Dancing With Venus

by Roscoe James

  Must have been when I pushed by. It got caught in my fingers.

  Jessie didn't need to read either one of the inscriptions. She'd already read them a hundred times. She swallowed a choked sob when she kissed the outside of the bracelet's nameplate and whispered, “Marci.”

  She turned the plate over, chains dangling from each end, and ran her shaking finger along the curved inside of the nameplate. She didn't know why it was inscribed. She only knew that knowing the inscription existed at all made her feel better.

  She pressed her thumbs into the plate and pushed hard until Marci was on the inside. She inspected the clasp, then put the bracelet on. She looked one last time at the inscription that was now on the outside.

  Jessie.

  She sighed.

  I knew you'd break my heart.

  Jessie did what she did best.

  She ran.

  Chapter Nine

  After sunny California in August, Denver in late September seemed glacial to Jessie. But she knew that all the cold she felt wasn't about the weather. Denver suffered the slow death of Jessie's broken heart, and she'd been invited to leave after two nights of bad timing and sour faces. No one had told her that blues players aren't allowed to burst randomly into tears while trying to break the audience's hearts.

  Bernie finally caught up with her fifty miles east of Denver floggin' the grey dog to St. Louis.

  “Not now, Bernie. I'm not going to do it.”

  “But Jessie, come on. He's got a record company lined up. They're talking a big advance. A chance like this only comes once in a life—” The man sounded like he was going to start bawling like a baby.

  “If I even go near a recording studio right now, it will all come out wrong. I just can't do it, Bernie. My heart's not in it. But I'll call you. I promise.”

  “No you won't. I'll call you and you'll do this to me.” Bernie's phone made a loud clicking noise in Jessie's ear when he snapped it shut.

  She stuffed her phone in the pocket of her jeans and sulked.

  In St. Louis, a city she'd never played before, she tried to fill up her days with sightseeing. Sightseeing turned to walking around in a daze on the sidewalk, staring at cigarette butts and chewing gum. She drew from the well of professionalism she'd grown into after years on the road and was finally able to have some fun with her audience. But the fun was forced. And a lot of work. She was exhausted every night, and her pillow was still wet every morning.

  When the excruciating agony of St. Louis was over, she ran some more. St. Louis wasn't far enough away from the woman who had broken her heart. It didn't matter that Marci wasn't in LA. It didn't matter that every chance Jessie got she'd stop in some Internet café and surf around looking for news and notices about Marci's world tour. It also didn't matter that videos with snippets and brief appearances of Marci were a gift from God.

  By the time she stopped in Nashville, she'd massaged her pain into anger. Her music took on an edge that, surprisingly, the audience loved. She didn't know if her anger was directed at Marci or herself.

  She was packing them into a little dive in an alley behind the hallowed stage of the Grand Ole Opry when a new distraction stepped into Jessie's life.

  “Do you have any original work?”

  Jessie waved a waitress down and ordered a beer. The woman had been sitting at a table by herself the night before. She didn't have the Nashville look, and Jessie pegged her for a tourist. She was petite, somewhere north of fifty, had short blonde hair in a pixie cut, and smiled a lot. When Jessie saw her at the same table a second night, this time accompanied by a wizened old black man with gray hair, she didn't think much of it. Groupies came in all sizes, shapes, colors, and sexes. She was used to people who enjoyed her music and sat close to the stage where they could be seen.

  She'd wrapped a set of Jimmy Rogers and John Lee Hooker tunes, and the woman had waved her over.

  Jessie thought about the question, took a pull on her beer, and finally answered.

  “A few instrumentals. Not much worth listening to. I just like to sing the blues. But I can cover just about anybody.”

  “Let me introduce myself. I'm Judy Lewiston and this is a friend of mine, Cotton Mouth Lee. Maybe you've heard of him.”

  Jessie stared in disbelief. She'd always thought the man was dead. As far as she knew, everyone thought Cotton Mouth Lee had passed on to that great blues stage in the sky.

  “Sure! Who the hell doesn't know who Cotton Mouth Lee is?” Jessie shoved her hand across the table to shake the hand of a true blues legend. “I can't tell you how happy I am to meet you.”

  The man's grip was firm but with a tremble, his eyes smoky, and his almost toothless smile ready and disarming.

  “You too, little lady. I gots ta tell ya I ain't never heard no one could sing Jimmy Rogers like you do. And a woman to boot. Ol' Jimmy. He'd love that.”

  The two of them talked blues for almost thirty minutes. Finally the owner of the bar stopped by and reminded Jessie she had two more sets to play. He looked at his watch; then he looked at Cotton Mouth Lee. His mouth dropped open, and he walked away pulling his cell phone out of his pocket.

  “Listen.” Judy Lewiston leaned across the table. “I caught your show last night and I wanted Mr. Lee to meet you. I don't know how you'd feel about this, but Mr. Lee has his guitar out in my car. He'd sure like to sing a few—”

  “Hell yes he can!”

  Judy Lewiston left to retrieve Cotton Mouth Lee's guitar, and Jessie helped one of the best Delta blues singers ever make his way to the stage. He clung to her arm and leaned close when they got under the lights.

  “You mind if we ask them other guys to sit this one out?”

  Hell no, I don't mind. We can have 'em stand on their head and whistle Dixie if you want.

  Jessie waved off her pickup band and found a chair for Cotton Mouth. Judy brought the man's guitar up, and Jessie grabbed the microphone.

  “Hey there, Nashville. Do I have a treat for you. Mr. Cotton Mouth Lee, everybody!” The noise level doubled, and someone hollered, “You shittin' me?”

  They played and sang for half an hour. Jessie danced around on her electric behind Cotton Mouth's acoustic. They traded verses and vocal backup. Thirty minutes later Cotton Mouth managed to stand, his nearly toothless grin big as a jack-o'-lantern's, and thanked the crowd. Judy collected the old man and his guitar and promised Jessie she'd be back after her last set.

  “I'd like to discuss something with you.”

  The rest of the night was a blur. Jessie finished her last set, and, as promised, Judy was sitting at the bar waiting for her. Jessie ordered a beer and took a stool beside Judy.

  “I'm a little pressed for time. I have to catch a flight to New York in two hours. But here's the deal. I'm an agent. Cotton Mouth is one of my talents. He'd like to do one more album, maybe make a few appearances before he dies. He can't do more than an hour live, but that hour is solid gold.”

  Jessie took a pull on her longneck and played back in her mind Cotton Mouth Lee singing “You're The One” earlier.

  “He asked me to look for someone. He wants to do his album with that person. Not as a studio musician. He thinks that Delta blues has lost its way. He wants to pass along the torch. Whoever does this would get equal billing, his praise, and his undying gratitude. He wants to know that after he's gone someone is carrying on with the true tradition of blues the way it was meant to be sung.

  “The deal with the record company is that they get to re-release all his old stuff, they get one new album from him singing with whomever he picks, and that person gets a three-album deal right up front. That's Mr. Lee's way of ensuring the tradition continues.”

  “Wow. That sounds great. I can't even believe I got to sing with the man. Cotton Mouth Lee. Amazing. Hell, wait till I tell my daddy. Has he decided who he's gonna pick?”

  “Sure he has!” Judy's reflection showed surprise in the mirror behind the bar. “Well. If you're interested, that is.�
��

  Jessie nearly fell off her bar stool.

  “The thing is, Cotton Mouth Lee hasn't got much time left. Cancer. The doctor says nine months at the most. Six or seven he'll be fairly active. So if you're interested, we need to get started.”

  “But—”

  “The record company has agreed to a two-hundred-thousand-dollar advance for whoever Mr. Lee picks. That would be you. This deal has special royalties. Not the standard rates they give to new artists. They'll put you up and pay living expenses for the month it will take to work up the album with Mr. Lee. Everything will be first-class during the promotional phase, which includes a ten-city tour. More if Mr. Lee can do it. They want the public appearances to start almost immediately.”

  Jessie sat at a beat-up old bar hugging her longneck and stared fame and fortune in the eye. It was all there. Not just the money and notoriety. This was a chance to be a part of history. To step into the shoes of a person who helped create the music she loved. And to carry on that tradition.

  She fidgeted and tried to put her finger on what was missing.

  “How soon would we need—”

  “Tomorrow. I'm not going to kid you, Jessie. We're talking about a lot of work. Sure. Doing something I think you love. But this project would take over your life for at least two years.”

  “What if I needed some time? A week.”

  “Can't do it, Jessie. Not right now. You can get some time off around Christmas if you want. We need every minute we can get. Mr. Lee can hear the clock ticking. Hell, the man's ninety-one. He might just drop over dead any minute.”

  “Four days?”

  “Is it the money? You want more mon—”

  “No. That's not it.”

  “Then what is there to think about? This is it, Jessie. The big chance. Not just fame and fortune but a chance to work with a living legend. I've been chasing you for a month now. When I saw you in Colorado, I thought I'd been given a bum steer. St. Louis was better. But here in Nashville you really shined.”

  “You've been scouting me? I thought you just dropped in and had a beer. I figured you liked the music.”

  “I don't have time to leave things to chance. I asked around. Your name came up. So what's it gonna be, Jessie? I've got my contract right here. We can sign tonight and my assistant will be in Nashville tomorrow afternoon. He'll introduce you to the record company, give you a check, and you and Mr. Lee will get started the next day. Easy as that.”

  Jessie drained the last of her beer and looked around the empty dive. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve and turned on her stool. She wanted to take back the words before she even said them. But she didn't.

  “I want to think about it. I need a day. Twenty-four hours. I'll call you tomorrow evening.”

  “But Jessie—”

  “You've been scouting me for a month. If you can't wait twenty-four hours, I'm not worth havin'.”

  The woman looked put out. She reached in her handbag and dug out an envelope. She scribbled a phone number on the outside and handed it to Jessie.

  “That's the contract. You have until nine tomorrow evening. Sign that and fax it to that number before then and we're all set. If I don't receive it, I'll be sitting in a bar down in SoHo listening to candidate number two.”

  Jessie took the envelope and stuffed it in her back pocket.

  “Don't let this one get away, Jessie. It's my business to know what works and what doesn't, who's got talent and who doesn't. You've got what it takes. You sign that contract and you'll never look back. Besides, Mr. Lee likes you. He told me outside you were the best. World-class, he said. That he didn't want me to look anymore. He's ready to start.”

  “I'm flattered. Believe me, I am. But I need to step back for a minute. There is one thing you can do for me.”

  “What's that?” Judy sounded ticked off. She was obviously a woman who didn't take losing well.

  “You're going to the airport, aren't you? Can I get a ride?”

  * * *

  Jessie stepped out of the LAX national terminal and dug for her Ray-Bans. The California sun was as bright and unnaturally cheery as ever. She got in line for a taxi and lit up.

  “You really shouldn't do that, Miss.”

  Jessie eyed the man and his business suit, his laptop bag hanging off his shoulder. “And you really shouldn't butt into other people's business.”

  She made a point of lighting up a second one while they continued waiting for a taxi. The faceless businessman with a laptop bag didn't say anything. In the taxi she pulled a piece of paper out of her purse and read the address to the driver. The page was tattered and dirty. She'd printed it along with a few other pages the day she'd met Leslie and Barbara.

  The building was nondescript steel and glass surrounded by palm trees. It was also intimidating. Jessie hadn't bothered with her duffel bag. It was languishing in the boardinghouse room she'd rented for her two-week stay in Nashville. She'd left her guitar at the bar, and the only thing she had was her purse.

  She walked through the big front entrance of the building and stepped up to the reception desk.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yeah. I'd like to see Mr. Alexander Dionysius.”

  “Do you have an appointment?” A girl with blue hair and green fingernails peered at Jessie suspiciously. She looked like something from the latest alien thriller Hollywood was churning out.

  “Nope. I sure don't. Tell him it's Jessica Butler.”

  “Are you dropping something off? You can leave it here if you want. We'll have it taken up to Mr. Dionysius.” The girl was looking at Jessie's jeans and wrinkled T-shirt.

  “I'm not dropping anything off, and no, I'm not the hired help. Is the man in or not?”

  “Mr. Dionysius is busy right now. Maybe you can come back when you have an appointment.”

  Stopped by a fucking twenty-year-old watchdog.

  “Look. All I want you to do is see if he's got five minutes. That's all I need.”

  “Is there a problem here?” Some surfer boy in a monkey suit appeared at Jessie's elbow.

  “Yeah. The problem is Miss Alien Nation here. She doesn't want to see if Mr. Dionysius is available for a little face time.”

  “Face time?” The security guard seemed genuinely perplexed.

  “Jeez. What is it with you people? First I can't smoke in peace on the sidewalk, and now I can't even talk—”

  “Let me just call Mr. Dionysius's assistant.”

  She watched the girl and tried to ignore the hovering security guard.

  “Mr. Dionysius's assistant will be right down.”

  Jessie ignored the incredulousness of Miss Alien Nation's response and wandered away from the reception desk. Five minutes later a gray-haired woman in a Chanel suit arrived to escort her charge to the lion's den.

  After a ride in a private elevator, they stopped in an elegant waiting room attended by no fewer than three women sitting behind a huge swirl of polished wood pretending to be a desk.

  “I'll announce you.”

  Jessie couldn't recall being announced before. Just something else that spoke of how different her world was from Marci's.

  The man appeared, smile in place, and offered his hand.

  “Have you had lunch yet, Miss Butler?”

  The question was so out of tune with her thoughts that Jessie drew a blank. Mr. Dionysius turned to one of the three women.

  “Could you have my chef come up? Lunch for two.” The man turned back to Jessie. “Steak or seafood, Miss Butler? Actually, you can have anything you'd like. I can't say I'm much of a host.”

  “Er, ah, steak would be great.” Jessie felt like something was wrong. The man seemed much more affable than he had the first time they'd met.

  There's danger here.

  The back and forth of placing her order took the edge off, and Jessie started to relax. She was ushered into an office twice the size of a tennis court decorated with more curvy polished wood, thick beveled-glass t
ops, and a lot of leather. The office doors were pulled shut, and she was waved into a seat. Marci's father fell into a sleek chrome and leather chair on the other side of a desk the size of a small car.

  “Let me apologize for what took place downstairs. I keep such a busy schedule that unscheduled interruptions can be a problem. Which is no excuse. At times my people can be fiercely loyal. Now, what can I do for you today, Miss Butler?”

  Jessie was floored. She had expected distance, anger, anguish, and a fight. She'd expected anything but the red-carpet treatment she was getting.

  She'd struggled with this moment since Judy Lewiston shoved a business card in her hand and left her standing in front of the American Airlines counter in Nashville.

  She had looked at Lewiston's contract on the plane, and the woman was right. Cotton Mouth Lee would take two years of her life in a heartbeat. But she wanted her priorities straight. She didn't know how she and Marci would work out the complications of both their schedules, but Jessie didn't want Marci to think she would be expected to play second fiddle to Jessie's career. She had to at least try.

  “Well, sir. It's about Marci. Er, your daughter.”

  The double doors opened, and a linen-draped cart rolled in followed by a young woman with a white jacket buttoned smartly up to her neck. A man in a chef's hat followed. Next was another linen-draped cart with covered dishes pushed by a steward.

  “Maybe we can discuss this over lunch?”

  Jessie watched in dismay as a table in one corner of the huge office was set with crystal, silver, and china on more white linen. In the face of such finery she started feeling dingy and wrinkled. Marci's father seemed to sense her discomfort.

  “My bathroom is through that door if you'd like to freshen up.”

  The man's private bathroom was as big as her bedroom. Jessie took a cat bath, tried to decide which towel to use, brushed her hair out, and when she returned, salads that looked more like artwork in greenery were waiting while their steaks were being flambéed. She took her place, and the man she had feared would be difficult at the least turned out to be a delight.