“Let me see that again,” the bartender said. He had returned, and was wiping his hand on a wet towel.
The man in the brown suit reached into his pocket once more and produced the photo.
“You say she’s a what?” the burly bartender asked.
“She’s a professor of paleontology from the University of Oklahoma.”
“Get the fuck outta here,” the bartender said. He handed the picture back to the network’s detective.
“By your reaction, I assume you know her?”
The bartender looked around at the fifty people in the dingy bar. The Karaoke machine was blaring Hit me with your best shot, by Pat Benatar, and most of the dregs were watching the slovenly lady who belted the vocals from the small stage.
“Look, I can tell a cop when I see one. As much as I like doing my civic duty, I don’t want to hurt someone I know.”
“I’m not a cop. If you point her out, you’ll be doing her a big favor.”
“That right?”
As he waited for the bartender to make his decision, he watched the heavyset lady finish the song with a flourish. She seemed oblivious to the cat calls and boos from the rough audience. She stepped down with a graceful wave, as if her devoted followers were plastering her with applause.
“Look, she may be down and out, but everyone in downtown pretty much likes—?” the bartender paused and looked expectantly at the detective.
“Jennifer,” he supplied.
“We know her as Pinky — you know, her red hair.”
The man waited. He knew enough not to push the bartender. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Give me a draft while you think about it.”
“Look, we all know she’s a little whacked out, but she doesn’t need to be put away or anything. She wouldn’t hurt anyone. Hell, she’s hard on herself, no one else. These assholes here don’t know her like I do. I saw her once, before…well…before, is all.”
The man watched the bartender pull his beer from the tap.
“She’s right over there, in the corner booth,” he placed the beer down in front of the man, spilling the foam over the rim of the glass. “The one that looks like she’s passed out.”
The man turned toward the booth in question. The smallish woman sitting there was slumped over the table with her head in the crook of her elbow. Her red hair was recognizable from her photo, but it looked like she had diminished even further — she had already appeared almost emaciated in the picture. “Well, give me what she’s drinking,” the man said.
“She doesn’t drink.”
“I thought…I mean…she looks like she’s—”
“Yeah, well don’t do any more thinking,” the man said angrily. “She’s tired, is all. I’ve never seen her drink anything other than water. Ever.”
The detective started through the dingy bar toward the booth, dodging people who looked his way with indifference or mild hostility. He sat his beer down and the thump made the small woman jump, but she still didn’t look up from where her head rested on her arm.
“Doctor Tilden, may I have a moment?” When she didn’t respond, he sat down in the rickety seat across from her. He raised his voice and repeated the question.
Finally, she looked up. Doctor Jennifer Tilden had startling green eyes, ringed in red. She was clearly exhausted and could barely focus on his face.
“I don’t know you,” was all she said. Her voice was hoarse and raspy, as if she hadn’t had a drink of water for years. She looked at him more closely and then closed her eyes. She had fallen asleep.
“Doctor, I’ve been sent by—”
“Sorry buddy,” the bartender said. He took the smallish woman by the shoulders and shook her. “She’s on, and if I let her miss her spot, well…we don’t want to see her lose her temper.”
“Wha — what?” She came awake, if only barely.
“You mean she’s actually going to—”
“Yeah, she’s going to sing.” The bartender helped her to her feet. “Come on Pinky, wake up.”
The detective forgot about his beer as the woman was lifted from her seat in the booth. She wore faded blue corduroy pants, a small white shirt that had seen better days and a green sweater. Her short red hair looked as if it hadn’t been introduced to a hairbrush in weeks.
As she was helped to the small stage, the crowd became restless and started making catcalls. Several of the women and a few of the men called names at the small woman as she stumbled onto the stage. The bartender waved his bar-towel to shoo several of the patrons out of his way, and hopped down from the small raised platform.
Jennifer Tilden held the tall microphone with both hands as if it were a lifeguard and she were a victim of the rising and angry seas around her. Her head tilted forward and struck the microphone, producing a loud and piercing screech. That brought most of the patrons to their feet with even more boos and curses.
The heavyset woman who had been singing a moment before stood and shouted, “I got off the stage for that?”
The bartender waited with his finger on the button of the Karaoke machine. More boos, far more hostile than before, met the woman. She could only lean against the microphone stand, tilting first one way and then the other. Then her small hands started to move. She adjusted the height of the stand, still with her eyes closed. The bartender waited until the small woman pulled her short, red hair back slowly and deliberately. Then he pressed the button. Without looking up, she started to sing as the slow piano music from the Karaoke machine filled the room.
“It’s almost heaven — being here with you — the first time I saw you — I knew it to be true — but after all dear, I love you — I do — angel baby — my angel baby—”
She sang the first verse in slow, hauntingly soft words, and then the Karaoke machine chimed in with more instrumentation at the start of the chorus. The barroom became quiet as a church, all the patrons enraptured by the sweetness of the voice coming from the woman on the small stage.
The man recognized the old song, Angel Baby, originally recorded by Rosie and the Originals. As Tilden sang, her eyes remained closed and she gently swayed with the song— as if she were feeling it from somewhere deep in her soul.
The notes, both high and low, were perfectly struck. The red haired woman had transformed from a frumpy-looking five foot drunk a moment before, to someone you would kill to hear sing. The detective had never before seen a change such as he was seeing now. When the song came to an end, the crowd was mute. Only the tinkling of a few glasses interrupted the silence.
Jennifer Tilden once more grabbed the microphone for balance, but this time she went over, dragging the instrument with her.
That broke the spell. The barroom erupted in applause and shouts for more. The detective ran forward and assisted the doctor to her feet, then helped her from the stage. When she gained her balance, she glared at him.
“Leave me the fuck alone,” she shouted. Her voice was once more ragged and burned out.
The detective was stunned. Had he just heard a recording of someone else? She could not have sung like the angel he had just heard. She shrugged his hand away and stumbled through the crowd toward the front doors.
It took a moment for the man to come to his senses. He quickly followed her outside into the cold night air, where he found her sitting on the curb. Several passersby had to step around her, but she paid them no mind. She had no coat, just the light sweater she had been wearing inside. The woman was hugging herself and crying.
The man removed his suit jacket and placed it over her shoulders. She shrugged out of it and bent at the waist, then straightened. She rocked forward again, hugging her knees.