by Amber Foxx
“My pleasure.” She paid for her drink and sipped it, regarding him again in that curious inspection mode, as if she were picking up all his flaws and counting them. “You do pretty good teaching a crowd.”
“Thanks.”
She swallowed another drop of whiskey, looking at herself in the bar mirror and tossing her hair back. “I could take a guess,” her voice bubbled with amusement, “that you used to direct a choir.”
“Fuck me dead. You’re sharp. I did. Taught music at Santa Fe High School.” He took another long drink of beer and managed not to expel the noise this time. “Good music program there, but I hated doing it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Rather teach a bunch of drinkers in a bar.”
“Aren’t you something.” Her soft twangy drawl was warm, but her half smile cool. She tapped her red nails on the side of her glass. “Maybe it’s good I got here late. Gave us a chance to talk about this.”
“Sorry. Didn’t follow that.”
She gave him an incomprehensible wink. It didn’t look like flirting. Of course, after the misunderstanding with Naomi, he didn’t dare think women were flirting. Sylvie continued to talk to him in the mirror. “How you holding up without your instruments?”
“Better than I thought I could.” He wanted to face her, not the mirror, but she held his eyes in the glass. “Miss ’em, of course. Scared to death at first.” Jamie escaped Sylvie’s gaze, watched his fingers wrapping and unwrapping on the mug. “Jesus—that didg, I couldn’t replace that. Yeah, I’m holding up. But if you hadn’t helped me, I’m not sure.”
“Mm.” She pressed her lips together and frowned. “How ’bout the bike?”
“Borrowed one in Asheville, but it’ll be nice to have my wheels again. Feel out of shape, sitting in that bloody van all day, y’know? Dancing tonight, I could really feel it.”
“Touring is hard on your good habits.” She nodded, and looked him over again. Unnerving. What was she looking at? “Sit a lot. Eat and drink.”
“Too right. And someone keeps giving me food. These little gift bags. Fucking weird. But I haven’t drunk much since Austin.”
“You sure did tie one on there, honey.”
He felt embarrassed. “Sorry. Hope I wasn’t too rotten. Guess you see it often enough, but still ...” And then her job hit him. “How can you take this time off? This has got to be costing you.”
“Don’t you worry about that. Dabney lets me take all the time off I need.”
“But gas, hotels ...” He felt he should offer to pay for that. In his mind he could hear Mae and Wendy warning him, Not until you get your things back. “Once I get my things, I should reimburse you for the trip.”
“I expect to be rewarded amply.” She spread the word out and folded her little arms on the bar. He noticed she wore a western shirt with mother of pearl buttons on the cuffs that looked like the real thing, not plastic. “Why don’t we take care of that after the show?”
Mae had cautioned him about women wanting sex because he was a performer. Sylvie wanted something in exchange for his instruments, but she hadn’t come on to him in Austin, hadn’t even seemed to like him then. So what reward did she expect? Money? She hadn’t asked for any, and she had expensive clothes. Those looked like Sanchez and Smyth boots, with western scenes quilted into the leather. A pair of those cost more than he earned in a month. There was something strange about this. “If you’re parked right out back we could get ’em now. I’d have ’em for the second half.”
“And ruin this magic?” Sylvie jumped down from the bar stool and slung her leather purse over her narrow shoulder, adjusting her short denim skirt. It showed more leg than it covered, and her legs though slim weren’t shapely. More like little beige tubes vanishing into her boots. “Anyway, I’m not right out back. It’d be a hike. I’ll catch you after you’re done.” She grinned broadly and winked again before striding off. “Break a leg.”
The look on her face. Like this was some private joke. It couldn’t be. Had to be a mannerism of hers, always sounding like she meant something, looking like she knew something. She’d driven all the way here out of her generous heart to restore his stolen things to him, and she was kind enough to spare the thief as well. So she was odd. Who was he to judge that? He didn’t take any prizes for being normal.
Magic. Sylvie was right. Jamie felt that he and the audience had become one creative force. He paced the second half of the show better, with more of his ballads and love songs, so he could put even more into the high-energy songs when he cut loose again. At the end, the audience drowned him in applause, and he revived the fire of the performance with an encore.
After the final explosion of sound and movement, Jamie felt as if he had climbed a mountain, both drained and exhilarated. A pierced and tattooed man approached him at the edge of the stage and asked permission to use pictures to go with the review he would put on his blog. “Dunno,” Jamie said, “What kind of review? Good or bad?”
“Good.” The blogger beamed and showed Jamie his phone, displaying a series of shots of the show. He’d captured it well. “I loved it. So can I use them?”
“Reckon. Yeah. Why not?”
“Great. Then one more?”
As the reviewer took a picture, a voice beside him said, “Could you take our picture?” Sylvie handed the young man her phone, saying, “It’s already on camera,” and slid her arm around Jamie, her little hand latching onto the inch. He cringed. You don’t grab a stranger’s love handle.
She whispered, “Smile, honey.”
Not wanting to offend his benefactor but uneasy with her touch, Jamie slipped out of her hold as soon as he politely could, told the man he appreciated the good review, and started automatically to step back up on the stage to collect his instruments. Which of course weren’t there. Hard reflex to break. He turned to Sylvie. “Guess we’d better get my things. I’ll give you a lift in the van, and we can load it. How far off are you?”
“Just a couple of blocks.” She clasped her phone, staring at it with a hard, cold look. He must have moved before the picture was taken. “Sheesh.”
“Sorry—I’m funny about people I don’t know well touching me.” He hoped she couldn’t tell this was a lie. People like Naomi could hug him all day and he wouldn’t mind.
Sylvie gave him the same stare she’d given her phone. “You think you don’t know me?”
“A little, y’know, but—look, it’s me, I’m just a nervous sort of bloke, it’s how I am. You’re all right.” Her expression rattled him. “You’ve helped me out. I’m not being unfriendly or anything.”
“Good. Then let’s get you a drink for those nerves and then we’ll get you your instruments.” She strutted to the bar with a sassy wiggle, as if she had a tail like Naomi’s to wag. Jamie followed, wishing he had the nerve to say no. He could use another beer, but not with her, and he had to drive. “What’ll you have, cowboy?”
Sitting at the bar, he felt his heart running like a cluster of little motors in his chest. Something wasn’t right. She hadn’t done anything other than that intrusive little grab, and it was hardly sexual, but it was weird. “Sorry. Nothing. Need some air.”
He pushed through the crowd, found the front door, short of full panic but close to the edge. As people left the club they said cheerful things to him, and he managed to reply. He walked a block, focusing on his breath.
What was it about Sylvie? On the break he’d talked himself out of it, but the unease was back. She gave him a bad feeling. Her voice on the phone had been nice, but in person, she was peculiar. She didn’t sequence, was the only way he could put it to himself. He couldn’t sit and drink with her. Better to just get his instruments, thank her, and see the last of her.
He walked back toward the bar. Which way was she parked? First she said it was a hike, then a couple of blocks. No truck in sight on the street either way. Must be around a corner. Three deep breaths. He wanted to go to his hotel and lie down with Gasser. F
uck. He’d forgotten. No Gasser.
The room had emptied considerably and it was easy to spot Sylvie now, swinging her little stick legs and sipping something clear and bubbly. A frosty mug of beer sat near her. She’d bought him a drink, and here he was trying to get away from her. Taking the barstool beside her, he made sure he didn’t make any contact with her, yet tried to seem appreciative. “Thanks for the grog.”
“The manager brought your pack out of her office.” Sylvie reached down to the floor with a bend that nearly toppled her on her head, and her skirt hiked up showing black lace panties. Jamie averted his eyes. Did she know she’d flashed her bum? “Here you go.” She handed him the backpack. “What you got in there?”
“Stuff I need.” I have a neurotic obsession with brushing my teeth. I carry a stuffed toy. He reached in, checked the roo. Still there. “Or think I need.” Weirdly reassuring, its threadbare head, its remaining ear. His hand felt steadier. The edge of the folded gift bag bothered him, though, and he pulled his hand back out. “Phone. Few things.”
“Drink up.” Sylvie studied herself in the mirror. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Not much to say. I’m not that interesting.” He drank fast, wanting to get the bar time over with, and the usual belch escaped. “Sorry. Always do that when I drink.”
“So does my husband. Or whatever he is right now. He’s a pig.” She took a dainty sip. Looked at Jamie in the mirror. “And not just his manners.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“That I’m married, or to an asshole?”
“Choice number two.” Jamie slung his backpack over his shoulders, signaling, he hoped, readiness to leave after this round. “He must miss you, even so, you being off on this—”
“Mission?” She smiled with one corner of her mouth. “He’s on the road himself. He has no idea.”
Jamie slugged the rest of the beer down. He didn’t want to get into Sylvie’s bad marriage, or the disturbing fact that she hadn’t told her husband that she’d made this trip, as if it had some element of infidelity. A vision of an enormous trucker, jealous and enraged, came into his mind. “You’re not very curious about me,” Sylvie said. “I asked about you.”
“Sorry. Um—look—I hope you don’t think, y’know, that I’m—that I’m—” What if he blundered the way he had with Naomi and declined a flirtation Sylvie wasn’t really doing? Frozen in mid-protest, thoughts forming hairballs he couldn’t cough up, he gestured a kind of wall between them. “Y’know.” A pause, another attempt. One word came out. “That.”
She finished her drink, landed on her feet with a thud, her eyes angry. “Let’s take care of business.”
“Thanks.” Jamie stood. He felt guilty now. He might have been reading all sorts of things into her, and she hadn’t done anything. “You’re being decent. I’m—I’m not good company, that’s all, had a rough trip.”
They walked to the door. He opened it for her and she walked under his arm, cooing, “Poor baby. I bet you have.”
In the night air, Jamie felt calmer, safer. “Yeah. Stressful, y’ know? The theft. And my cat got out of the van, too. Had my cat with me. Lost him.”
Sylvie pouted and squeezed out a sympathetic “Awwww,” walking a little closer. Was she mocking him, or did she just have a clumsy way of being nice?
“Where’s your truck?” Jamie started to turn into the parking lot behind the bar. “Round the corner?”
Sylvie didn’t follow. “Not far. We don’t need your van. Let’s walk.”
Of course—she could drive her truck to the bar to load the van. She’d seen that wreck before, so he couldn’t blame her for not wanting to ride in it, though he didn’t want to walk. His hip ached from all the sitting, compounded by the performance.
“Not much of a walker, are you?” she said as they headed uphill. “What’s the matter with your leg?”
“Fell off a rock.”
She snickered. “Guess I shouldn’t-a told you to break it.”
If only that were funny. It would have been if anyone else had said it.
They covered several slow blocks in silence until Sylvie cut the stillness by whistling a tune. “Know that song?”
“No. What is it?”
“You’re kidding. You don’t know it?”
“Nah. Really don’t.”
“How could you fall off a rock when you live under one?” She stopped, drew a set of keys from her purse, and unlocked a sporty black BMW. “Here we are.”
“Bloody hell. You can’t—fuck—where’s my didg? The drums? My bike wheels?” The trunk was small, maybe one drum in there at most. The back seat was empty. “I thought you had my stuff.”
“Don’t have a cow.” She leaned inside the car, her short skirt hiking up again, and groped under the driver’s seat to bring out a long velvet bag. “Here’s one.” She handed it to Jamie, walked to the other side, opened the door and reached under the passenger seat, displaying the edge of her flat little bum yet one more time. “Proof of my good intentions.” She straightened up and showed him another velvet bag and a hard flute case. “The truck gets shitty mileage. You can pick up the rest in Austin.”
“You didn’t tell me—”
She put the flutes in his hands and glared at him. “Not good enough for you?”
“Sorry. Yeah—no—I’m glad—thanks—I appreciate this. It’s just—”
“Not everything you wanted? You thought I was hauling your drums and your great big didgeridoo in the back of an open pickup all the way from Texas? And your bike wheels? Come on. It rained like a son of a bitch. That nice little sound system would be ruined.”
“Right.” Jamie felt dazed. Something was wrong, and yet everything she said made sense. Had he jumped to conclusions? He could swear Sylvie had made it sound like she was bringing everything. “Guess we both assumed. Sorry. Yeah. Thanks for this.” He could feel the shakuhachi through its wrapping. Relief softened some of the gripping in his chest. He’d get the rest. Sylvie had proved her honesty, even if she was weird. “Can I pay for your gas, your hotels now?”
“Honestly.” She shut the passenger door, walked to the driver's side and got in. “You still have no idea, do you?”
She closed her door just short of a slam, and drove away.
No. No bloody idea at all.
“Only the flutes?” Wendy sounded incredulous. “She could have shipped those.”
Jamie sat on the hotel dresser, his free hand dragging a brush through his hair, snagging on the knots. He wondered if the Mexican woman was grooming Gasser. He got knots too. Poor cat. Mae said the woman didn’t like him. He had to miss Jamie taking care of him.
“Are you there?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Drifty.” He set the phone down instead of the hairbrush, shook his head, amazed at himself, and switched. “Can’t brush my hair and talk at the same time.” Rising, he crossed the room and double-checked that the curtains were closed all the way. A new obsession. “Everything sounded so reasonable when she said it. Thought I was giving you good news.”
“I think you should call the police.”
“But she brought my flutes. What do I accuse her of? How do I even prove they were stolen?”
“I don’t know. But what she did doesn’t make any sense. If she didn’t have a closed truck to carry the big stuff, why not just ship the small stuff? Why drive all the way to Raleigh? Even if she insured the package it would have been cheaper than the trip.”
“She’s got money. Clothes look like it, anyway.”
Wendy sighed. “So she’s a rich bar waitress.”
“Yeah. Husband must have the money.”
“She’s married? That’s bad, Jamie. It looks like she’s doing all this so she can have an excuse to see you.”
“Kind of. I thought that, too. She wanted her picture taken with me.” That nagging unease about her came back. “Fuck—I wonder if she—no, she wasn’t in Asheville. I almost thought she might be giving me these gift bags, but peopl
e drop them off at the door, it’s not shipped or anything—crap, that means I’ve got two weird fans. The invisible one with the chocolate, and the little weasel with the instruments.”
“Sylvie sounds more troubling than the gift bags. I want you to be careful.” Wendy paused, and the scolding tone softened into gentleness. “Are you scared?”
“Fuck.” He laughed. “Is my heart beating? Are my brainwaves waving?” He paced back to the dresser and tried again to brush his hair while pacing with the phone. Smooth hair was comforting, like clean teeth. It put a piece of the world in order. “Of course I’m scared.”
A long silence. “I shouldn’t have sent you on a solo tour. If you’d told me your whole history sooner, I wouldn’t have done it. I wish those African guys you play with in Santa Fe would tour. I wonder if they’d come out for the last leg of this.”
“Nah. Family men. Jobs, wives, kids.”
“Is there anyone who could travel with you? A friend who needs a vacation?”
“Jesus. I am not asking my Mum to come hold my hand. I’m fine. Only had a wobbly once—twice—and I’m all the way across the country. I’ve done great.”
“But this Sylvie business is new. I don’t want you in situations you can’t handle. How weird do you think she is?”
“About a three. Really. She’s this plain, awkward sheila and she wants to act like my friend, like she knows me. That’s all. She hasn’t done anything. Jesus. It’s probably me being too anxious.”
“Are you anxious about the gift bag person?”
“Not yet. Maybe a little. I don’t need the sweets, sitting in the van all day, but it’s harmless.”
“Harmless unless you freak out over it. I wish you still had that cat.”
“I’ll shape up. I miss him, but I’ll keep my head on straight, I promise.”
“Good, I’ll trust you can. There’s got to be a big shelter in Norfolk, with PETA there. You can find a new buddy.”
“No.” The idea felt like a betrayal. “I want him.” Jamie heard his three-year-old self in the way he said it. “My friend Mae, remember her? She’s psychic. She’ll find him for me. She halfway has already, just need the name and address of the lady who’s got him.”