***
One day Madeline had me roll her down to their room in a wheelchair that I doubted she needed. Somehow, Swing had found the wind to play a beautiful rendition of, “I Can’t Get Started.” That was the only time I heard Madeline’s sweet, sweet voice. Swing’s eyes were tearing from effort, sadness, accomplishment or lack of oxygen. Place’s eyes were always glassy because he wouldn’t admit he needed glasses and studied the Racing Form anyway.
Place told me Madeline once made an album with Swing and he’d played in a band at a publishing party for F. Scott Fitzgerald at the Plaza Hotel in New York.
Tony Cochise, who’d been a Silk Note bouncer, lived on the same floor as Swing and Place. He was a former shortstop banished from the Northern League for betting on his own team, the Duluth-Superior White Sox. Later he became a wrestler, ring name Euthanasia. One afternoon when I was pushing his wheelchair by their room, he had one of his weekly lucid moments. “Listen sport, you gotta add Utah’s salt population to the combined elephant shit of India, Africa and the world’s zoos to every word those jack-offs say, remember that,” he warned. “The moon is closer than truth where they are concerned.”
Swing tried to teach Place how to play the sax. “Taps” was the practice piece. Swing was all encouragement between soft mouse-volume coughs. In return for horn help, Place let Swing hold his whip. Place would shout calls of Kentucky Derbies he knew by heart while Swing would play jockey although he had all he could do to tap the wheelchair but he did switch hands with quite a flourish. For a finale, he twirled the stick for the sellout crowd in Place’s head.
Winner’s circle photos shared a wall with ones of Swing in big bands at Rhodes on the Pawtuxet and the Glen Island Casino. They never let me close enough to them confirm identities.
Thanksgiving sophomore year, Madeline’s daughter Ardita was in Europe so I stayed at her place in Philly. She lived in a small, elegant hotel called the Benedict. There was a canopy and a doorman. Across the street was a jazz joint called the Crystal Bow where Madeline believed Swing once played with Miles Davis. The Crystal’s flashing neon made me dream of the Silk Note and Diva Nudea hitting a high note.
At that time, Madeline was, as she put it, on sabbatical from the Manor. She was dating Cecil Calmer, a horse owner banned from all but country fair tracks for doping horses. His big brag was a colt of his that ran in a minor states race at Del Mar, finished up the track. Victor Mature was on hand to present the trophy to the winner’s connections. Cecil had a big bet with a bookie who took wagers on what horse would trail the field. Tony Cochise said Calmer owned the nag named Doctor T. J. that Place rode amputation day.
One night Madeline showed up with Cecil. He set up a projector and screen, presented The Great Gatsby as if it had won an Oscar. I thought I saw Madeline but the bourbon drink Madeline had fixed me, a Cubes recipe, The Body Slam, might have tricked me. Something went wrong with the projector and the film snapped repeatedly like Place’s whip on Swing’s wheelchair. That went on for twenty minutes. They were oblivious, drinking, playing Scrabble and warbling “Fascination.” It was a decent duet. I pulled the projector plug.
“Madeline and Swing made more than an album,” Place once confided. “Keep this to yourself, Nicky: Swing is Ardita’s dad, not that thug Decker.”
I remembered a picnic with Madeline and Ardita on the lawn of the Breakers in Newport. We’d sat on a quilt made from gowns that had hit the floor at the Silk Note. Ardita was quiet and very beautiful. I could see a resemblance to the many descriptions
I’d heard of young Silk Note Madeline but Ardita had grey eyes. She’d been a pro golfer and held a course record at a Long Island club. Ardita was an entrepreneur who had done everything from backing cosmetic lines and Broadway shows to seducing European royalty. I’d learned about the princes and kings from a technician repairing A/C at the Manor. How would the air conditioning fellow have suspected such a thing? More than once, I’d looked at supermarket tabloids for Madeline and her gang. I’d even eyed billboards.
Diva Nudea's Gatsby Page 2
