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“The Crystals are fine, but I also like the roadies,” Barbara protests, “and they seem to like me.”
“They do like you, Acey says you pull your weight, but I need you to concentrate on harmony with the girls.”
The girls—Tess, Laverne, and Jem—are now in their seventies.
“And our duet on ‘Jazz.’ That’s what I’m all about these days. Girl, we’re going to whale the shit out of that thing. By the time we get to New York, it’ll be a show closer. The band is going to drop out except for the drums, and we’re going to go…” She bursts into full-throated song, pumping her moccasined feet. “Jazz, jazz, that Lowtown jazz, give it, take it, move it, shake it, roll it, stroll it…” Back to her speaking voice. “Like that, and for as long as it will play. It’s gonna be like that J. Geils joint, ‘(Ain’t Nothin’ But a) House Party,’ but we’re gonna soul it instead of rock and roll it. Don’t mind me making some changes? Because, girl, we can tear that sumbitch up.”
Barbaradoesdig it. The rhythm Betty’s putting down is exactly what she heard in her head the first time she read Vachel Lindsay’s racist (but crazily addictive) poem “The Congo.” Yet at the same time…
“Betty, I’m apoet, not a singer. I told my brother the same thing. Trying to be a poet, anyway. This is… it’scrazy.”
“Legal issues aside, there’s a practical side,” Hennie says. “Fact is, you’re a better singer than you are a roadie. Good pipes. You’re not Merry Clayton—”
“Or Aretha,” Tones says. “Or Tina.”
“But who is?” Hennie says. “You’re good at this, and what’s a poet without song? Or life experience?”
“But—”
“But nothing,” Betty says from the couch. “Patti Smith. Hell of a singer, hell of a writer. Nick Cave. Gil Scott-Heron. Josh Ritter. Leonard Cohen. I’ve read them all, and I’ve readyou. Also your brother now, and I have to wonder if he can also sing.”
Barbara laughs. “He’shorrible. You don’t want to hear him on Karaoke Night.”
“Ne’mine then, but I’ve got you,” Betty says, “and Iwantthis for you. From now on, it’s like Mavis says: You belong to the band, hallelu’. All right?”
Barbara gives in, and when she does, discovers it’s a pleasure.
Betty holds out her arms. “Now come on, girl, and give this fat old lady a hug.”
Barbara steps forward and allows herself to be enfolded. Does some enfolding of her own, too. Betty kisses her on both cheeks and says, “I care for you, girl. Do this for me, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Barbara says. She’s scared, but she’s also young and still willing to spread her wings. Also, she likes the idea of being in the same company as Patti Smith and Leonard Cohen.
Gibson, the Mingo’s Program Director, pokes his head in. “Your sound man says you’re wanted onstage, Ms. Brady.”
Betty stands up, still with an arm around Barbara. “Come on, girl. We are going to sing our fucking hearts out. And youwillbang the tambourine on ‘Saved.’?”
6
Kate carries her own new brand-new bags to the truck, which Holly appreciates. The boss is in a fine mood, and so is the boss’s assistant.
“We’re back at the Mingo Auditorium,” Corrie says. “I just spent an hour on the phone with Gibson, the Program Director, and the bookstore people. It’s just a day earlier—Friday instead of Saturday. Most of the venues were willing to help out.”
“Because I’mhot,” Kate says, and strikes a pose, hand behind her head, chest thrust out. She laughs at herself, then sobers. Her eyes are bright with curiosity. “Tell me something, Holly. What’s it like, workingin a male-dominated field like private investigation? Do you find it difficult? And I can’t help noticing that you’re rather slightly built. Hard to imagine you going toe-to-toe with an escaping miscreant.”
Holly, a private person by nature, considers this question a tiny bit invasive. Possibly even rude. But she smiles, because a smile isn’t just an umbrella on a rainy day; it’s also a shield. And she has gone toe-to-toe with a few bad people, and—through luck and pluck—has come out fairly well. “Subjects for another time, maybe.”
Corrie, perhaps more sensitive to emotional nuances than her boss—thevibe—chimes in immediately. “We ought to get on the road, Kate. I have a lot to arrange when we get there.”
“Right,” Kate says, and gives Holly her most winning smile. “To be continued.”
Holly says, “Remember that you two are registered at the Axis, but we’re actually staying at—”
“The Country Inn and Suites,” Corrie finishes. “Registered underyourname.” And, to Kate: “They have a pool, if you want to swim.”
“I’d prefer you to stay in your—” Holly begins.
“I’dprefer to swim,” Kate says. “It relaxes me. Touring is hard enough without being cooped up like a prisoner.”