Your Cheatin Heart

Chapter Three

Maybe it wasn't entirely Jimmy's fault that I was sitting in a little eight by six cubicle, counting the cracks in the linoleum. After all, I was the one who had mouthed off to those cops. But they deserved it. They came busting in and interrupted me at a very crucial point in my tribute to Tammy Wynette.

Cletus, the Golden Stallion's doorman, tried to stop them. See, he ain't afraid of nothing or nobody. He spread his big, beefy legs, folded his two-by-four arms across his chest, and glared at them with his black, beady eyes. That look'll stop an overnight trucker lit up on speed and spoiling for a fight. But it didn't faze the Greensboro Police Department's finest.

I could tell from the way they were staring and pointing in my direction that it was me they were after, and they weren't looking for autographs. What in the world did they want?

"No," Cletus said, still trying to stop them.

"Step aside," the older one seemed to say. The younger one, hungry for his nightstick, started fingering his belt. Cletus bristled and the older one shot his partner a look.

"We ain't after making no trouble," the older cop said, or something like it. He raised his hands as if placating Cletus and gestured toward me. "We just want Ms. Reid."

"She's singing," Cletus must've said.

"Cain't help that," the cop said, and pushed right on by him.

I saw them coming and it ticked me off. Jake the Snake, local to the Pagan Motorcycle Club, and known to tip big-time when he's loaded, was just about to approach me when he saw the cops and scuttled away like a frightened crab. Any other night, the cops would've been glad to find him, but these two were looking straight at me and they didn't look happy.

The younger one walked right to the bottom of the stage where I was singing "Stand By Your Man," and started yapping like a terrier.

"We need to talk to you," he said.

I ignored him and kept right on.

Sparks, the pedal steel player, was eating the whole scene up with a spoon. That's 'cause he's only five-feet-two with his boots on. He has an authority problem. Sometimes short men are like that. Sugar Bear, on rhythm guitar, was about to pass out. He figured the cops were after him and the ounce of pot he had stashed in his guitar case. Harmonica Jack was tracking a cutie at twenty paces and never even stopped blowing his harp to acknowledge the law's presence.

Cheryl, the waitress with the fewest brain cells and the largest cup size, actually wandered up to the cops and asked if she could take their order. When they said no, she got all miffed and said, "Well, there's a two drink minimum, ya know!"

I was laughing, but couldn't nobody tell. I'd turned my back and dropped my head down like Tammy Wynette used to do right before she'd turn back around with a tear rolling down her cheek. It's all in the timing. In the world of country music, not a teardrop falls without it bein' planned for maximum effect.

I held the last note until the audience started hooting and whooping. That's when the two cops rushed the stage.

"Ms. Reid?" the older one said, as if he didn't already know.

"In the flesh," I answered.

"We need you to come down to the police station with us." He sounded just like a TV show. Who knew they really talked like that?

"Well, am I under arrest?" I asked, and the small crowd of Nosy Parkers standing at the foot of the stage began to snicker. That made the young cop's trigger finger get itchy again. Somebody should've told him early on that being a police officer isn't a popularity contest.

"No, you're not under arrest. You got trouble at your house, and the detectives wanted us to come get you."

Now I had something to worry about.

"What is it? Did someone break in?" The cops stood there, like big park statues, all stony and grim.

"Tell me!" I demanded. "I got a right to know what's wrong before I just go busting out of here."

The younger guy couldn't contain himself. "Not in a murder case you don't," he said.

I thought the older cop was going to take him outside and whip him. He started turning red in the face and his gray flattop started to glow white against his skin.

"They'll explain it all once we're downtown," he said, trying to act like there wasn't nothing out of the ordinary going on.

"Wait a minute," I said, a tiny pilot light of fear suddenly cutting on in my heart. "I got a sixteen-year-old daughter. She lives with her daddy, but she's got a key. She wasn't… I mean… she's not…"

Flattop caught on. "No, nothing like that."

"Yeah, this one's male," his partner said.

"Shut up, Dave!" Flattop yelled. "Jeeze!"

"Cuff her?" Dave asked hopefully.

"For pity's sake, no."

At the mention of handcuffs, the crowd-my fans-turned ugly. They moved in close and there was a hostile smell to the air.

"Aw, now," I said, lifting my hands out in front of me, "he just don't wanna risk me running out on him." I laughed and winked at the crowd. "See, ain't every day a cute redhead rides in a big old squad car!"

The young cop colored, more of a purple than his partner's ruby. "Shucks'" I said, stepping forward and linking my arms through the officers'. "Two boys cute as y'all? Why I'd be honored to go riding!"

I pushed them forward, toward the front door. The young one started to resist.

"Listen, big man," I hissed under my breath, "there's two of y'all and a houseful of them. A wise man knows when to shut up and run low."

I looked back over my shoulder at the uncertain mob. If I'd raised my finger, or so much as whistled, they'd have come running.

"Toodaloo, boys," I said with a laugh. "Looks like I got a few fish to fry. See y'all tomorrow night!" I hope, I breathed to myself. I had the feeling I was headed for big trouble. As usual, I was right.