by Tamara Allen
"Yes, but--"
"Well, that's all right," he said delightedly, easing to his feet with a protesting creak of the bench. "We got us another ivory tickler in the house. Keep my seat warm while I powder my nose."
"What?" Sutton looked at him in dismay. "Oh, no, I don't..." But the man was ambling into the darkness on the other side of the bar. Realizing he had been left to take over, Sutton looked around for help.
The banjo player smirked. "Go ahead, honey. We'll try to keep up."
The others chuckled and Sutton caught on that the entertainment they expected was more along the lines of watching him fall flat on his face. Though Theo and Graham nodded encouragement, it took the confidence in Jack's eyes to get him breathing again. He made his way to the piano and sat down before tobacco-stained keys, with no idea what to play. He thought of the melody he had loved at Reisenweber's and his fingers found it, the bass painfully spare compared to what he'd just heard. He looked more than once for sheet music that wasn't there and just closed his eyes and tried to trust his ears.
If anyone noticed the missteps, they didn't let on. The rest of the band ran riot with the melody and he settled into marking the tempo until they brought in progressions that propelled him to play with the chords. Maybe he hadn't fallen on his face by the finish, but he'd stumbled badly enough to give them some fun picking apart his performance. The pianist, who had returned halfway through, looked him over with a critical eye. "Haven't played with a band before?"
"Not in this fashion, no."
The pianist's rumble of a laugh rivaled the lowest notes on the keyboard. "Well, you ain't the worst I've heard."
"He listens," the girl said and winked at Sutton.
The young clarinetist bobbed his head in agreement. "Rhythm's all right. For a classical pianist," he added with a grin.
"He needs work." The drummer, bone-thin with close-shorn gray hair, lit a cigarette. "A whole lot of goddamned work." His gaze through the smoke was dour. "We'll just see."
Strangely, that too felt like a vote of approval. The pianist's attention moved past Sutton and his round face lit with easy good humor. "Well, shit. 2JB in NYC. Haven't gone uptown on us yet, have you?"
Jack grinned. "Bullsy," he greeted. "Been listening in?"
"Hell, yes. This your kid on the keys?" His broad hand rested on Sutton's shoulder, then patted him on the back. "Move on, son. Let an old man sit down." Sutton gave up the bench and Bullsy sat, hauling out a cigarette. With it crooked in the corner of his mouth, he ran big hands over the keys. "Vera's right. You can listen. Them tenths won't be scaring you long." He swept through arpeggios with breathtaking clarity, all the while eyeing Sutton with interest. "Come on back sometime."
Sutton realized the gift being offered. Piano belonged to Bullsy--had been invented for him, Sutton had to think. And jazz--it didn't sing sweetly, like the music he'd been raised on. It shouted out, fierce to lift the weariest spirit. It could own a fellow's soul if he let it--and even if he didn't.
He might never understand the music as intimately as Bullsy did. Coming from a different world, perhaps he couldn't--but what joy it would be to try.
"Thank you." He held out a hand and Bullsy shook it with a crushing grip.
"See ya, Topeka," he said genially and the band started up again, drawing couples back to the floor. Jack couldn't have looked more pleased and Sutton suddenly noticed that Theo and Graham were laughing. Sensing a shared joke, he followed them to the door before he asked what it was about.
Jack flung an arm around his shoulders. "I knew you'd do it. Didn't you?" he asked Theo.
"Of course," Theo said. "We never would have let him wander over there, otherwise, you know."
Graham looked impressed. "Bullsy only bestows nicknames on musicians he respects. You did all right, old man."
"Did I? So it was some sort of test?" Sutton asked.
Jack nodded. "The band never gets through a night without some fellow hanging about--"
"And Bullsy likes to have a little fun with them," Graham said. "They get their chance to show off and more often than not they end up creeping out of here with their tails between their legs."
Just as he had thought. "I nearly crept away, myself."
"You didn't," Jack said. "Bullsy invited you back. He hardly ever does that."
"I suspect he did it more out of friendship for you," Sutton said, smiling. "It was generous of him. Bullsy isn't really his name?"
"Bullseye," Graham said. "Killed more Germans than the rest of us put together, I think. But he's got a soft spot for young musicians." He grinned at Sutton, all at once more friendly than flirtatious. "Don't we all?"
"Get your own," Jack told him as he wedged Sutton out the door ahead of him. When they were well away and enveloped in the fog-bound night, Jack pulled him into an unexpected hug and kissed his cheek. "I was ready to burst," he said, laughing. "I've seen old Bullsy crush fellows so brutally I don't think they went near a piano ever again. But you were tops."
"I nearly fell all apart when they came in. And the changes--" Sutton grimaced.
"You were having fun. No use denying it."
He couldn't. He had played for two crowds worlds apart and he didn't know which had been more exhilarating. He kissed Jack in the concealing fog. "I must thank you, too."
"For what?"
"I don't know. For everything."
Jack grinned. "I wouldn't ordinarily take credit for everything--" The grin faded a bit. "About tonight--I think I owe you an apology." He shrugged. "I was stupid. Not that it's all that rare, but--bad enough I let Harry down. Don't want to get into the habit with you, too."
"We have habits?" Sutton liked the sound of that.
Jack shook his head. "Is the whole world rosy-hued to you?"
"Paul and David used to ask that, too. I suppose it must be."
"Paul?"
"A fellow I met overseas." Sutton saw the fleeting shadow in Jack's eyes. "No, he's all right. He made it home."
"You really aren't bitter about any of it, are you?"
"Should I be?"
"Your arm busted and all your dreams busted with it--"
"I might have broken my arm riding a bicycle."
"If you knew how," Jack said, his grin returning.
"I know how."
"You don't--" He stopped and Sutton saw instantly what had stolen his attention. Across the road, Vance Fletcher leaned against the lamp post as if he had nothing better to do at that hour than smoke a cigarette and watch his fellow night owls straggle by. His brick of a chin jutted, his lips stretched over teeth in a humorless smirk.
- Thirty-Two -
Jack returned the cool stare and Sutton had an uneasy feeling one or the other of them would start something. But Vance said nothing, nor made any move to follow as they kept walking. As the fog swallowed them, Sutton listened for the snap of shoes on the pavement. But he heard only the traffic in the street and phonograph music drifting from an apartment above.
Going into the building, they found the stairwell pitch dark, the bulb burned out. Sutton shivered, glad Vance hadn't followed. The apartment was chilly but he shucked off the dress suit with relief and crawled into bed. The fog left the city only a blur of light beyond the window and he studied it sleepily as he listened to Jack stomping about in the kitchen. He felt at home--wonderfully, comfortably at home with Jack. If that meant he was in love--well, he was happy and that seemed miraculous enough after the miseries and heartbreak of the past year.
Jack returned with the cigarettes and gin, leaving them on the bedside table while he sat and stripped out of his clothes. Discovering something more pleasing to look at than the lights, Sutton snuck an arm around him and kissed the bony curve of his spine. "Time to sleep," he whispered and felt the weary sigh that went through Jack at the mention of it. Sitting up, he leaned over Jack's shoulder to get a look at the solemn profile. "Not so sleepy?"
Jack leaned into him. "Tell me something."
"Wh
at kind of something?"
"A secret. Something good. Or shocking and terrible. I don't care. Anything." He turned and covered Sutton's mouth with his, to kiss him with slow deliberate care. When he drew back, Sutton thought he could see in those eyes a shimmer of fascination and need. Jack spoke softly. "Did you really want to die?"
He wasn't prepared for such a question. "You mean after I lost my job and--"
"Yes. Did you?"
"I don't know. All I remember of that night is a terrible headache, and the rain, and feeling so weary and ashamed--so hopeless--I suppose I did, for a few minutes anyway."
Fingers combed through his hair, coming to rest on the nape of his neck. "You looked damned awful. So bruised. Not just on the outside, either."
"I was foolish--"
"What's his name?"
"What? Who?"
"The guy who lured you off. Where'd you meet him?"
"Jack--"
"You aren't the first one he's done that to, you know."
"I know. But I don't like the idea of you going in search of him like some sort of knight errant. Can't we be done with the fighting?"
Jack drew back with an exasperated sound. Sutton looked at him and couldn't help a little smile, touched by the stubborn, protective streak. "I didn't mean--"
"I know what you meant. Problem is, there's fighting--or there's giving up."
"We aren't soldiers anymore. It isn't all one or the other."
Jack didn't appear to be listening. "My turn," he said. "Something terrible."
"You don't have to--"
"Back in January, after I got home. Remember how cold it was? And the storms. You must've had them, too." Jack paused, chasing down the memory, Sutton sensed. After a minute, Jack perched on the edge of the mattress as if he meant to rise and pace. But the evening must have worn him out, too, for he just sat--a pale figure but for the disheveled hair and the dark of his eyes. "I went out without a coat or hat or scarf, just went out and walked all around town. I couldn't face going back home, so I kept walking till I could feel the cold eating into my bones. Spent the night in some alley--don't know where--lying in the snow." His mouth twisted. "A policeman thought I was drunk and hauled me in."
"You wanted to--"
"Hoping to. For a little while, anyway." He snorted in disgust. "See, I know about giving up. And it's a sin, right? Especially to want it like I did."
"You missed them," Sutton said quietly.
Jack poured a drink. "Funny thing is, it wouldn't have done me much good. I'd have just ended up someplace else."
"I don't believe that for a minute."
The shadow of a smile crossed Jack's face. "No?"
Sutton leaned toward him and put a hand on his chest. "Not with this heart," he whispered and kissed him.
"Rosy-hued," Jack muttered and sighed. "I thought you wanted to talk..." He leaned in, himself, pursuing something more passionate, and Sutton went avidly along. Jack broke from the kiss, gasping for breath, and gin sloshed from the glass. "Damn." His face brightened with wry humor. "What am I going to do with this?"
Sutton took the gin and, braced for the medicinal sting, drank it down. Jack's laugh was soft and tired. "No more grand gestures, Mabel. I don't think I can handle the obligation."
"No obligation. Just--" All the words in the world fell short, so he left it to another kiss, one which Jack seemed to find illuminating. The gin bottle clattered to the floor and Jack's arms came around him, Jack's kisses encouraging more wordless conversation. Whether from there Sutton paid particular attention to what was being said, he felt confident in capturing the gist of it.
- Thirty-Three -
When Jack woke to early sun easing in and an arm slipped around him, lips tender on his shoulder with a sleepy kiss, he decided being awake at six wasn't the worst thing. Not when you had someone beside you who watched out for you even in his sleep. And if that someone was destined to become a world famous pianist, it didn't necessarily mean things were over. Sutton would still need a place to call home. The two of them could carry on just the same, if Sutton wanted to take the risk.
And that's what it would always be for him--a risk. How selfish would it be to let him take it?
The thought stayed with Jack as they opened the shop to a bigger crowd than the day before. Gert came in at lunchtime and wowed the crowd so thoroughly, she and Sutton agreed to go past the hour with another couple of songs. Jack let the radio go past the hour with them and burned out a tube in the process--but for once, he was glad. He wanted to get out of the shop for a while. He went to the office for his coat, only to be sidetracked by Harry's frown. "What'd I do now?"
"I was thinking. Maybe you're right. Maybe we'd better invest a little in some new equipment."
"Why? What's wrong?"
Harry sighed. "I don't know that it's anything to make a fuss over. A reporter called--"
"Oh shit. Really?"
"Yeah, they want to take a picture or two and write a story, so for God's sake, Jack--"
"I know. Best behavior."
"That's not it." Harry's voice dropped to just above a whisper. "You've got to be careful about--you know. Reporters, they catch you off-guard. Find things out you don't really want them knowing. See what I'm getting at?"
"Aw, Harry. You're looking out for Sutton's reputation." Jack leaned over the desk and gave him a peck on the cheek. "What a guy. I'll go tell him--"
"Would you sit down before I knock you on your ass? I'm looking out for both you starry-eyed dopes. Don't tell the guy anything you don't want the whole world knowing. All right?"
"The world can go hang itself." And for an instant, he wholeheartedly wanted it to. The world had the power to take Sutton away from him. "I've been lying to most everybody my whole life, Harry. And I was good at it from the start, so save the advice for someone who needs it."
He jerked his head in the direction of the lilting piano coming through the door. When the music ended abruptly in a discordant plunk of keys, Jack's stomach flip-flopped in sympathetic reaction. Harry, in the midst of lighting a cigar, paused. "Damn. Jackie, tell me you ain't dragging that poor kid around town all night. He's got to get some sleep, even if you don't."
"He sleeps. He's just improvising." But Jack had to agree he hadn't heard Sutton stumble quite like that in the past. Harry following, he surged out of the office--to find Marshall Chase hovering at Sutton's shoulder.
"I gave your pianist a bit of a start, Mr. Bailey. I must say I admire a man who is so involved in his work, he has no notion of anything going on around him."
Sutton smiled faintly. "A bad habit."
One he normally wouldn't have had to worry about if Jack had been in the room to stand guard. Jack met his eyes with apology, but Sutton's smile only warmed. "I believe Mr. Chase has come by to collect on the loan." He said it with perfect gravity, as if he were talking about only the most aboveboard of business dealings.
Jack swallowed a smile and fished out his wallet. Chase just as matter-of-factly took the cash Jack handed over and pocketed it without counting it. "Enjoyable doing business with you, Mr. Bailey." He looked around with a considering eye, as if his interest in the place hadn't waned. "Your little radio show is becoming the latest thing, I hear."
"We're building an audience," Jack said, restraining himself as Chase tinkered with the dials.
"With only a pianist and a singer?"
"As long as they're pretty damned good," Harry said, "what more do you need?"
"Point taken." Chase's attention strayed to Gert, who sat powdering her nose. "Your brother never mentioned you sang, Miss Hennessy."
Gert rolled her eyes. "Gee, what a surprise. I think maybe he's jealous because I'm the one with the talent."
"Ever thought of singing in a club?"
"Oh, I thought. But you ain't getting more than a couple hundred people into a club. Everyone in New York's listening to me on the whatsit." Gert shut her compact with a snap. "I'm going to lunch now. Someone w
ant to call a cab for me?" She retrieved her hat from atop the piano and scooped her furs off the stool. Jack wrinkled his nose at the flowery scent as she went by, but Chase seemed to be regarding her with a patently different sort of interest.
"I was just going to lunch at the Astor," he said, gesturing with his damp umbrella. "Would you care to join me?"
She picked up her pocketbook. "Don't mind if I do."
The bell tinkled like a conspiratorial wink as they went out. Jack dropped onto the piano bench beside a smiling Sutton. "How about that? Couldn't have gone better if I'd planned it."
Harry shook his head. "Don't be so sure we've heard the last of it. If there's a dime to be made, he'll keep leaning on us to sell. Or--you just watch--Gert'll have him yearning for his own sending station."
"What does he know about it? I don't need his money or his booze to stay in business. I've got a crackerjack pianist." Jack slung an arm around Sutton's shoulders. "When I boost the signal, everyone in the world will be listening in."
"You know, we got a little more going on here than bringing music to the masses," Harry said.
Sutton began to play again, something solemn and majestic that made Harry snort. Jack laughed. "Harry, honest to God, I'm thinking of the emporium. Time and money invested in the radio end of things will be worth it, don't you think?"
Harry gazed at him with the strangest smile, one Jack couldn't read. "Hell yes," he said after a moment. "It's worth it. You just be sure when that reporter shows up, you don't let him give all the credit to Gertie."
Jack grinned. "You want some, too?" He ducked just in time. Then he noticed the lulling plunk of piano keys had gone quiet.
"Reporter?" Sutton said. "Not for the Times?"
"It won't be much, really," Jack said. "A footnote. They'll stick it in the back somewhere, bottom of the page--"
"My father reads it from front page to back." Sutton looked as if he expected his dad to stalk in, seize him by the collar, and drag him away. "And even if he misses it, someone else will surely bring it to his attention."
