Upon sighting a police car parked on the shoulder of the road, she broke into a graceful, long-legged run. The officer looked up as she approached.
”Evening, Miss. Can I help you?” he asked.
”Good evening, m’sieur. I hope so. I am an entertainer. Do you know where I could find a bar or restaurant that might hire a singer for the evening?” Her fluttering hands embellished her words.
He scratched his head. “Well, several places on up ahead about half a mile sometimes hire singers and such, mostly on weekends. You new in town?”
She nodded.
”Well, good luck and stay out of trouble. Some of those places get a little rowdy at times.”
She smiled. “Thank you, m’sieur.”
She walked on, her step light, a swing to her hips. After about five minutes, she came to a place called Mike’s Bar and Grill. Going in, she looked around, then went over to the bartender. “May I speak to the manager, please?”
The man licked his lips and ran his fingers through his hair, then sauntered over, leaning on the bar across from her. “You’re talking to him. How can I help you?”
”My name is Antoinette Duval.” Her hand touched her breast as she gestured. “I am a singer. I would like supper, and I am willing to sing for it. May I do so?”
”Sure, baby. You can start right now.”
She looked at him for a moment. Underneath the charm, she could see an arrogant possessiveness in his stance, a predatory glint in his eye. Non, she thought, you are not le bon Dieu’s gift to women. I do not wish to be raped.
“Thank you, m’sieur. First I want to get something.” She turned and left the bar. She didn’t run, but her long strides covered the ground rapidly.
She tried several more places without success. I may go hungry tonight, she thought. She shrugged, heading for the last bar she could see. It will not be the first time, nor the last. The sign outside proclaimed the place as Pete’s Tavern. Thirty or so little round tables clustered around a small semi oval stage, about half of them with customers. The room was dimly lit, but not gloomy, with dozens of small colorful bulbs hanging from the rafters. Friendly shadows. She liked the place.
”May I please speak with the manager?”
”Half a minute,” the bartender said. He stuck his head through a door behind the bar. “Gal here to see you, Mr. Pete.”
A short, heavy-set man came out. “What can I do for you, Miss?”
”My name is Antoinette Duval. I am an entertainer, a singer. I would like to have supper, and I am willing to sing for it. May I?” she said, gesturing as she spoke.
He frowned. “How much are you asking?”
She made a negative with her hands. “That is for you to decide, m’sieur.”
”Okay, give us an hour, and I’ll give you dinner. If I like what I hear, we can talk about the rest of the evening.”
She nodded. “That will be fine. Thank you. May I have a glass of water?”
”Sure.” He turned towards the bar. “Joey, a glass and a pitcher of water.”
She sipped at the water, then carried the pitcher and glass over to the stage. She slipped off the duffle bag and kicked off her sandals, then opened the case and took out her guitar. She placed the open case at the front of the stage for tips. Placing a tall stool next to it, she sat down, put her right foot on the top rung and began a quiet, meditative song. Her warm contralto voice, soft but carrying, spread through the room. She sat, eyes closed, face thoughtful, long black hair swaying with her movements, barefoot, wearing a blouse of thin, soft, dark blue cotton embroidered in white that left her shoulders and midriff bare along with a rich brown wraparound skirt.
When the song was over, she opened her eyes and looked around, smiling. “Mesdames et messieurs. My name is Antoinette, and I will be singing for you tonight. If there is a song you would like for me to sing, please tell me.”
Three songs later, she paused for a sip of water. “This next song has a strong rhythm and is best with a strong accompaniment. I cannot stomp the floor very well,” she raised one slim bare foot, “and my hands are busy, so I cannot clap. Perhaps you will help me out? It goes like this.” Long before the hour was up, she had the audience in her hand.
The manager caught her eye and beckoned. She stood. “Mes amis. I will go eat supper now, but I will be back.” She bent to lay the guitar on the floor as they began to clap. She laughed, extending her arms in an embrace. “You are a lovely audience.”
She stepped off the stage and walked over to the manager. “Was I satisfactory, m’sieur?”
”Not bad,” he said.
The waitress next to him snorted. She was a big-boned girl in her late twenties with blonde hair. “Not bad? Petey, you hard hearted old goat, she was great and you know it!” She turned to Antoinette. “Don’t let him fool you, sugar. Under that stony exterior beats a heart of pure granite. What’re you having? We’ve got chicken salad, ham and cheese, egg salad, and roast beef sandwiches. To go with them, corn chips or potato chips.”
The manager cleared his throat as the waitress turned away to fill her order. “As Flora says, you were quite good. The customers seem to like you. Do you have a place to stay?”
”Non, m’sieur. Not yet.”
”I thought as much. How about a hundred dollars for the rest of the night? Six more sets, forty-five minutes every hour until we close. Plus meals and you can sleep in a little room in back.”
”I would like that, m’sieur. Thank you.”
