his privacy and Bill was willing to do whatever it took in order protect him. It’s not like Lip couldn’t handle it on his own, but Lip took care of everybody and someone needed to watch out for him.
There was an old map of the Great Smoky Mountains and Blue Ridge Parkway nailed up in Andy Haldane’s office at Allison’s, the bar Hoosier worked at to have something to pass the time. Hoosier used the map as a dartboard, picking whatever place he landed on as the next destination for nosy reporters searching for a sighting. Plenty of people fucked off into the mountains, it wasn’t exactly unheard of someone disappearing into Appalachia to hide. Frankly, all the reporters should thank him for sending them out into some of North America’s most beautiful country.
His current target was passed out on the bar, sleeping his last journey off. It was kind of wrong to send Rolling Stone’s Robert Leckie all the way to Charleston, but they did have a good indie music scene there and the boy looked like he could use some time with the Atlantic Ocean.
“What are we going to do about this?” Runner asked, gesturing to Leckie. Runner was an A&R man for the small label Coconut & Rhyme, which specialized in Beach Country. Thanks to acts like Chuckler Juergens and some connections from Lip, they’d just moved out of Ronnie Gibson’s basement into a legit office building.
Hoosier’d be a liar if he didn’t admit Runner provided hours of entertainment. He appreciated a man with a sense of sarcasm and a filthy mouth.
Runner dropped a few bits of paper straw wrapper into Leckie’s nest of a hairstyle. “I mean, it wouldn’t be neighborly to just leave a guy all alone and defenseless, sleeping at a bar,” he said.
Hoosier shrugged. “I’m thinking Memphis might be a good detour for him. If he wants to chase ghosts, he’ll find plenty there.”
“Everyone should see Graceland once in their lives,” Runner agreed.
Hoosier solemnly nodded. “It is a national treasure,” he intoned.
“A veritable temple to kitsch,” Runner said. He smirked at Hoosier and leaned over Leckie’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy,” he yelled into Leckie’s ear.
Leckie sat up so fast even Hoosier was impressed.
“What happened?” Leckie asked. “Were there piglets?”
“You dream about piglets?” Runner asked. He shook his head. “The things you learn about a man.”
“Fuck off,” Leckie said. He ran a hand through his hair, cursing at the bits of paper that fell out. “Real mature.”
“Leckie, you fell asleep in a bar,” Hoosier said. “You’re lucky you’re not dead and robbed.”
“And that you still have both your kidneys,” Runner said.
“Yeah, about that--” Hoosier trailed off.
“I swear you delight in sending me all over this godforsaken corner of the world,” Leckie muttered, his face in his hands.
“I wouldn’t say delight is the proper word, Professor Leckie,” Hoosier said. “But hell, I’m a bartender, in a music bar, I hear things, I just pass ‘em on. Hell if I know if they’re true. You don’t have to follow all of my leads.”
Leckie shook his head. “Sorry, just overtired and ready to go home. You’ve passed on more info than anyone Hoosier, and hell, at least if I’m not getting the story I need, I am getting a lot of material.”
“Isn’t Hoosier such a saint?” Runner asked.
“Don’t you have an act you have to go stalk before Curb Records gets them first?” Hoosier asked him.
Runner smiled. “That’s how it is, okay, fine,” he said. He flipped Hoosier off, in the affectionate way only Runner Conley could manage, and hurried out of the bar.
Hoosier slapped down a whiskey in front of Leckie. “Take the shot, clear your mind, and start it all over tomorrow,” he ordered.
“You got a new lead?” Leckie murmured into his glass.
“Get on your blue suede shoes, you’re going to Memphis,” Hoosier said.
Lip actually was going to be in Memphis, but he was helping Ron Speirs crawl through local flea markets to help with a found art project. He highly doubted Leckie would run into Lip, when the reporter would probably be stalking up and down Beale Street. Any asshole who claimed to have a thing for music history needed to go down that street at least once in their lives.
“Maybe I’ll find Elvis instead,” Leckie said.
********
Hoosier flipped through one of the trade magazines at the bar, smiling as Bob Leckie’s face appeared next to a story on the National Journalism Awards. It’d been a year-and-a-half since Leckie first stumbled into Allison’s, and even though he still had yet to get that story on Lip, the writer came back every few months to check for any new leads.
“I didn’t take you for the reading kind,” Leckie said, sitting down at his usual barstool.
“I see you’ve decided to take your winter in Nashville again,” Hoosier said.
“It’s warmer here.”
“We get snow,” Hoosier said.
“Not the same,” Leckie argued. “Any new leads?” he asked when Hoosier set down his scotch.
Hoosier leaned against the bar and studied Leckie.
“What?” Leckie asked.
“Leckie, you’re a smart man, and apparently a decent writer if your National Journalism Award for a Human Interest Story indicates anything.”
“Thank you,” Leckie said.
“But let me give you some advice on Lipton Marshall.”
“No bullshit?” Leckie asked.
“A little bullshit,” Hoosier admitted, “but mostly truth. Look, Lip is a man who has a lot of friends in high places and the respect of most people in the industry. You’re not going to find the man unless he wants to be found. I suggest you let him come to you.”
Leckie laughed. “Like he’s got a file on me.”
“You’d be surprised,” Hoosier said, in all seriousness.
Leckie gulped. “What, there is a music mafia sort of thing going on?”
Hoosier shrugged. “Just some strong bonds and long memories. Lip knows of you, he knows how you treated this region with the utmost respect in your series of stories for the New York Times, and he knows you don’t just exist as some slimy reporter for Rolling Stone. When he wants to tell his story, I promise you’ll be at the top of his list.”
Leckie laughed. “How the hell do you know all this?”
“Shit son, I used to be in the band with him,” Hoosier said. “I thought you’d figure that one out by now, award-wining journalist that you are.”
He left Leckie at the other end of the bar, staring off in shocked silence.
Title: In the Land of the Delta Blues
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Hoosier, Runner, Leckie, Lip. Gen.
Summary: The search for Lipton Marshall sends Leckie all over. Part of the Popstar/Nashville AU.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the HBO mini-series. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. Title and cut-text from Marc Cohn’s Walking in Memphis.
A/N: Unbeated. From a prompt requested by uniformly. I have a feeling there will be a ton more “Hoosier sends Leckie all over the South” filler fics. Consider this one establishing the timeline of all the others.
Bill “Hoosier” Smith wasn’t actually a sadistic man. He just took joy in watching other people make a fool of themselves. Asshole, yes. Sadistic, no. And frankly, any reporter sniffing around town trying to dig up the next great Behind the Music story deserved any shit he threw their way. Bill, Lip, and their fellow members of 3B, George Luz, Joe Toye, and Lewis Nixon earned their rights to a private life over a decade ago. They’d all played the fame game, and while Nix, Luz, and Toye still sometimes liked to bask in the limelight, Lip and Bill liked their anonymity just where it was.
Which was why, when country crossover stars started to become more common, and paparazzi and reporters for major news outlets started coming to Nashville in noticeable numbers, Bill created a contingency plan to throw any and every one, crazy fans included, off their scent.
Honestly, none of them were really here for Bill anyway. Hoosier Smith, his name in the band and real life, was never the heartthrob of the group. He was there for vocal support and to round-out the required boy band number of five. He was the one they sent out to give interviews with the serious trade mags, knowing they’d waste more space talking about his attitude than any of their personal lives. Hoosier was practically anonymous within the band, and outside of it, years later, only people who actually still observed and paid attention to things recognized him.
Lip, though, he was another matter. Lip was the dependable one, the one moms loved and adored and good girls and boys dreamed of marrying. He was always calm, always polite, and always gave the diplomatic answers. He was their leader, and their best voice. Lip never did court the press, or the fame, never squandered anything or took much for granted. The man deserved his privacy and Bill was willing to do whatever it took in order protect him. It’s not like Lip couldn’t handle it on his own, but Lip took care of everybody and someone needed to watch out for him.
There was an old map of the Great Smoky Mountains and Blue Ridge Parkway nailed up in Andy Haldane’s office at Allison’s, the bar Hoosier worked at to have something to pass the time. Hoosier used the map as a dartboard, picking whatever place he landed on as the next destination for nosy reporters searching for a sighting. Plenty of people fucked off into the mountains, it wasn’t exactly unheard of someone disappearing into Appalachia to hide. Frankly, all the reporters should thank him for sending them out into some of North America’s most beautiful country.
His current target was passed out on the bar, sleeping his last journey off. It was kind of wrong to send Rolling Stone’s Robert Leckie all the way to Charleston, but they did have a good indie music scene there and the boy looked like he could use some time with the Atlantic Ocean.
“What are we going to do about this?” Runner asked, gesturing to Leckie. Runner was an A&R man for the small label Coconut & Rhyme, which specialized in Beach Country. Thanks to acts like Chuckler Juergens and some connections from Lip, they’d just moved out of Ronnie Gibson’s basement into a legit office building.
Hoosier’d be a liar if he didn’t admit Runner provided hours of entertainment. He appreciated a man with a sense of sarcasm and a filthy mouth.
Runner dropped a few bits of paper straw wrapper into Leckie’s nest of a hairstyle. “I mean, it wouldn’t be neighborly to just leave a guy all alone and defenseless, sleeping at a bar,” he said.
Hoosier shrugged. “I’m thinking Memphis might be a good detour for him. If he wants to chase ghosts, he’ll find plenty there.”
“Everyone should see Graceland once in their lives,” Runner agreed.
Hoosier solemnly nodded. “It is a national treasure,” he intoned.
“A veritable temple to kitsch,” Runner said. He smirked at Hoosier and leaned over Leckie’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy,” he yelled into Leckie’s ear.
Leckie sat up so fast even Hoosier was impressed.
“What happened?” Leckie asked. “Were there piglets?”
“You dream about piglets?” Runner asked. He shook his head. “The things you learn about a man.”
“Fuck off,” Leckie said. He ran a hand through his hair, cursing at the bits of paper that fell out. “Real mature.”
“Leckie, you fell asleep in a bar,” Hoosier said. “You’re lucky you’re not dead and robbed.”
“And that you still have both your kidneys,” Runner said.
“Yeah, about that--” Hoosier trailed off.
“I swear you delight in sending me all over this godforsaken corner of the world,” Leckie muttered, his face in his hands.
“I wouldn’t say delight is the proper word, Professor Leckie,” Hoosier said. “But hell, I’m a bartender, in a music bar, I hear things, I just pass ‘em on. Hell if I know if they’re true. You don’t have to follow all of my leads.”
Leckie shook his head. “Sorry, just overtired and ready to go home. You’ve passed on more info than anyone Hoosier, and hell, at least if I’m not getting the story I need, I am getting a lot of material.”
“Isn’t Hoosier such a saint?” Runner asked.
“Don’t you have an act you have to go stalk before Curb Records gets them first?” Hoosier asked him.
Runner smiled. “That’s how it is, okay, fine,” he said. He flipped Hoosier off, in the affectionate way only Runner Conley could manage, and hurried out of the bar.
Hoosier slapped down a whiskey in front of Leckie. “Take the shot, clear your mind, and start it all over tomorrow,” he ordered.
“You got a new lead?” Leckie murmured into his glass.
“Get on your blue suede shoes, you’re going to Memphis,” Hoosier said.
Lip actually was going to be in Memphis, but he was helping Ron Speirs crawl through local flea markets to help with a found art project. He highly doubted Leckie would run into Lip, when the reporter would probably be stalking up and down Beale Street. Any asshole who claimed to have a thing for music history needed to go down that street at least once in their lives.
“Maybe I’ll find Elvis instead,” Leckie said.
********
Hoosier flipped through one of the trade magazines at the bar, smiling as Bob Leckie’s face appeared next to a story on the National Journalism Awards. It’d been a year-and-a-half since Leckie first stumbled into Allison’s, and even though he still had yet to get that story on Lip, the writer came back every few months to check for any new leads.
“I didn’t take you for the reading kind,” Leckie said, sitting down at his usual barstool.
“I see you’ve decided to take your winter in Nashville again,” Hoosier said.
“It’s warmer here.”
“We get snow,” Hoosier said.
“Not the same,” Leckie argued. “Any new leads?” he asked when Hoosier set down his scotch.
Hoosier leaned against the bar and studied Leckie.
“What?” Leckie asked.
“Leckie, you’re a smart man, and apparently a decent writer if your National Journalism Award for a Human Interest Story indicates anything.”
“Thank you,” Leckie said.
“But let me give you some advice on Lipton Marshall.”
“No bullshit?” Leckie asked.
“A little bullshit,” Hoosier admitted, “but mostly truth. Look, Lip is a man who has a lot of friends in high places and the respect of most people in the industry. You’re not going to find the man unless he wants to be found. I suggest you let him come to you.”
Leckie laughed. “Like he’s got a file on me.”
“You’d be surprised,” Hoosier said, in all seriousness.
Leckie gulped. “What, there is a music mafia sort of thing going on?”
Hoosier shrugged. “Just some strong bonds and long memories. Lip knows of you, he knows how you treated this region with the utmost respect in your series of stories for the New York Times, and he knows you don’t just exist as some slimy reporter for Rolling Stone. When he wants to tell his story, I promise you’ll be at the top of his list.”
Leckie laughed. “How the hell do you know all this?”
“Shit son, I used to be in the band with him,” Hoosier said. “I thought you’d figure that one out by now, award-wining journalist that you are.”
He left Leckie at the other end of the bar, staring off in shocked silence.