Whistling in the Dark (23 page)

Sutton read on obliviously and Jack had to stifle a laugh. "He's already playing it."

She brightened. "I see. He plays piano?"

"He does. On the radio," Jack said, taking advantage of the opening.

"On the radio," she said with a vague nod. "That's very--nice."

"Yeah, and that's why we're here. You in charge?"

"Well, no, Mr. Dorrimer--"

"Think I could see him? I won't take up much of his time. I've got a proposition for him."

"Well, he's busy--he's always busy," she said with a laugh. "But I think he can spare a minute."

She took them to a second floor office warmed by sunlight through a row of arched windows. At a desk that made Harry's look tidy reigned a scowling fellow, bony, sallow-complected, his hair still shorn army-short. He took down notes as he sat with a telephone receiver at one ear and a morose, roly-poly assistant at the other. The clerk and assistant left and Dorrimer kept up a rapid-fire conversation, the receiver pinned between ear and shoulder as he lit a cigarette.

Sutton wandered over to the upright, which occupied the sunniest corner, and bent to take a look at the music scattered on the bench. The negotiations left to him, Jack made himself comfortable in the chair across from Dorrimer and waited until the man had ended his call. "Good morning," he began and Dorrimer cast an inquiring eye his way.

"Palmer and Metcalf? Out of Chicago?" Dorrimer pulled a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer and filled a teacup. "Don't mind me. It's medicinal. Keeps away the flu, you know. Say, can I offer you fellows something?" He got up and leaned out the door. "Jimmy, how about some coffee in here?" Back to the desk he came, collapsing into his chair. "Well? Singers or dancers?"

"Singers or--pardon?"

"You boys singers or dancers? What kind of music you need?" He leaned back in his chair. "Jimmy, for God's sake. Coffee!"

"Mr. Dorrimer, we're not Palmer and Metcalf--"

"No?" The telephone rang and Dorrimer snatched up the receiver. "Hello--" He jiggled the switchhook. "Hello? Goddamned machine--oh, sorry, Central. What? I didn't mean--now hold on just a minute, will you? I said I was sorry. Don't--" He swore again and hung up. "Women on the line. Whose idea was that? How's a fellow supposed to express himself..." He looked at Jack as if Jack had appeared out of the blue. "What'd you say your name was?"

Jack took a deep breath. "Jack Bailey, Mr. Dorrimer. And Sutton Albright," he said with a tilt of his head toward the sprinkling of soft music in the corner. "I send out a daily program on the radio and Mr. Albright is my pianist. We need some new music and we thought you might be interested in a deal."

That snared Dorrimer's attention. "What kind of deal?"

"You give us sheet music and in exchange we provide advertising on our program--"

"Advertising?" Dorrimer stumped the cigarette into a world's fair platter encrusted with ash. "You've got to be kidding me. On wireless?"

"I've got a tube transmitter with enough amplification to send a couple hundred miles reliably--and usually a lot further than that."

"Yeah? So who's listening, besides the War Department and a bunch of ten-year-old boys?"

"A whole lot of people, these days. Hell, just this morning, we had two dozen customers show up an hour before we opened, just to find out when the next performance was scheduled. It's a good deal, if you think about it. What do you sell sheets for? Ten cents a copy?"

Dorrimer eyed him with increasing doubt. "Depends. I give out professional copies to acts in demand--" He jerked a thumb toward a side door that led, Jack assumed, to another office. From within came the sound of a piano accompanying a sweet soprano. "Marie Beaufort, for instance. She's playing the Palace next week. So who'd you say was listening to this radio show of yours?" He got up and leaned out the door. "Jimmy! Coffee! And some lunch, while you're at it."

Jack wondered if Jimmy hadn't gone out for good. "I can't really say for sure, Mr. Dorrimer. I've heard from listeners as far away as Illinois--"

"I'll need some numbers from you. It's a business, you know? Not a kid's game. Ten-year-olds with crystal sets ain't buying sheet music."

"Well, we're reaching at least as many people as Miss Beaufort at the Palace." Jack hadn't meant to sound sarcastic, but Dorrimer didn't seem to notice it, dismissing the comparison with a wave of his hand.

"Marie Beaufort's selling our songs, Bailey. Selling them. For God's sake, listen to her." He cracked the door open so they could hear her over the noise of people chattering in the hall and more piano coming from upstairs. Dorrimer sat at his desk and poured another cup of whiskey. "Medicinal," he said. "Damned drafty offices. Care for some?"

"Thanks, no--"

Notes sprinkled brightly from the piano in the corner and Jack smiled to himself. He'd felt confident Sutton couldn't resist the temptation for long. The singing and accompaniment in the next office fell silent and a beefy, clean-cut young man in his shirtsleeves peered into the room. After him followed a woman in gold silk, a wide-brimmed hat crowning her auburn hair. She smiled as Jack offered her his chair. Jimmy, showing up with coffee, left the door wide, an invitation to the clerk and others in the hall to crowd in. Jack didn't mind that, but the interest in Dorrimer's expression worried him. He should have considered the risk of bringing Sutton. He could sense the offer coming, even before Sutton finished to a round of appreciative applause.

"Nice job, kid," Dorrimer said. "I haven't got a handful of people who can read that well. What would you think about coming aboard? I could use another plugger--and arranger, too, if you're interested. At twenty-five a week."

- Twenty-Five -

"I'm not looking for work, Mr. Dorrimer," Sutton said. "Thank you for the offer."

Dorrimer's gaze sharpened. "Thirty."

Miss Beaufort laughed. "Monsieur, would you be so kind?" She handed Sutton the sheet music. "You may do it justice."

"I'll do my best." Sutton opened the music and looked it over. "D flat?"

She tilted her head coquettishly. "How do you know that?"

"I heard you singing. Beautifully, if I may say."

"You are a gentleman. Monsieur Dorrimer, you must offer him much more than thirty dollars," she said in a teasing way as Sutton played the introduction. She burst into song, sweeter than the birds to Sutton's accompaniment, and the applause was even more enthusiastic when they'd finished. Miss Beaufort turned to her own pianist. "Now you will understand, Monsieur Carey, and cradle me tenderly with the music, oui? No more to shatter my poor ears--nor race ahead until I lose my breath." She patted Sutton's shoulder. "Merci, mon cher."

Dorrimer hadn't given up. "Thirty-five?"

Jack saw the smile Sutton made an effort to hide. "Thank you, Mr. Dorrimer. I'm perfectly happy where I am."

Dorrimer sighed and, going to the door, shouted for Jimmy, who was already there. "Take these boys downstairs and let them pick out some music. Then we'll discuss advertising."

Jack could hardly believe their success. He left most of the choosing to Sutton and, while he waited, tried not to worry over whether Sutton really was happy or if he had only said as much to Dorrimer because of his prior commitment to Jack. Plugging songs might not be particularly prestigious, but some people would see it as a step up. Certainly the pay was better.

After a brief meeting with Dorrimer, they left, a bundle of music in Sutton's hands and a script in Jack's. Hit by a fierce wind as they stepped onto the sidewalk, Jack realized they'd have to beat it double time to keep from getting soaked to the skin. To spare both Sutton and the sheet music meant the subway.

"Your first time riding?" He was amused by Sutton's wide-eyed curiosity as they boarded at 28th.

Sutton made an effort to appear indifferent. "Better?"

"Not really." Jack dropped onto a seat close to the door and Sutton squeezed in beside him.

"It's warmer," he said with relief.

"Wait till the dead of winter. You'll really appreciate it, then." He hadn't appreciated it in a long time, but he thought maybe he could again--until he saw the poster.

"What's wrong?" Sutton hugged the sheet music close to his chest. "You haven't lost the script?"

"No, it's here. Hold on to it, will you?" Jack handed it over, trying to pretend he hadn't seen what he'd just seen. But the stark black letters on white paper plastered above the window drew his eye, demanded his attention. Keep your bedroom window open. Prevent influenza, pneumonia, tuberculosis--and probably every other goddamned disease known to man. He had believed it as thoroughly as everyone else. Even the most pointless advice could convince and comfort for a while.

Sutton had grown quiet and Jack knew he was reading it too. An ache rose in his throat and he swallowed hard. "I thought for sure they'd taken those down. Damned Board of Health. What the hell do they know?"

"Let's get off and walk," Sutton whispered. "It's not so far."

"Well..." The train began to move and Jack slumped back. "Never mind. Guess I've got to get used to it, anyway."

"You haven't taken the subway since coming home?"

"Just once." Jack spared the poster another baleful glance. "Walking's good for you, right?"

"I'm sorry." Sutton's voice was a warm breath in his ear.

"It's not your fault. It's not anyone's. It's just how things are." As sick as it made him to look at it, he couldn't look away. "Really, you know what? They forgot to take this one down. I should help them out."

"Jack--"

On his feet, he grabbed a hanging strap and climbed on the seat. His first try tore the poster in two, but the other half came away clean when he gave it a good yank. He felt all eyes on him, but he didn't care. It was too satisfying. He wanted to go all over town and do the same to every poster he found.

"I don't think you're supposed to do that." On the opposite seat huddled an elderly couple and a freckle-faced kid maybe sixteen at most. Hazel eyes shone with startling anger from the scowling young face. "I'm sure it's illegal. They'll arrest you."

Jack hopped down and looked him in the eye. "You want to report me? Go right ahead. Here, take this with you. Take it home, so you can memorize what the rest of us already know by heart."

"Jack." If it was meant to be reproachful, it was too laden with sympathy to be effective. The tug on his coat sleeve was a little firmer, and Jack resisted it.

"Anyone else want to read it one more time?" He held the poster's remains over his head. The other riders stared at him--some alarmed, others annoyed, and a few seeming just as glad as he that the poster was down. Jack heard Sutton's quiet apology to the couple. He turned, intending to defend himself, and saw her mute compassion for him. She wore black--all three of them did.

Shame swamped him. "I'm sorry." His voice was rough but it was all the voice he had. With a twist of his arm, he was out of Sutton's hold and moving away from their grief and everyone else's silent sympathy. He found an empty seat in the far corner and leaned over his knees, keeping back tears. The poster was too thick to crumple with chilled fingers. He didn't want to talk and he was grateful when Sutton stayed quiet. They were almost at Times Square, which was a relief. He wanted to be off the subway. He needed the cold air.

Sutton's hand slipped into his and squeezed. Jack shook his head. "Better not," he whispered.

"I hope it's not yet out of bounds for one friend to comfort another," Sutton said, but let him go, leaning against him instead.

Jack smiled despite his mood. "We're friends, too, are we? You know, sometimes I think you want to be arrested again, just for the thrill of it."

"Thus sayeth the pot," Sutton retorted, making him laugh.

- Twenty-Six -

The rain fell in earnest by the time they reached the shop and Jack noted with a rush of pleasure the number of customers browsing. He supposed they were waiting on the four o'clock show, already five minutes behind schedule, but that was just fine. Harry, finishing with a customer, turned around in time to latch on to Jack's coat and drag him to a halt. "You get music?"

Jack threw an arm around Harry's shoulders. "Did we get music? Did we ever."

Sutton produced it from under his coat and handed it over to Harry, who whistled appreciatively. "What'd you sell these guys, Jackie? A share of the business? You know it's after four--hold on a second, what the hell is this?" Harry had pulled loose the remains of the poster from under the stack of music.

Sutton looked stricken. "I'm sorry, Jack. I meant to throw that away."

Harry tossed it into the trash can. "Sutton, warm up. I need a word with Mr. Bailey."

Jack followed Harry into the office. He saw no point in both of them pacing and so sat down. After a full minute of Harry's back-and-forth, Jack eyed him fondly. "You okay?"

Harry stopped short. "Am I okay? Is that what you just said?"

"Harry, everything's fine. I got a little carried away. Sutton reined me in, no one was injured or arrested, and we made it home. Can't we just forget about it?"

Harry pushed a chair in front of Jack's and sat, waiting. Jack knew he wasn't getting away until Harry got what he wanted. "I swear I'm all right. It just caught me off-guard, that's all. We were going to walk back but--" He shook his head. "It looked like rain and we had to keep the sheet music dry--and hell, how could I make him walk home after what he said to Dorrimer?"

"What'd he say?"

Jack told him about Dorrimer's offer of the staff pianist job, and Harry's face softened as it seldom did. "Well, damn. He's a good kid."