Tootsie's wasn't open yet; too early in the morning. Sue Belle Jamison turned slowly and strolled on down Broadway, past the Pink Pussy Massage Parlor, almost colliding with a balding, middle-ager who hurried out the doorway looking guilty. Sue Belle stared at him briefly, wondering if she should follow him and see if he would spring for a room, but he was gone and away before she made up her mind. Finally, with some resignation, she turned and jaywalked across the street to Deeman's.

Too early for the tourists, even, but they would be here. In their walking shorts and brightly colored sport shirts, carrying their camera cases around their necks, the cameras resting on their pot bellies; the men would be sounding off to their equally tourist wives, gawking at the souvenir shops, the record stores and the Alamo-home of fine Western-type clothing.

Sue Belle glanced at the clock over the Easy Loan Pawn Shop doorway. Ten and already Nashville was sweltering in a midsummer heat wave. She pulled a dirty handkerchief from her battered leather purse and dabbed at the sweat rolling down the side of her tanned face. As soon as she wiped it clear another bead swelled up and rolled downward, shining and glistening in the sun.

It was cooler than this in Atlanta. Maybe she should have stayed there a while longer, at least until fall; and the waitress job was a fairly decent one, but what the hell. If she was going to make it big in Nashville she had to get her feet wet.

A fat, dirty-looking delivery man walked out of Deeman's, wiping the foam from his full lips. He belched, nodded to Sue Belle and hurried on up to his delivery truck parked in front of old Ernest Tubbs's Record Shop. Sue Belle watched him until he started the dingy truck and pulled slowly onto the half deserted street.