I searched my car. I had weddings and singing appointments for the next six months in that planner. And all my contacts . . . But it wasn’t in the Toyota.
Nicky and the band helped me search the club. I tried bargaining with the universe. “If you give me back my appointment book, Universe, I promise to keep an online calendar,” I vowed. “You do not, I repeat, you do not have to teach me a lesson.”
But it wasn’t in the club. And it wasn’t in my studio apartment. And it wasn’t on the street outside the club. Now I was doing a lot of cursing.
Eventually, I broke down and called Derrick Taylor’s office after telling myself over and over again that there was no way James would answer the phone.
“Derrick Taylor’s office. This is Connie.” Thank the Lord, it was the assistant that had gotten me the drive-on.
“Hey Connie, this is Davie.”
“Davie? Girl, are you all right? I heard you slipped—”
“I’m fine,” I said. “But I think I dropped my appointment book. Did anyone bring it by?” My voice went up on “anyone,” because of course by “anyone,” I meant James.
“No, we didn’t get any appointment books, but let me check with the security desk.”
She put me on hold, then came back a few minutes later to say that there was nothing in lost and found.
“But they said sometimes it takes people a while to turn stuff in. I told them to keep an eye out and call me if they find anything.”
I thanked her and got off the phone. My heart, which had been on edge all day, now felt like a stone in my chest.
. . .
My show was a lot more sad than usual that night. I bluesed my way through most of my Peggy Lee song set. And when it finally came time to end the night with “Fever,” you would have thought I was condemning passion, the way I sulked through the audience. It was less sexy and more like, “He gives me fever. Isn’t that the saddest thing you’ve ever heard?”
However, I was a professional, and I did manage to turn it up a notch right toward the end. The last verse of the last song was always performed with me sitting in the lap of a patron. Nicky had been to Vegas one time too many and had started insisting I do this about three years ago.
Usually, I didn’t mind. It gave me a chance to practice my flirting skills, which I had to keep honed, since they really did not come naturally.
I looked around for Leon. To minimize scenes, he always identified the guy who should receive the last song of the night. Nicky had given him explicit instructions (really, what other kind did Nicky give?) in order of preference: The guy should either be alone or with another guy. If that kind of guy wasn’t in attendance, then Leon was supposed to find a guy with a date who was the complete opposite of me—somebody blond and stick thin. Under no circumstances was he to lead me to the lap of a married man—unless he was there alone. And if no one fit Nicky’s criteria, then Leon would shake his head and I was allowed to sing the rest of the song onstage.
But it almost never came to that. Guys rarely came in alone, but gay guys were like fifty percent of my regular crowd, and even better, they were usually thrilled to get a lap song. And I was thrilled that they were thrilled, but wouldn’t get any ideas.
I spotted Leon at a table near the bar. It looked like he had gotten lucky tonight. He had found a guy who was sitting alone. Nicky’s number one choice.
I sang the chorus as I sauntered over to him, swinging my hips with practiced seduction inside my long, shimmering gown. I was giving my best Eartha Kitt, but my mind was already about forty minutes ahead of the moment, running a bath and trying to calm myself down enough to read some before bed.
I glanced at the man as I sat in his lap, but I didn’t process him. It was dark and I don’t think my brain was allowing me to register what I was doing.