It was around 12 when Dan Stone returned to his office to find Jannie sitting behind her desk with her hat and gloves sitting next to the phone as usual.
“Mr. S., you look like you’ve had a long night,” Jannie said, her voice warm with concern.
The voice that only she could hear drifted through her mind, silky and teasing. He looks really handsome when he’s all beat up like that, doesn’t he?
“You could say that, Jannie,” Stone answered gruffly as he hung his hat on the rack.
“I’ll get you some coffee,” Jannie told him, already moving toward the kitchenette. Her boss… that’s how she had started thinking of him now.
“Make sure there’s a shot of bourbon in it!” Stone called after her.
You didn’t answer me, the voice pressed. He’s handsome, isn’t he?
“I couldn’t answer you when he was standing right there, could I?” Jannie murmured under her breath.
Oh, didn’t I tell you? the voice replied, sounding amused. You only need to think the answer, honey. I’ll hear it clear as day.*
“That’s not possible,” Jannie said softly.
Anything is possible in a dream, Jannie. Try it.
“All right, I will,” she thought, picturing herself touching up her lipstick because it had gotten a little smudged during the morning.
Yeah, it does need a little fixing, the voice answered at once. I don’t think Mr. S. noticed, though.
“I had better take Mr. S. his coffee,” Jannie said out loud, trying to keep her tone steady. After all, this was just a very detailed dream. That was the last time she ate cheese before going to bed.
“Come in, Jannie,” Stone called when she knocked on his office door.
“Your coffee, Mr. S.,” she said, setting the cup on his desk.
Stone took a long swallow and leaned back in his chair. “Jack Cavanaugh and a dead body. That’s all I’ve managed to dig up after twelve hours on the street.”
Jannie paused at the door. “Jack Cavanaugh? He runs the Mirage over on 5th Street, doesn’t he?”
“That’s the one,” Stone said, eyeing her with mild surprise. “Somehow, he’s tied into the Monroe case, but I can’t get close enough to find out how deep. Every time I turn around, Jones or Riley is tailing me. If Cavanaugh spots a cop in his club, he won’t say a word to me or anybody else about what’s going on.”
“I wish I could help,” Jannie said quietly.
Isn’t the Mirage looking for a new singer?* the voice asked inside her head.
How would I know that? Jannie thought back.
Saw the advert in the paper the other day, the voice went on smoothly. They’re holding auditions.
I don’t see how that helps, Jannie replied silently.
Gives you a way in, sweetheart. Walk straight through the front door instead of sneaking around the back
I can’t sing, Jannie thought.
Didn’t I tell you? the voice chuckled. Anything is possible in a dream, Jannie. Anything
Jannie didn’t bother answering out loud. She knew she couldn’t carry a tune, dream or no dream, but the idea of helping Mr. S. refused to leave her alone.
About an hour later she slipped into the ladies’ room and made sure she was alone. She took a deep breath and tried a few lines of an old song her father used to sing to her before the war. To her astonishment the notes came out rich, smooth, and powerful — nothing like her own voice at all.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror, a slow, wondering smile spreading across her face. The voice had been right. In this dream, Jannie Gibson could sing.
All she had to do now was tell Mr. S. and get ready for her debut on the stage of the Club Mirage.
