Washington. Have you ever been in Seattle before? Do you know anything about it?”
She turned away from the window and rested her chin on her hand, regarding me seriously. “I did a concert at the Coliseum once, back in the old days. I opened for The Living Dead. Ever hear of them?”
I shook my head.
“That doesn’t surprise me. The band broke up several years ago after the drummer OD’d and the lead singer got sent up for dealing.”
The waiter returned to place our drinks in front of us. Jasmine Day remained silent until he was well out of earshot. “I guess I’m lucky that I lived long enough to grow up. A lot of the singers and musicians I started out with didn’t make it this far.”
I took a sip of my drink and leaned back in my chair, wondering how old she was. Thirty maybe, if that. “How did you get out of Jasper?” I asked.
She smiled, a quick, amused smile. “I started out singing solos in the First Baptist Church when I was seven years old. I’ve got a whole flock of relatives back in Texas who’d be more than happy to tell you that it’s been all downhill ever since. They’re convinced I’m going to hell in a handbasket.”
“Are you?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. Anyway, Mary Lou Gibbon sang her heart out at weddings and funerals and potluck dinners and saved her money so she could get the hell out of Jasper.”
“And you’re Mary Lou Gibbon, of course,” I said.
“You bet. Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes. Or at least that’s who I was supposed to be. I sang hymns in church. I taught myself rock out in the garage where nobody could hear me. When I was sixteen, I bought myself a one-way ticket to New York.”
“And the rest is history.
She nodded. “That’s right.”
The waiter returned, pushing a cart with the salad ingredients carefully assembled on it. Next to a large wooden bowl lay a copy of the souvenir program from Jasmine Day’s conceit. The waiter leaned close to her.
“Excuse me, madame,” he said apologetically, “but the woman over there wanted me to ask if you would mind autographing her program. She said they’ve just come from your show and she loved it.”
“I’d be delighted,” Jasmine said, picking up the program. She nodded slightly in the direction of the lady three tables away, who gave her a tiny, self-conscious wave.
The waiter handed Jasmine a pen. She thumbed through the program until she found her picture. Then, instead of signing it, she got up, walked over to the table, and chatted with her embarrassed but delighted fan. Jasmine signed her name with an expansive flourish and returned the program to its owner.
Meanwhile, watching the transaction, I took a long pull on my MacNaughton’s and wondered what the hell I was doing there.
Jasmine returned to the table smiling. “It’s always nicer if you can sign it to them personally,” she said.
The waiter was obviously conscious of Jasmine’s attention as he created our salads. There was an almost electric sensuality about the lady, and the waiter was no more immune to it than I was.
“So how did Mary Lou Gibbon become Jasmine Day?” I asked, once the waiter had served our individual salads and walked away.
“On my back.”
It was a no-nonsense reply, and it left no room for misinterpretation. It caught me off guard, with a mouthful of salad. A large piece of romaine lettuce went down the wrong way and stuck crosswise in my throat. I choked and coughed, trying to jar it loose.
“I take it that’s not a career path you approve of,” she said mockingly.
I didn’t say anything in return because I still couldn’t talk.
“I slept my way to the top once,” she said quietly and added in a determined tone, “This time, I’m doing it right.”
That statement was open to interpretation, but I didn’t have nerve enough to ask.
CHAPTER 11
TIRED AS I WAS, WITH THE LENGTH OF time I’d gone without sleep, drinking even one MacNaughton’s was a big mistake. Drinking two was downright
She turned away from the window and rested her chin on her hand, regarding me seriously. “I did a concert at the Coliseum once, back in the old days. I opened for The Living Dead. Ever hear of them?”
I shook my head.
“That doesn’t surprise me. The band broke up several years ago after the drummer OD’d and the lead singer got sent up for dealing.”
The waiter returned to place our drinks in front of us. Jasmine Day remained silent until he was well out of earshot. “I guess I’m lucky that I lived long enough to grow up. A lot of the singers and musicians I started out with didn’t make it this far.”
I took a sip of my drink and leaned back in my chair, wondering how old she was. Thirty maybe, if that. “How did you get out of Jasper?” I asked.
She smiled, a quick, amused smile. “I started out singing solos in the First Baptist Church when I was seven years old. I’ve got a whole flock of relatives back in Texas who’d be more than happy to tell you that it’s been all downhill ever since. They’re convinced I’m going to hell in a handbasket.”
“Are you?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. Anyway, Mary Lou Gibbon sang her heart out at weddings and funerals and potluck dinners and saved her money so she could get the hell out of Jasper.”
“And you’re Mary Lou Gibbon, of course,” I said.
“You bet. Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes. Or at least that’s who I was supposed to be. I sang hymns in church. I taught myself rock out in the garage where nobody could hear me. When I was sixteen, I bought myself a one-way ticket to New York.”
“And the rest is history.
She nodded. “That’s right.”
The waiter returned, pushing a cart with the salad ingredients carefully assembled on it. Next to a large wooden bowl lay a copy of the souvenir program from Jasmine Day’s conceit. The waiter leaned close to her.
“Excuse me, madame,” he said apologetically, “but the woman over there wanted me to ask if you would mind autographing her program. She said they’ve just come from your show and she loved it.”
“I’d be delighted,” Jasmine said, picking up the program. She nodded slightly in the direction of the lady three tables away, who gave her a tiny, self-conscious wave.
The waiter handed Jasmine a pen. She thumbed through the program until she found her picture. Then, instead of signing it, she got up, walked over to the table, and chatted with her embarrassed but delighted fan. Jasmine signed her name with an expansive flourish and returned the program to its owner.
Meanwhile, watching the transaction, I took a long pull on my MacNaughton’s and wondered what the hell I was doing there.
Jasmine returned to the table smiling. “It’s always nicer if you can sign it to them personally,” she said.
The waiter was obviously conscious of Jasmine’s attention as he created our salads. There was an almost electric sensuality about the lady, and the waiter was no more immune to it than I was.
“So how did Mary Lou Gibbon become Jasmine Day?” I asked, once the waiter had served our individual salads and walked away.
“On my back.”
It was a no-nonsense reply, and it left no room for misinterpretation. It caught me off guard, with a mouthful of salad. A large piece of romaine lettuce went down the wrong way and stuck crosswise in my throat. I choked and coughed, trying to jar it loose.
“I take it that’s not a career path you approve of,” she said mockingly.
I didn’t say anything in return because I still couldn’t talk.
“I slept my way to the top once,” she said quietly and added in a determined tone, “This time, I’m doing it right.”
That statement was open to interpretation, but I didn’t have nerve enough to ask.
CHAPTER 11
TIRED AS I WAS, WITH THE LENGTH OF time I’d gone without sleep, drinking even one MacNaughton’s was a big mistake. Drinking two was downright
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