Chapter 3
3
BIJOU
S trange potentialities glimmer in the air. A pregnant tension envelopes me as I take the stage, triumphantly belting out “Trouble” from Elvis’s King Creole .
The lyrics suit the evening’s vibe. The Bow, located in Nashville’s Printer’s Alley, seethes with dark, dangerous energy. It mirrors the noir satin of my evening gown and the cerulean depths of the Blue Moon necklace circling my neck—the replica of a cursed family heirloom.
Around the elevated stage, fancy plates and dishes sit atop circular dining tables decked in crisp white linens. People lounge around them, cackling and conversing.
It’s the night’s first set, so many guests still await their gourmet French meals, tucking into hors d’oeuvres and their first bottles of wine for the evening. The smell of freshly baked baguettes, garlic-laden escargot, and savory French onion soup tease the air.
“How are all y’all doing tonight?” I inquire in a breathy voice.
Boisterous hoots and hollers rise from patrons with empty cocktail glasses splayed in front of them. I’d wager some of them have imbibed here since at least Happy Hour.
I hope they remember it’s Saturday night, not Wednesday or Friday when strippers and burlesque performers take the stage. I use the term “stripper” lightly. According to Tennessee law, you can’t even show “underboobs” on stage… whatever those are.
The Music City feels utterly wholesome after my Big Easy upbringing. Nevertheless, I despise explaining to drunken fools why no strippers writhe on stage.
Speaking low and seductively into the mic, I say, “I’m feeling like a sweet little number by the fine Bessie Smith, ‘Need a Little Sugar in My Bowl.’ Are there any Bessie Smith fans here?”
The drunken cheers do little to answer my question, though one man screams above the din, “Show me the sugar!”
I frown, turning to Chuck, the pianist. His ebony skin glows blue in the cool neon lights of the bar. “I know you’re a Bessie Smith fan,” I remark, smiling at him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies in his deep, dark voice. “She’s my sugar mama from another lifetime.” His fingers tickle the keys, settling into the opening strains of the song.
I lean against the tall, padded stool behind the microphone stand, pinned down by a shift in the establishment’s atmosphere. The air feels heavy, thick enough to cut with a knife. Like it’s building to some unknown climax…
My voice slides over the sultry, naughty lyrics, transforming Bessie’s cute interplay of words and thinly veiled innuendos into something much darker. I can’t help it. I’m keenly aware of the feelings places evoke. Always have been.
More numbers follow, shrouded in the same funereal fantasy…
“Shave ‘Em Dry.”
“I Want to Get Me Some.”
“Bumble Bee.”
“The Sky Is Crying.”
I have only myself to blame for reinforcing the dismal atmosphere through my performance. But I can’t help myself. Staying upbeat under the circumstances? Well, that’s impossible…
My brother, Raul, is wanted on three counts of murder and countless lesser charges. The crime bosses in New Orleans, who vie for a stranglehold on the city along with the Lefevres, never sanctioned the hits. And Raul recently skipped out on a one million-dollar bond.
That means mafia goons, law enforcement officers, and bounty hunters hot on his trail. Unfortunately, I have a sneaking suspicion my dumbass little brother’s trail will soon lead right to me… Despite all I’ve done to break free of my family’s suffocating grip.
For the past week, New Orleans phone numbers have haunted my cell phone log, accompanied by sinister voicemails. No wonder my singing sounds as somber as death.
“Take off your clothes!” A lewd patron shrieks. Others join in, encouraged by the anonymity of the crowd.
The frown that’s flirted with my lips all night deepens. And my mother’s voice flutters through my head: “Always smile on stage.” I can’t count how many times she said this to me over the years. Hard to do at a tourist trap like the Bow.
Inhaling deeply, I center myself before continuing the show. “That’s Chuck on the piano.” The introduction elicits a scattered stream of applause as his fingers dance over the keys, teasing snippets of Rachmaninoff, Scott Joplin, and Duke Ellington.
“And Big Mike on the bass.” Mike launches into a filthy walking bass line that growls through the restaurant and bar, eliciting howls and catcalls.
The gaunt white man with thinning hair and neatly trimmed snow-white goatee stands next as I announce, “Sassafras on the saxophone.” Mellifluous woodwind improvisations inspire screams from the audience.
“Scott King on the drums” comes with a flashy percussion solo that gets the crowd in a frenzy, featuring musical quotes from Glen Miller, Queen, and Metallica.
“Finally, let’s hear it for Roman Call on guitar.” He’s the newest member of the band and a worthy addition. I cheer with the crowd as his fingers glide over the strings, pulling audible honey from his instrument. “Folks, give it up for Bee’s Boys.”
Turning to my band, I count off the next number: “Why Don’t You Do Right?” Hopefully, the sexy little ditty will nip further talk of stripping in the bud.