Whistling in the Dark (12 page)

Harry snorted. "You've got work. Anyway, didn't I just say responsible?"

Sutton, smiling, caught Jack's eye. "Rosen? The furniture shop down the street?"

"That's it. Soon as you're done here, I'll take you over and introduce you, if you want." Harry snatched the music from Jack and upended the pile to peel away the announcement at the bottom.

"I was getting there." Jack handed it to Sutton, who looked it over with such seriousness Jack didn't know whether to feel more pleased or amused.

Worried eyes met his. "Should I commit it to memory? So I don't trip up?"

Harry patted him on the back. "You ain't Wilson boring the masses. Just read it through, like the rest of us poor saps do."

"Stand here." Jack put him in front of the microphone. "Let me get set up and when I point at you, start talking, all right?"

"Without an introduction?"

Amused won out. "I usually leave that to our call letters." Jack tapped the top of the page. "2JB. That's us. But if you want to introduce yourself, go ahead." He tucked another couple of books under the microphone to accommodate the extra couple of inches Sutton had over him. "Ready?"

Sutton clutched the paper and nodded. Ox stopped playing and, in the utter quiet, Sutton plunged in. When he finished, Jack let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Music to my ears," Harry said. "More so than that," he added with a jerk of his head in the direction of Ox's halting resumption of
Pretty Baby
.

"One thing at a time," Jack said. "We'll put Sutton on just before Ox plays and they'll think they're listening in on a Carnegie concert."

Sutton looked surprised. "Ox? You intend to have him play piano on the radio?"

Harry's answer was a rueful sigh, but Jack would not be daunted. "Sure. He's getting better."

"He is," Sutton said, "but..." He lowered his voice. "He's not ready for an audience. Why not give him some time to improve? Perhaps lessons?"

Jack shook his head. "No money for lessons."

"Or time to let him improve," Harry said.

Sutton looked back and forth between them. "Are you on some sort of deadline?"

Jack sent an exasperated glance Harry's way. "We're just trying to boost business, that's all--"

"Wait a minute," Sutton said. "Does this have anything to do with the fellows who were dragging you down the street last week?"

The sheet music slid out of Harry's grasp to land in a colorful pile at his feet. Jack groaned. He knew there was something he'd forgotten to tell Sutton not to tell Harry. Just then, the telephone came to his rescue and he flashed Harry an ingenuous smile. "Better get that."

Vance and Ned weren't the only ones who wanted to hang him from the nearest lamp post, just judging off-handedly by Harry's face as he marched past Jack and into the office. Jack knew that wasn't the last of the conversation. He bent to gather the music. "Great. Wonderful. Thanks a lot."

Sutton seemed to have wandered off into his own thoughts. "Hmm?"

"I realize," Jack continued as he dumped the music on the piano, "you don't know yet what's hush-hush when it comes to Harry, so play it smart and just keep everything to yourself."

Harry came striding out of the office, still annoyed, but seemingly less at Jack than whomever had called.

"Jack, Mrs. Scofield's wanting to know if it's twelve Turkish oil lamps or twelve dozen we wanted."

"What are we going to do with twelve dozen of the damned things?"

"That's what I told her, but she wants to hear it from the horse's mouth."

"Oh, for--all right. You taking Sutton over to Rosen's?"

"Ah," Harry exclaimed. "Yeah, kid, hold on. Let me get my coat."

Jack followed him into the office, dropped into his chair, and picked up the receiver. "Horse's mouth," he said genially.

Harry gave him a reproving glance but the trace of a smile ruined it. Leaning back in the chair, Jack propped his feet on the desk. "Sorry, yes, it's Jack Bailey, Mrs. Scofield. Twelve lamps. Yes, I realize they're popular." Jack checked a sigh as Mrs. Scofield went into her spiel. Fighting an urge to hang up on her, he tried to forestall the usual list. "No, no more rugs. Bells? Maybe in December." Jack paused to mouth "help" at Harry.

Harry leaned over the desk and with a wicked grin, whispered, "Ask her about her sciatica."

Jack glared at him. "Just the lamps, yes, ma'am. You really have twelve dozen lamps in stock? No, ma'am, not making fun of you at all. Fair enough to double-check. Yes, thanks, bill to the same address. Good afternoon, Mrs. Scofield." He hung up with a profound exhalation of relief. "Don't ever do that to me again. You know, I probably should've pushed that order up to December, too."

"We sold the last batch." Harry fished his cigar from the ashtray and relit it. "Maybe you should've taken her up on the twelve dozen."

Jack got up and came around the desk. "Can I fire you?" he asked as he handed Harry his hat and scarf.

Harry smiled. "You could. But I wouldn't recommend it."

Ox hit a wrong note and Jack winced. He could tell Harry was thinking the same thing he was. "Time to let go of this one?"

"His heart's in the right place, but his fingers ain't. I don't think it's going to work, Jackie."

"I know. I should've let it go earlier. I just hoped."

"Well, there's no reason to stop with the announcements. And when you get that phonograph fixed, play a couple of songs in between. That'll bring in a few customers."

"Listen to you, trying to sound optimistic." He tugged at the brim of Harry's hat. "Whatever happens, just don't get too far away, okay?"

"We're not throwing it in yet. Hell, if we've got to, we'll change the name of the shop to Bailey's Turkish Lamps. You're the optimistic one, so stay that way."

"Well, it'll cheer Ox up to quit practicing. And you know, I was thinking of selling the piano--"

"Your folks' piano?"

"They wouldn't want us to starve. Why don't you ask Mr. Rosen if he's interested in a second-hand upright."

Harry launched into an argument, but it faded into background noise as the strains of
Pretty Baby
, bright and lively, captured Jack's attention. "He's getting the hang of it..." Harry's smile told him what Harry had figured out a skip and jump ahead of him. "That's not Ox."

They crept to the door and peered around it. At the piano, Sutton breathed life into the tune Ox had left for dead. Of course it made sense. Rich kids always had piano lessons. He didn't know why he hadn't asked before.

"Harry, do you believe in guardian angels?"

Harry took the cigar from his mouth and scratched his chin. "Can't say as I do."

"Maybe you should start."

Ox, hovering at Sutton's shoulder, grinned. Jack motioned him to stay quiet and perched on a stool to listen. Sutton played on, seeming unaware of anything outside the music, and it sounded so damned good, Jack's hopes lifted.

Not until Sutton finished did he wake to his audience. Then a flush stole over his face. "You don't mind, do you? Ox needed a little help."

"Son, Ox needs a lot of help." Harry scooped up the pile of music and sat to page through it. "You never mentioned you play piano."

"I don't play as I used to. Not since France. Doctors say--"

"Now what are you listening to doctors for?" Harry thrust a piece of music toward him. "Think you could handle this?"

Sutton took it. "A rag?"

"You don't play rags?"

"At school I have. Not at home." He studied the sheet. "Fond of leaping octaves, isn't he?"

"I can find you something easier," Harry said, without, to Jack's bemusement, making the slightest move to do so.

Sutton spread the music in front of the keyboard and jumped into the turbulent river of notes on the page. Even though Harry was being deliberately nonchalant, Jack caught on that he was just as impressed. Jack felt a little breathless himself, his heart keeping time with Sutton's fingers, his mind racing ahead with dizzily building hope.

Harry seemed determined to stay cool and calm. When the last notes faded, he acknowledged the performance with a thoughtful nod. "Not bad."

"Not bad?" Jack said. "For God's sake, Harry. Sutton, look, we can't pay you right away..." He glanced at Harry. "We can't, can we?"

Harry somberly shook his head and Jack hurried on. "Okay, we can't right away, but we'll be able to--"

"Maybe."

"--if it works like I've planned. So what do you think?"

Sutton looked from Harry to Jack. "I've never given lessons, but I might be able to teach Ox a few things. I can't guarantee he'll--"

"Not lessons," Jack said. "You playing. For us. On the radio."

Sutton's eyes widened. "But I haven't played in months."

"And you're miles better than Ox. Sorry, Ox--" But Ox was grinning. Jack went on, not wanting to give Sutton a chance to say no. "Just think about it? You can get work at Rosen's, and it'll pay better, in the beginning anyway, and hell, I can't swear I'll ever be able to pay you, but you can stay with me as long as you want and Esther'll feed you and if this doesn't work, I'll help you find a job as respectable as all get-out, if you'll just give it one shot--"

"Jack," Harry said gently.

Sutton's smile lingered somewhere between guarded and sympathetic. He settled one hand on the keys, a caress. The other hand joined the first and he brushed the surface, the piano silent under his touch. Whether the piano waited and he considered, or the other way around, Jack had the feeling some communication passed between the two--and Sutton's soft exhalation only strengthened the impression.

Piano and pianist appeared to find each other worthy and a chord hummed with the gentle press of keys. Melody blossomed, but what Sutton played, Jack didn't recognize. It smacked of symphonies and concert halls before slipping irresistibly back into joyous syncopation. Jack ached to switch on the radio. People would listen to that--in fact, people already were. A handful of customers had wandered in and gathered near. When Sutton finished, the smattering of applause made him start. Humor shone beneath his mortification, that wry sense of humor Jack had seen in him more than once, and a wistful sort of triumph, too.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay? You will?" Jack flung both arms around him with a whoop of delight. "We'll start tomorrow. Or Friday, if you want a day to brush up. We'll send every couple of hours, beginning at eight. Time signals, maybe a weather report, and you playing for--oh, half an hour to an hour at a time? Not too long anyway or we'll be spending any money we make just replacing tubes. So? What do you guys think?"

Ox looked grateful, Harry skeptical but amused as he turned all the sheet music over to Sutton. "I think you two got yourselves a radio show. I just hope someone out there will be listening."

- Thirteen -

He had played. After too many months, he'd sat at an old, slightly out of tune upright in the back of a dusty shop and pounded out a little melody. The pain that had kept notes lagging and faint the last time hadn't bothered him. His hands worked, the sheer pleasure of playing had consumed him the way it used to, and for a few minutes there were no doubts, no worries, only music. He could live the rest of his life hand to mouth, existing on coffee and goulash and spending his days playing the modern music his parents detested, for an audience he'd never see nor hear. He could play and that was all that mattered.

But he needed practice, a good deal of it before he played on the radio. Jack was ready to jump right in. Sutton, curled up comfortably in bed, smiled at the thought. Jack had relentless energy for a fellow who got so little sleep. Sutton could hear him pacing about the apartment and it was nearly three in the morning. It was a regular insomnia, too, judging by the bottle of gin he'd seen on Jack's bedside table. He didn't know what kept Jack awake, but he could guess. He knew fellows who had come back from the war with the determination to seize every moment and wring it dry. If underneath they were coping with memories made fresh by the occasional nightmare, enough alcohol robbed those memories of their clarity.

Memories could keep him awake as well, but anxiety and the lingering remains of a headache caused his sleeplessness at the moment. When he heard Jack leave, a new worry pulled at him. Where in the world would Jack go at such an hour? Now too curious to sleep, Sutton dressed and went downstairs. The street was nearly deserted and the moon's glow almost prevented him from noticing the faint light in the shop window. He slipped inside but proceeded no further when it occurred to him that some sort of tryst might be taking place.

Thinking he should discreetly turn and leave, he hesitated again at the sound of a faint tapping. He crept down the aisle to the back and saw that the light came from the three smaller bulbs atop Jack's radio and a brass lamp set well off to the side. Jack was alone, headset askew as he lay sprawled on the workbench, asleep.

Sutton debated leaving him be, still appreciative that Jack had left him to sleep on the sofa the night before. But he'd been more comfortable than Jack looked now.

"Jack?"

"What're you doing up?" Jack muttered.

"Wondering what you're doing up."

Jack pushed off the earpieces and sat, yawning. "Just thought I'd listen in for a while. I usually do it on that set in your room, but I didn't want to wake you." A tired smile lifted his mouth. "Want to play a little something for our fellow owls?"

"At three o'clock? Who in the world could be up besides you and me?"

"That's what's so interesting to find out. You ever have a radio?"

"No--"

"Oh, Mabel. Not even a crystal set? You don't know what you've missed. Have a listen." He disconnected the headset and unwound the cord of a second set, the earpieces of which were attached to the base of a phonograph horn. He connected them and a low hiss issued from the horn. "Too much battery," he muttered and reached across the front of the box to the furthest knob. "Tubes get fussy about the voltage." At his touch, the bulbs seemed to go dimmer and the hissing gave way to a faint voice jabbering on cheerfully about the cold weather in Philadelphia.