Unforgettable (9 page)

“No kidding, Rett.” Jerry appeared to be serious. “I met you — what? Late ‘eighties, that club in Detroit? You look and sound better now than you did then. Your career is just starting. Some singers peak early and are never heard from again — you’re going to mature magnificently.”

She wanted to believe every word. “Like a good Irish setter?” Her cue was approaching.

Jerry tweaked her chin as if she were a child. “I like the red hair. But no. You’re like a painting created by a master.”

“Flatterer.” It was exactly what she needed to hear.

“Break a leg.”

The floodlights blinded her to the audience, but she took in the polite applause. Thank God the first number was the familiar “Blue Moon.” Nothing fancy, she reminded herself. Pour the notes like syrup, like you’ve poured them out of your throat a thousand times before.

The musicians seemed in top form. The clarinet echoed the smooth flow of Rett’s voice, picking up her last note to start the solo as if they were one and the same. The guitar work that followed sparkled, and Henry moved to the music like a dancer, letting his enjoyment of the sound show in the way he cued and directed.

The applause was a mite better than polite and Rett launched into “I Told You I Love You” with confidence that let the humor come through effortlessly, earning audible chuckles and enthusiastic applause at the end of the number. When she finished “Candy” and took a bow it wasn’t hard to tell that the audience would be glad to see her in the second half of the program.

The rest of the concert was the smooth, glittering performance anybody could have wanted. Henry brought Rett out after the band’s encore and whispered, “I should have thought of an encore for you.”

“It’s okay,” she answered through a brilliant stage smile. To her elation, the audience kept clapping as if they expected something. “We needed to get through the planned songs.”

“Could you do ‘Just the Way You Are’?” Henry drew her into another bow.

Rett was sure of it. They’d done it last year and it was an easy sing.

“We only took it out because Gilda hated it.” He gave the audience one of his patented crooked smiles and waved Rett to the microphone. He picked up his baton from the first violinist’s music stand as he told him the number they were going to do, then joined Rett briefly. The audience fell into an expectant hush. Rett could hear the song being whispered from musician to musician.

“We’ll do one more,” he said, “so you can have a chance to hear the fabulous Rett Jamison one more time.” He was interrupted by applause and Rett’s heart flew to the balcony. It was like a dream. “This is completely unrehearsed, but you’ve been a great audience and I’ll know you’ll forgive us if we flub.”

Laughter, applause, the opening notes. Rett realized Henry had forgotten to key it down for her, but her voice was well-limbered and the high notes wouldn’t be a problem. Her verses gave way to a sexy but light saxophone solo, which handed off to the arrangement of strings that set Henry’s version apart from Billy Joel’s. Rett came back on her cue and found the high notes after the key change no difficulty at all. She was taking a bow with Henry and the saxophonist — another woman, which pleased Rett — when Jerry Orland stepped on stage to give her an enormous bundle of white roses.

“Thanks for being you,” he whispered in her ear.

Backstage was awash with high spirits. Rett was hugged, kissed and squeezed by the other performers, then flattered and schmoozed by the press and VIPs. In her life she’d never had a night quite like it.

She looked at her glowing face in the mirror and thought, I get paid for this, too. Pinch me. The roses festooned the dressing table and their light scent added another layer of memory to a night she knew she would never forget.

Henry’s compliments came in a form Rett could not dispute. “We’re going to add another song for you in the second half and find a showier encore. But not until the Tuesday night show. There’s no rehearsal tomorrow because of the matinee. Everybody’s off Monday, then we have a longer rehearsal on Tuesday morning.”

“I’m really glad this is going to work out,” Rett told him. “I keep telling myself it’s just my ego that thinks I’ve got a special sound that works for you, but I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I wanted you all along, but Jerry thought Gil da had the box office draw. Which she did, he was right about that.”

“I already confessed that,” Jerry said. He leaned into the dressing room. “I just got a message from Gilda’s agent. He must have been at the performance and could not have been at all pleased at what he heard.”

“Tell him to fly the proverbial kite,” Henry said.

“I will,” Jerry said. “Meanwhile, I’m going to walk back to the hotel and I’ll see everyone in the morning.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Henry said. “It’s great that we’re so close by.” He kissed Rett on the cheek. “Go celebrate — I know there’s a gang headed somewhere fun.”

Rett watched the two men leave and her gaydar went off the scale. It had never occurred to her before, but she hadn’t spent that much time with them. She’d never heard even a rumor about Henry, but it didn’t take much deduction to know why he stayed in the closet, if indeed she was right about him and Jerry. Though the Henry Connors Orchestra was well-known and could fill venues coast-to-coast, including several weeks in Las Vegas twice a year, his reputation as a fine musician and conductor wasn’t so secure that he could risk losing audience and venues because he was gay. Michael Tilson Thomas could be out, but he was in so-called “serious” music, and in his case, genius had silenced any critics. Henry hadn’t proven his genius at that level — and sticking with the popular music he loved he might never be able to do it.

She was interrupted from her musings by the dresser, who stripped her of her clothes in a no-nonsense fashion. Over her protests that she could do it herself, the stylist scrubbed her face free of makeup. She removed the hairpiece and, when Rett said she was probably going out, moussed Rett’s hair into an asymmetrical wedge. They set a time for the red highlights in the morning and then musicians started dropping off their tuxes for dry cleaning.

As Henry had thought, a group was going out to find a bar with food. Zuni’s was suggested, but it would take a cab to get there. Then someone said Tommy’s Joint, which was met with general agreement, and they set out up Geary. Fog had obscured the stars and she huddled in her jacket.

She found herself shoulder-to-shoulder with the saxophonist who had soloed during the encore. Rett searched her memory for the woman’s name — Zip Curtis, that was it.

“You sounded really great tonight.” Zip had the same crooked smile as Henry. It was so charming that Rett was reminded of Marilyn Monroe’s dire warnings about saxophone players in Some Like It Hot.

“I was just going to say the same thing,” Rett admitted. “How long have you been with Henry?”

“About five years now. You can’t beat the steady pay and I like the way Henry treats me. Women sax players don’t get a whole lot of respect.”

“I was just thinking that,” Rett said. “I think he’s one of the few big bands I know of that has women players.”

Cleetus Washington, whose golden guitar work was going to someday help him form a band of his own, had slowed down from the front of the group to walk alongside them. “Henry knows quality.” He flashed a grin. “That’s why he keeps bribing me to come back every year.”

“I was surprised to see you,” Rett said. “I thought for sure you’d be headlining Vegas.”

“Henry makes it worth my while. Besides, I’m not into the headaches — after what he went through with Gilda I have no interest in running a band.”

“Henry hates to dump people,” Zip added. “But she pushed him to the brink.”

“Anyone who tells me my fingering is sloppy can kiss the cement from the third story as far as I’m concerned.” There was a murmur of agreement from the musicians in front of them. Cleetus made a fist. “I’m a lover, not a fighter, but I swear I was going to pop her one — Hey, this place is jumping.”

The group slowed as they came abreast of a bar that was, as Cleetus had observed, jumping. Dance music pulsed from the open door. A short line of twenty-something women waited outside, next to a crudely painted sign reading “Ladeez Nite.”

The trumpeter cracked his knuckles and said, “The clientele is just my speed.”

Zip snorted. “Sorry, hon. I don’t think you’re their type. Know what?” She addressed everyone more generally. “I think I’ll hang here.”

Cleetus protested. “Zip, honey, you know it won’t be the same without you.”

“Hey,” she said without heat. “I went to that disgusting straight-guy bar with you all in Salt Lake City. This is my kind of place now. It’s Saturday night in San Francisco! See ya later, gator.”

Zip had a major point, Rett suddenly thought. There were going to be lots of nights spent in nondescript bars after performances. Turning down a Saturday night in San Francisco in a bar packed with lesbians was beyond stupid. “I think I’ll hang with Zip,” she announced.

Cleetus put his hand on his heart. “You too? You’re breaking my heart, here. Are there any straight women left in this world?”

Two violinists, who Rett now noticed were holding hands, joined her and Zip in the line. One blew Cleetus a kiss. “Sorry, sugar.”

The only remaining women in the group abandoned the men as well. Cleetus tried one last protest. “I don’t think they let straight women into places like this.”

“So we’ll be gay for the night,” one said with a shrug.

“Now you’re going to give me wet dreams,” he said.

“Ewww!” Zip put her hands over her ears. “TMI, TMI!”

“Way too much information,” Rett echoed.

The bereft men slunk into the night amidst mutterings about the sad lot of straight men in today’s world.

Thinking of the bonus her bank account would soon receive, Rett tipped the very butch woman at the door to get them in quickly, and another generous tip landed them a table not far from the dance floor. The violinists never made it to the table — they lip-and hip-locked on the dance floor and Rett guessed she wouldn’t see them again until tomorrow.

“Let me buy the first round,” Zip shouted. They all agreed on beer and she disappeared in the direction of the crowded bar.

The two other women were new to Rett, so she asked their names, and they managed to share backgrounds over the relentless tom-tom beat of the music. Mary was from Cleveland and Jan was from Detroit. Rett compared old stomping grounds from her years in Detroit and learned that most of the clubs she’d first made her way in were still hanging on.

Zip returned with four amber bottles. After she was seated, she raised her bottle. “Good-bye, Gilda, and hello, Rett!”

“Hear, hear.” Bottles clinked around the table.

“I have to ask,” Rett said after she had taken a cooling swallow from the bottle. “What exactly did she do?”

Zip rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t show for rehearsals until the final fifteen minutes, that is, if she showed at all. Then she stops in the middle of her numbers to criticize everyone else’s performance — I mean she really did tell Cleetus, Cleetus of all people, that his fingering was sloppy.”

Jan leaned over the table so she could be heard. “She was the most insecure performer I’ve ever seen. It was actually pretty rare when she criticized one of the guys, but she had no compunction at all about ripping one of the girls to pieces.”

Mary was nodding. “She was convinced that the only way she could be top banana was on the backs of the other women. Henry didn’t like it one bit.”

“Well, Henry’s a New Age, sensitive guy,” Zip said. She tapped Rett’s hand. “Let’s dance.”

They wedged themselves into the mass of moving bodies. Necessity put them breast-to-breast and thigh-to-thigh. Cher’s “Believe” had Rett singing along. She believed, oh she believed in life after love. She felt alive and whole for the first time since everything had fallen apart. The music segued to Madonna’s “Nothing Really Matters” and it seemed perfectly natural to have her arms around Zip. Kisses were a logical development, though Rett felt no real jolt of passion. It was just kind of nice to hold her and be held.

When she and Zip returned to the table, Mary and Jan took their leave. There was no sign of the violinists. She and Zip finished their beers and danced again.

Zip said into her ear, “Wanna go to bed?”

“To sleep, yes,” Rett answered.

“Crud — oh, I remember. Last year you were with tall, dark and muscles.”

“That was last year,” Rett said.

“Oh, so you’re just rejecting me for no reason at all.” Zip signed into her ear. “Then what the hell am I dancing with you for?”

“Solidarity among musicians?”

Zip laughed. “I have to admit this feels pretty nice.” She lifted her head from Rett’s shoulder to kiss her nose. “But I actually don’t have any compulsion to go any further. I mean, if you had said yes, I’m sure I would have managed to fake it —”

Rett guffawed. “Saxophone players are all alike.”

“That hurts,” Zip protested, though her eyes were dancing. “Okay, let’s go back to the hotel. I bet you even have your own room — it would have been so cool.”

It was inevitable as she was trying to go to sleep that Rett would think of the motel bed she’d been in just last night. With the performance behind her and nothing but roses in the future she unfolded the memory of Angel like a treasure map, and followed it from beginning to end. Shoulders, neck, ears — sensuous memories that flared her desire for more.

When she tried to visualize Angel’s face, however, the image was a little blurry. Eyes, lips, cheekbones — they were all there, but the whole picture didn’t come together. Rett remembered that at the outset Angel had seemed just a little familiar and now she couldn’t recall precisely what she looked like. How vexing.

For the moment, images of breasts and the curve of hips would have to do. As she fell asleep, “Calling All Angels” was in her head again.

The overnight reviews were enthusiastic and as Rett’s week in San Francisco progressed, none of the notices failed to mention her as the perfect addition to the Henry Connors Orchestra. Naomi faxed up the text of a short review by a syndicated reviewer posted on the E! Entertainment Watch Web site that ended with the question, “Gilda who?”