Free Steel Guitar by Linda Barnes Page B

was waving a needle and thread like a banner.
    â€œI like the damn pants tight,” Dee shouted at the seamstress. “If they split, they split.”
    â€œWear clean underwear,” I offered automatically. My mother used to say that: wear clean underwear in case you get hit by a car on the way to school. Think of the embarrassment if you have to go to the hospital in dirty underwear, or worse, with a safety pin holding your bra strap together.
    It worries me when I find my mother’s words coming out of my mouth.
    â€œWhere the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting half an hour.” Dee rounded on me, and the tiny seamstress took the opportunity to escape. “I was counting on you to find Davey, find him fast,” she went on angrily, not waiting for a response. She kicked off her heels, and four inches of white pant cuff brushed the floor.
    â€œYou know anybody who works with you and likes to steal ladies’ handbags?” I asked.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œSomebody ripped me off. Just now.”
    â€œYou want to go call the police or something?”
    â€œDoes the building have security?” I asked.
    â€œOh, yeah,” she said sarcastically. “Great security. Somebody tries to steal this building, I just bet the old-geezer patrol will notice.”
    â€œThat good, huh?”
    â€œI wouldn’t leave a nickel in this dressing room. That’s how good. I give everything to one of Hal’s people. That handsome Jody guy, if I can find him. Now, you want to call the police or what?”
    I sighed, and thought about all the Dumpsters and construction sites near Symphony Hall. “I’ll take care of it later.”
    â€œYou couldn’t find Dunrobie?”
    â€œGive me more time and—”
    â€œCan I trust you?” she said suddenly, more like an accusation than a question.
    I raised an eyebrow. “That depends, doesn’t it?”
    She reached inside her jacket, pulled an envelope out of the inner breast pocket, hefted it in her hand, and turned it over slowly. She bit her lower lip and tried to stare me down.
    â€œAm I missing something?” I asked. “Because I like to have all the pieces before I play the game.”
    She started to speak, stopped, and closed her eyes. She looked drained, a different woman entirely from the electric wonder onstage.
    â€œWhatever it is, Dee,” I said, “whatever’s going on, the music’s fine. The music’s terrific.”
    She didn’t open her eyes, but she leaned against the closed door and started to talk. It seemed like she was talking to herself, but she must have realized I was still there, since she was blocking the only exit. “I worked my butt off to get where I am, and it bums me out that Dunrobie thinks he can pull this kind of shit.” She stuck out her hand and gave me the envelope like she was glad to get rid of it.
    It was standard size, embossed with the return address of a Stuart W. Lockwood, Esquire. Sent to Ms. Dee Willis, care of the Four Winds Hotel, 100 Boylston Street, Boston. Typed at the bottom were the words “urgent and extremely personal.” It had been neatly slit by a letter opener.
    I unfolded a sheet of stiff paper. The attorney’s name, address, phone, and fax were engraved top center. It was dated August 12. Three days earlier.
    Dear Ms. Willis:
    I represent Mr. David C. Dunrobie. Your recordings of “For Tonight,” “Little Bit of Love,” and “Jenny Lou” are based on his compositions “Sweet Lorraine,” “Duet,” and “Missing Notes.”
    You have failed to list Mr. Dunrobie as the composer of these songs, and you have further failed to list the songs under their original and correct titles. Your actions have deprived my client of his licensing fees and copyright payments, and constitute conversion of these songs to your own use.
    â€œSweet Lorraine,” in particular,