Free When Last We Loved by Fran Baker Page B

shook her head brusquely. She rarely judged people on first impression, but the promoter's polished, down-home charm made her skin crawl.
    “Yes, sir,” he drawled, oblivious to the fact that she refused to offer him any encouragement, “this is your lucky day, little lady, because I just happen to have a contract with me.” He chuckled and waved a legal-sized document in her face like a carrot-stick bribe from a mule skinner. “Never do know when I'm going to run into the kind of talent that I'm searching for, so I just keep a few of these handy.” He patted his pocket.
    Cassie sat as still as a statue. If Allen thought that she was going to rush into anything this important while he was three sheets to the wind, he was dead wrong.
    “Yes, sir, we're always in the market for new talent. Plenty of room at the top if you're willing to work.” Purdy wiped his brow again as he rattled on. When he whipped out a pen and tried to present it to her, Cassie stared straight ahead and kept her hands folded in her lap. “And something tells me you've got staying power, too. That's a mighty important quality in a performer.” He puffed his stogie to emphasize his point. “A leg up, that's all you need. And I think I'm the one who can do it for you, too, young lady. Yes, sir,” he chuckled.
    “She writes her own material, too.” Allen shouted to be heard over the din. A defeated rider was being dragged across the arena by his horse. The garishly painted, baggy-panted rodeo clowns shooed the rogue toward a gate where several men scrambled to rescue the cowboy, whose hand was trapped in the rope bridle.
    “Little Joey, now, sometimes I worry about his staying power,” Purdy droned. “He's got a weakness for the sauce and— ”
    Cassie wanted to stand up and scream. Instead, she flashed violet-eyed distress to Scrappy. The stifling heat, combined with Allen's one-hundred-proof breath and the promoter's acrid cigar smoke, was gagging her.
    “We've got to run through that new number a couple of times before we go on again.” Scrappy grabbed her hand and she jumped up, knocking over a can of beer that someone had stashed under the bleachers. A foamy lake spread a dark stain under her boots and then dribbled onto the leather-jacketed shoulders of a startled spectator in the next row down.
    “One night Little Joey tied one on so tight that I didn't think we were ever going to get him shaped up in time for the show. Damned if he didn't wind up swinging from the chandelier before his first set was over.” Harlan Purdy seemed determined to finish his story and Cassie ground her teeth in frustration. “We finally wound up propping him on a stool. You know, I don't think the audience ever did figure out— ”
    “Mr. Purdy, I can't tell you what a pleasure it's been to meet you. Why don't you drop by the Stardust some night so we can visit?” Cassie began edging away from her seat.
    “Let's iron it out now,” Allen rebuked in drunken belligerence. “I've read the contract and it's as fair a shake as you're ever going to get.” His eyes crossed and Cassie shook her head in disgust.
    “I'm afraid you'll have to excuse us now, Mr. Purdy.” Cassie shook the promoter's damp hand. His beet-red scalp glowed like a cherry on top of his vanilla-sundae body, and she forced herself to swallow the laughter bubbling up inside her. “If you're planning to stick around for the second half of the show, we've got a new number that we're going to do. I wrote it and I think you might enjoy it.”
    “I keep a pretty tight schedule, young lady. It's kind of hard to tell ahead of time when I'm going to be available to audition new talent.” Harlan Purdy obviously didn't like delays, no matter how valid the reasons for them might be.
    “Hell, I've got managers from Muscle Shoals, Alabama, to Cut and Shoot, Texas, ragging me to come hear their new singers,” he rasped. “It's a tough old business you're trying to break into.” He jammed