American Blonde by Jennifer Niven

me nearly kill him. Even at you, Velva Jean. I mean let’s face it, there’s something humiliating about getting rescued by a girl, and not just any girl but your own sister.”
    He finished his drink, set the bottle down on the floor, and leaned forward. “The thing about carrying around all that anger is that it gets heavy after a while and your arms get tired. A couple of weeks after you left, I thought: What if I just give up that anger and decide to be happy while I can? What if this is my two days and I’m wasting it by being so mad?”
    I stared at him like he was a stranger.
    “So I started thinking about what I wanted to do with a year of unemployment, thanks to the Army. I thought about roping cattle or staying in the military. I went down to Hamlet’s Mill for a week and followed Sheriff Story around to see if maybe I wanted to go into law enforcement, but I’m sick of wearing a uniform and taking orders. So that got me to thinking about music. You got another Coke?”
    “What? Oh. Of course.” I stood up, walked to the little refrigerator that sat in one corner. I pulled out a bottle, popped the top, and handed it to him. “So music . . .”
    “Yeah. I mean I never been as natural at it as you, little sister, and I never been as focused, but I know I got a good voice and that I can play guitar better than a lot of ’em. Anyway, a buddy of mine was in Chicago trying to get up a band. He asked me to sit in. We been traveling the country ever since—Memphis, New Orleans, Austin. A guy down in Texas asked us to come to L.A., play at his club, with the chance to make a record.” As if he suddenly remembered something, he checked his wristwatch: black band, square face. He stood, handing me the two empty Coca-Cola bottles. “I got to get back.”
    “But you just got here.”
    “Well, if you’re free tonight you could come hear us. You got a piece of paper?” I handed him paper and a pen, and he scrawled down an address. “We go on at eight, which means nine. If you come, you make sure they know you’re there so I can introduce you around. Bring some friends if you want. Make it a party.”
    I walked him back to the gate as slow as I could so that it wouldn’t be over and he wouldn’t be gone. I was afraid if I let him out of my sight that I might never see him again.
    His eyes swept over the Thalberg Building, the gate, the sign that read “Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer.”
    “You done good, Velva Jean.” He smiled, not flashy this time, but the sweet smile that he used to save for Mama. “I like to think I’m doing some good now too.”

    At home, Mudge took up residence on the living room sofa, every part of her propped up with pillows, as if she were broken in a hundred places. The accident had made her unusually sweet and quiet, a sweet and quiet I hadn’t seen from her in weeks. “Thank you, Flora,” she said when Flora brought her a drink. “Thank you, Hartsie,” she said when I brought her a new ice pack for her knee.
    I sat down beside her. “My brother’s here. In L.A. He wants me to come hear him tonight on Central Avenue.”
    “You’ll like it there. The best music in town.”
    “I don’t want to leave you like this.”
    “Flora’s here, and I’m going to be sleeping anyway. I’m so tired and my head is splitting.” As if to prove it, she yawned. “You go.”
    After I was dressed and ready, she said, “Did they find out what caused the horse to bolt like that?”
    “Most likely a loud noise or a sudden movement.”
    “Is the police guard still out there?”
    I checked. “Yes.”
    She nodded, set her glass down. “I think I’ll close my eyes for a bit. I may even go to sleep. I may already be asleep right now. You have a good time, Hartsie. Tell that brother of yours hello for me.”
    “I will.” I picked up the empty glass, and by the time I was at the doorway, looking back, she was sleeping.

TEN
    B abe King, Hal MacGinnis, and I headed south and east toward the