He’d left Andy Baxter and his old Stratocaster in New York, now he was checking his reflection in the restroom mirror on an American Airlines flight en route to Nashville. Dr. Radrukshi’s team of plastic surgeons had done a great job. The deft changes they’d made to the contours of his nose, chin and cheekbones had left him looking GQ handsome and, more importantly, radically different from his former self—almost unrecognizable in fact.

The summer had passed quickly. After his surgery he’d been escorted from the hospital to the FBI’s office on West 30th Street, where he videotaped his testimony against Tony Bertolini. Once Baskins and the attorneys were satisfied, he signed a printed transcript and was whisked to the rear entrance of a small hotel a few blocks west of Central Park.

The FBI kept every promise. Baskins presented him with a receipt for two hundred thousand dollars in a Merrill Lynch investment account, plus filled his request for a Taylor acoustic guitar and a Yamaha digital four-track recorder. They even picked up the top twenty CD’s listed in Billboard magazine’s country album chart and a dozen compilation albums of country classics. He’d spent the last four months studying the CDs, watching CMT and GAC on TV and listening to a country music station broadcasting from Long Island. Most importantly, he’d been writing songs. He’d spent long hours with his guitar and recorder and had completed over a dozen tunes, half which he thought sounded at least as good as those he’d been hearing on the radio. He couldn’t wait to arrive in country music’s capital city.

The plane touched down just after eight p.m. and Arnie followed signs to the baggage claim area. He did a now-instinctive survey of the people around him as he watched for his bags. The aftermath of the recent events and some good training by Baskins had taught him to always be aware of the people who were nearby. He grabbed his guitar case and duffel bag as they came by on the carousel, then turned to find himself facing a young blonde woman shrink-wrapped in a red halter top and blue jeans so tight they appeared to be tattooed to her long legs. She was perched on four-inch high heels, also red, and carrying a cardboard sign with bold letters: Arnie.

“You must be Arnie.”

“How could you tell?”

“The guitar,” she said, laughing. “No, just kidding!”

He looked around and noticed half a dozen other travelers with guitars in the crowded terminal.

“I had an idea what you would look like, but the guitar did help. I’m Starr, by the way. I work for Sam Solstice.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Arnie smiled as he followed Starr’s swaying form out the terminal’s sliding glass doors. He liked Nashville already. A few steps later, they approached a glistening red convertible parked under a sign that said Passenger Pickup—Standing Only. Two burly security guards were by the vehicle.

“You boys are such darlings to keep an eye on my Ferrari!” Starr said as she slid into the driver’s seat and popped open the hood.

Arnie dropped his duffel into the front trunk and settled into the tan butter-soft leather passenger seat with his guitar case crammed between his legs. Starr jammed the gearshift into first, blew the guards a kiss and popped the clutch. Arnie’s head snapped against the headrest as the car fishtailed slightly, then darted away from the curb.

“So this is Music City,” he said, as she maneuvered from lane to lane on Interstate 40, while simultaneously checking her makeup in the rearview mirror. They were approaching downtown Nashville and it wasn’t quite the sleepy Southern burg he’d imagined. Though well past rush hour, traffic was heavy and tall skyscrapers loomed ahead.

“There’s LP Field,” Starr said, pointing to the right. “Home of our NFL team, the Tennessee Titans.” Arnie was thrown against the passenger door as Starr downshifted and cut between two tractor-trailers, then veered left onto the downtown loop. “And that’s the Bat Building.” She slowed down momentarily while indicating the tallest of the buildings, which sported twin spires from its roof, causing it to resemble the headgear of Batman.

“Is this your car?” Arnie asked. “It’s unbelievable.”

“No, it belongs to Sam.” She exited the interstate at Demonbreun Street and the tires chirped as she turned left at the foot of the ramp and accelerated hard past a row of restaurants to a roundabout. “And this is Music Row,” she said as they emerged onto a wide boulevard lined with office buildings. “Most of the music companies in Nashville are located within a few blocks of here.”

They drove for a mile or so, then circled onto Sixteenth Avenue South and stopped in front of a one-story horseshoe-shaped apartment building framing a well-groomed lawn. “This is where you’ll be staying. Hillsboro Village is a few blocks that way,” she said, pointing south. “Plenty of shops and restaurants nearby. And you’re in walking distance anywhere on the Row.”

The apartment wasn’t bad—the small living room, bedroom and kitchen were more space than he’d had in Manhattan. The furniture looked comfortable, if a little threadbare. Starr showed him how to access the phone’s voicemail and wrote down the office number and address.

“Leave your stuff here, we’re meeting the boss for drinks,” she said.

“Sure, give me a minute to clean up.”

In the bathroom, he brushed his teeth, slicked his hair back and checked himself in the mirror. He was looking forward to meeting a real record producer. The closest he’d come had been a year before, when his band had made a demo recording and dropped off copies with a dozen record companies. The only response had been from a secretary who said her boss wasn’t crazy about the group, but wanted to play one of Andy’s songs for another artist on the label. Andy had called back half a dozen times, but the producer was never available to take his call.

Arnie followed Starr outside, his eyes on the lookout for possible danger, and once again admired her driving skills as she threaded the car down a series of side streets and alleys before emerging at the intersection of Broadway and 21st Avenue. When they arrived at a three-story restaurant named Bound’ry, the parking valet motioned her to a spot in front of the entrance.

“Always easy to find a parking space in a Ferrari,” Starr said. “Makes the restaurant look good.”

Starr handed the valet her keys and headed inside with Arnie close behind. A petite hostess with a French accent led them past the packed downstairs bar to a large circular booth where two men were seated with three attractive women. The man closest to Arnie stood and extended his hand.

“You must be Arnie.”

“Mr. Solstice?”

“Just call me Sam,” he replied, motioning the slender Asian girl sitting next to him to scoot over and make room for Arnie. “How was your flight?”

“Fine,” Arnie replied, taking a seat. The producer was strikingly handsome. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, though it was hard to tell. His hair was dyed a monochromatic chestnut and his face had the taut look that comes with a facelift or two. His eyes sparkled with feral intelligence and he exuded a restless energy that gave him the air of a much younger man.

“Meet Sendy,” Sam said, slipping his arm around the Asian girl. “And this is Ruth,” he added, nodding to a buxom blonde in her early thirties. “And George and his friend Cheryl.” He gestured to the hip looking black-clad couple at the far end of the booth. “George is a song plugger with one of the publishers here.”

Starr slipped into the booth next to Cheryl as George tipped his Heineken in greeting.

“Nice to meet you. Sam says you’re a new writer for his company. Where are you from?”

“Well, I ––”

“Hey,” Sam interrupted, “Arnie’s just gotten into town and I’m sure he’s worn out from his flight. How ’bout a beer, son?”

“Sure,” Arnie replied.

“He’s cute,” Ruth giggled, lighting a cigarette and brushing back her long curls to offer a better view of the two pneumatic breasts popping out of her black velvet dress. “Wherever you’re from, I’ll bet the ladies are missing you tonight.”

“Down girl!” Sam laughed. “Watch out for Ruth, Arnie. She’ll eat you alive.”

“I can’t help it if I like songwriters,” Ruth squealed. “Besides, he is cute!”

“I agree,” chirped Sendy.

“I like Music City already,” Arnie said, as Sam raised his glass and prepared to make a toast. He couldn’t believe he was here with a real-life record producer and four of the prettiest women he’d ever seen in his life.

As they clicked their glasses over the center of the table, Sam enthusiastically asked, “Is this a great country or what?”

Arnie just had to agree.