The crack in his voice broke her heart.
CHAPTER 37
SAWYER
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Ishower, put on a clean pair of jeans and my classic Spike LeeDo the Right ThingT-shirt. I think about ordering a 2XL and mailing it special delivery to my dad, but he wouldn’t get the joke. I’m not feeling that funny any damn way.
I reach the Sage Fool’s Pub close to midnight. Standing room only, I fight my way to the middle of the bar, passing by a large room, stanchioned off, with small round tables and short, squat stools. It is where live music plays. A stage is positioned in front of a wall-length picture window, a drum kit, and a few small klieg lights finish off the ensemble.
The joint is at capacity. I move into an open spot and wave at one of the bartenders. “Do you know where I can find Lula Kent?” I shout above the noise.
A blond man with a Viking beard and a massive amount of muscle doesn’t glance away from his blender. He replies loudly over his shoulder, “What about her?”
This isn’t casual bartender-speak, but I ignore the attitude. “Is Lula working tonight?”
The Viking turns, and his blue eyes hold the same bad attitude as his tone. “Why do you want her?”
None of your fucking businessis what I start to say. But the dude is taller than me, broader than me, and could beat my comparatively skinny ass with a martini shaker. “Ease up, man. I only want to say hi. She and I—well, we work together.”
He points at the wall behind him. “Look up, man.”
The leaderboard is three feet tall, and scrawled in white chalk in huge letters is Lula’s name—and the start time of her next set.
“My bad,” I say to the Viking. “A double shot of Patrón. Neat.”
He makes my drink. I pay him, turn, and angle through the crowd to the music room.
The band—a bass guitarist, a drummer spinning his sticks, and a tenor saxophone player—walk from the audience onto the stage. A redheaded woman in a black sleeveless shirt already sits at the keyboards.
When the lights dim, my imagination takes me back to a 1920s speakeasy. Cigarette smoke and whiskey and perspiration float into the room. A jazz quartet plays in a balcony, and a tough-voiced songstress belts the blues.
It isn’t 1925, but time surrounds me. The past is a perfect blues song, and I imagine Honoree strutting across the stage, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Someone bumps into me, and I am back in the present. An empty table is against the wall. I swallow my tequila and take a seat.
Lula strolls onto the stage in a strapless black sundress with red flowers and steps into a spotlight, illuminating her face. The lighting adores her cheekbones, her full lips, and the roundness of her head and the length of her throat—even her natural short black hair sparkles. Everything about her glows—especially her smooth black skin.
I tilt my head back and hold my breath. Damn, she looks different out of her blue scrubs, but the same. Regal. In command. Beautiful.
She taps the microphone and moistens her lips, a slight show of nerves. “Good evening, my name is Lula Kent.” She introduces the band, makes a joke about the weather, and begins to sing.
Her voice, a rough, raw alto with a soul-stirring vibrato, is sex in middle C.
I stop thinking, stop worrying, and stare at her, hypnotized by her voice and the shape of her mouth.
A woman’s mouth tells a story: a twitch in the corner, an upturn, a downturn, the seductiveness of a smile. A woman’s mouth conveys truth without making a sound. I wrote those lines in a screenplay.
Now, Lula can sing her ass off. Her next song is a tune by Nina Simone, “Sinnerman.” The song is not an easy cover, but she nails it. As the set ends, the applause takes a few minutes to wind down. The room empties slowly. I don’t move from my seat.
The lights come up, not too bright, and Lula steps from the stage.
Standing with slick palms and a throat as dry as sand, I tug on the collar of my T-shirt.
Ready. Set. Go.
I approach Lula, who still smiles but not at me. A couple had paused to praise her. After a few minutes, the last admiring patrons depart. The room is empty, except for the musicians and me and Lula. I keep my distance, a few feet from her; the musicians huddle.
