Page 45 of What She Saw

When I didn’t see him, I caught the bartender’s attention. In her early twenties, she had swept up her purple-streaked dark hair into a thick ponytail. An intricate tattooed sleeve covered her right arm from her bicep down to the middle of her forearm.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

“Ginger ale. Is there going to be live music tonight?”

She popped the top of a ginger ale can and poured it over a glass filled with ice. “Yeah, he’s on break. Back in the alley having a cigarette.”

“I hear he’s pretty good.” I fished a ten-dollar bill from my back pocket.

She set the soda in front of me. “He’s decent. I hear back in the day he was on the rise.”

And now he was here. “There’s got to be a story there.”

She grinned. “Always is.”

I took a long sip. “How long before the set begins?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Excellent. Thanks.”

I drained the soda. Lying in that field had made me so thirsty. I headed to the back exit. Outside, the warm air rushed me as I stepped out under a back porch light. I looked around but didn’t see anyone, and then by a dumpster, I spotted a lean guy with long gray hair bound into a ponytail. He stepped out from behind the dumpster and checked his zipper to make sure he was put back together.

When he looked up and saw me, he stopped midstep and looked startled.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“I’ve pissed behind my share of dumpsters, trees, and bushes in my career. You won’t be the first to surprise me.”

“The bartender said you were on a break.”

He fished a rumpled pack of cigarettes and red plastic lighter from his back pocket. “That’s right.”

“I’m Sloane Grayson. In full disclosure, I’m a writer working on a piece about the Mountain Music Festival.”

“Haven’t heard about the festival in over a decade.” The lighter flared, and he pressed it to the tip of his cigarette. Smoke rose past his squinting gaze. “I’m Joe Keller.”

“Most people see it as ancient history. They don’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t mind talking.” He inhaled and allowed the smoke to trickle over his lips. As he stepped forward into the light, shadows deepened the lines of his face. He looked like a thinner version of Bob Dylan.

I edged a little closer. “Do you remember Laurie Carr?”

“Blue Guitar. Sweet kid. I told her to be careful. We sang a duet onstage.”

“How did you end up driving her to the venue?”

“She was walking along the side of a dirt road with her blue guitar case slung over her shoulder. The sunlight was hitting her blond hair and her tanned body. I offered her a ride, and she was glad to have it. She told me right off she wanted on the stage.”

“And you helped her get her shot.”

“When I saw her serving burgers, I told her to meet me at the stage about eleven. Right on the dot, she was there, so I waved her onstage. I wasn’t sure how it would go, but I had to give the kid her due. She delivered. I got chills.”

“I was listening to the tape tonight. She was good.”

“She had talent, looks, and the ‘it’ factor.”

“You had some strong vocal chops yourself.”