Quietly, Jury pushed open the nearby bay door just enough to look out into the long lobby. There was no sign of Mary Lee. Then her face appeared behind the ticket window, looking less bored than lost. Framed in the small opening, the face appeared smaller pinched, even; and without anyone to impress it upon or intimidate it with, considerably sadder and more vulnerable. Jury let the door whish shut behind him and went to slot coins into the drink machine. He grabbed up the Coke can and turned to see that Mary Lee had looked up sharply from her magazine. Jury motioned her over.
She disappeared from the window and came out through the door to her 'office,' feigning again that old look of world-weariness. 'You still here?'
'Come on.'
She frowned. 'Come on
'You didn't hear that?'
'Hear what?'
Jury shoved the Coke into her hand and took her arm. And she, too surprised by this manhandling (and probably liking it), let herself be pushed into the auditorium. She did make a mumbled protest having to do with losing her fucking job-
'Be quiet.'
He didn't have to tell her twice.
Jury tried to pull her down into the back-row seat beside him, but she just stood there in the aisle, open- mouthed, transfixed by the stage, the singer, the song. She was leaning sideways, as if the gravitational pull that had bent her toward the seat was not strong enough to contend with the force of her discovery. Holding the can, and in that odd listing, she was like a subject in a hypnotic trance who might keep one arm raised in the air for hours.
Charlie Raine's voice was like his guitar, each word clearly articulated. It filled the huge, hollow room and reminded Jury of the clear sound one got from tapping crystal.
Charlie did not have one of those killer voices like Otis Redding or Presley, the sort that punch out an audience with one note or phrase. But what got to Jury was the sincerity, the
The feeling contained in the song was beyond words. It was as if the song served as a window to some expansive vista one hadn't raised the curtain on before. Charlie was transparent; he was accessible. And Jury bet it was this quality that must knock out his listeners.
It had certainly knocked out Mary Lee. She was crying in the way he'd seen children cry sometimes, silently unaware of the tears that dropped like waterbeads onto the top of the can of Coke that she had clamped in her hands.
Jury got out his handkerchief, but she was still spellbound, even after that final chord had wavered out on the tremolo. 'Come on,' he said, wiping her face for her. 'He's packing up.'
When Mary Lee realized that Jury meant she was to follow him down the aisle to the stage, she became even more fixed, immobile. Except for her head, which shook and shook, no, no, no. The fellow in the mixing bay was gone, probably to kick the Coke machine or go to the toilet. She had drawn her pale lips in, clamped them shut, as if making sure nothing would explode from her mouth. All she was able to do was make a steady
Jury put his hand on her arm and gave it a little tug. He knew that later, she'd never forgive herself if she missed this chance. 'I'll do the talking. You can just look at him.'
At this she relented, caving in from the temptation of it all. She wobbled down the aisle after Jury on her new heels and her shaky legs.
'You're Charlie Raine?'
He turned in surprise, laden down with his two guitars, portable amp, and two small black metal boxes. He came over to the apron of the stage and looked down, squinting. 'Yes. Why?'
Jury brought out his warrant card, hard to get to because Mary Lee was standing behind him, nearly melding herself to his back. He brought it out. 'My name's Richard Jury. Metropolitan police.' He said nothing about C.I.D., decided to let Charlie Raine think Drug Squad and then felt ashamed of himself for beginning this ridiculous lie. But if he wanted to talk to him, it seemed simpler. And he would have no reason otherwise to talk to him any more than one of Charlie's fans.
Charlie flicked a glance at the ID, his handsome face still and serious. He looked at Jury. 'You didn't like my tunes?'
His smile was so high-voltage that it seemed literally to pull Mary Lee from behind the wall of Jury's back.
'This is Mary Lee,' said Jury. He didn't even know her last name.
Charlie said hello and held out his hand. It was met by the Coca-Cola can in Mary Lee's. He looked from it to her.
'I brought it for you,' she blurted out quickly, adding, 'I'm sorry.'
He understood the apology. 'Thanks, Mary Lee.' With his shirttail he mopped the water from the top and popped it open. Took a swig, frowned slightly.
Jury wondered if it tasted like tears. 'I did like your tunes. Your music. Very much.'
'What's this about, then? I've done something-?'
'I wondered if you'd heard any talk?'
He frowned, shook his head, no, he hadn't. He turned away to pick up the gig bag.
'We been having trouble, see.' This came, surprisingly, from Mary Lee. Finding her voice still worked, apparently, she stepped away from Jury's protective side and embroidered: 'Found a stash of coke-a kilogram, it was-up in the projection room.'
Jury could not look at her, so strong was his desire to laugh. Why Mary Lee was going along with this charade- indeed, that she was swift enough to know it was a game- could only be answered by her desire to prolong the encounter. Or it might have been a desire to let him know she wasn't just any old blathering fan, but someone in a position of authority.
'Sorry. Like I said, I don't know anything about drugs. I'm not a user.'
Her eyes widened. 'Oh, we didn't mean that; I mean, I can tell one from miles away. But look: if your band does get any news about something going down-'
Something going down? Jury bit his lip.
'-tell me direct, okay? Don't talk to no one else.' She paused, shrugged, tossed Jury a bone. 'Except maybe
'I'll do that.'
'Another thing…' Mary Lee's voice arpeggiated upward on a scale of eighth notes: 'I was wondering, might I have your autograph?'
