by P. N. Elrod
“She’s really something and no mistake.”
I turned to the speaker, Jim Waters, and wholeheartedly agreed with him.
“Ever have days when you wonder what you did to deserve her?” he asked.
“Everytime I wake up,” I said. “The club look after you all right? I’m sorry I couldn’t have been here sooner.”
“I’m having a great time. It’s nice to be attending a party instead of playing at one, like I sometimes do. They carry my brand of beer, and the girls are friendly and cute. Not much else a man could ask for. That big guy who runs the place, I’ve seen his name in the papers connected with some shady stuff, but he’s been a real gent.”
“Glad to hear it. You got any problem with the shady stuff?”
“Huh. In this town you might as well have a problem with the railroads or the Stockyards. It’s part and parcel of the life, so you might as well get used to it. What was that paper you were scribbling on? You had one hell of a look on your face just then.”
“Paper? Oh, I got an idea for a title and didn’t want to forget it.”
“Title for what?”
“A story. I used to be a reporter, now I’m trying my hand at fiction.”
“And opening a club, to boot. Lotta irons for your fire, kid. You finish anything in this writing of yours? The hardest part I used to have with my music was to sit down and finish something.”
I fought against wincing. “A couple things. I’ve been kind of stuck for ideas lately.”
Waters shook his head, laughing. “Sounds like you’re in a block.”
“Uh . . . ” How the hell did he know? “Well, I’ve been busy . . . ”
“Don’t worry about it. When you want to write bad enough, you will. Just don’t fool yourself into thinking it’s all dreamy-eyed inspiration.”
“It isn’t?”
He snorted. “I write music myself, and if I had to wait around for inspiration to strike I’d never get any work done.”
“But isn’t inspiration necessary?”
“Sometimes, but for the rest it’s a nuisance. I can’t sit and wait for the lightning to strike. If I get in a block, I shuck that one-percent-inspiration and start the ninety-nine-percent-perspiration part.”
I was familiar with what Thomas Edison had said on the subject, and less than eager to want to believe it. “But don’t you have to be in the mood to create to be able to create anything that’s good?”
“It helps, but never wait for it to come to you. Some days you just have to get the stuff out whether you feel like it or not, no excuses. Maybe what you produce stinks, but it’s still good practice, and you can always make it better when you’re done.”
“I’d like it to be better to start with.”
He chuckled, but with a serious, earnest look in his eye. “That only comes from constant practice. How good a musician do you think I’d be if I didn’t play every day?”
“Not so good.”
“You see my point?”
“Write every day? Sounds too much like real work.” And I’d done plenty of that in the newspaper business.
“Exactly. But if you want something badly enough, what work you put in to achieve it is nothing to you. Whether you sell that work is less important than the fact that you finished it to please yourself.”
“Though selling is good.”
“Oh, I pretty much favor it. But never, ever wait for something as slippery as the mood to strike. That’s either laziness or a lack of confidence in yourself. I had a friend who once told me with a lot of smug certainty he planned to have his first symphony finished within five years. That was fifteen years ago. He should have decided to finish his symphony the same day he thought about starting it, then he might have had something for himself. The only thing he got known for was making excuses to himself and everyone else. If Mozart had had that attitude we’d have never heard of him. He died at thirty-five, you know.”
I could feel my face growing longer. I’d died at thirty-six. Prior to that all I’d achieved was to snag a few bylines when the editors were feeling generous. And after that . . . well, here I was at a party with a guy who was essentially kicking me in the pants. I let him, because he was right about all of it. “Your beer’s gone,” I said. “Lemme get you another so you can tell me more.”
We put our heads together at the table, and I threw more questions at him and soaked in answers. Writing with sounds and writing with words were more alike than I’d ever suspected. Neither of us came up for air until Bobbi actually tapped me on the shoulder. Waters stood, balancing easily with his cane, and told her how much he enjoyed her radio work. He’d listened to the Variety Hour in the lobby bar.
“But they need to get a better horn player for their band,” he added. “He kept cracking the same note over and over.”
“And here I was hoping no one would notice,” she said. “Would you mind if I steal Jack away for a moment?”
He was agreeable to that, so she stole me away to another table in a corner. She looked like she had things to say.
“What’s up, angel?”
“I just got a little friendly advice from Adelle.”
“This ‘girl talk’ stuff?”
“Yes, and then some. I had a feeling that after she saw the papers she’d want to speak with me. It’s a good thing Gordy’s making a solid case with her or she might have clawed my eyes out over Archy. She saw the papers and assumed the worst, but it’s really all right.”
“How’s that? Because Gordy’s softened the blow?”
“Exactly. She doesn’t mind Archy having a new interest now that she’s got one herself.”
“I thought when you went shopping you told her you weren’t after Archy.”
“This is a case of Archy coming after me. She thinks I’m going along with it to further my career, so she gave me a little heart-to-heart.”
“Kind of her.”
“Practical, you mean. She’s read the writing on the wall all right—and the diamonds in the bracelet. It’s a nice piece, so she didn’t do too badly, and she’s still a regular on the Variety Hour.”
“What’d she tell you?”
“Not to get between Archy and his audience, and when it’s my turn to get the brush, go with a smile, but go. She said that was the lesson she learned with him. If the guy’s not interested in you, you can’t change his mind, though she tried. She kept hoping he’d come around back to her, but it’s not going to happen.”
“His loss, Gordy’s gain.”
“I thought hearing this would make you smile.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m imagining the look on Archy’s face when he realizes he doesn’t have either of you.”
She shrugged. “The sad fact is that there’ll always be another girl out there for him.”
“I could fix that, too.”
“But not forever. Don’t tell me you want to keep seeing him and Ike all the time.”
I quickly admitted that I did not.
“Huh,” she said, looking past me. “Speak of the devil.”
Far across the room Archy Grant made a big and noisy entrance. The grin, the wave, lots of glad-handing and calling to friends. In his wake was Ike LaCelle doing much the same thing, and not far behind him stalked the more sober and undemonstrative Gil Dalhauser.
“Well,” I murmured, “it’s show time. I better catch him before he has any drinks.” I stood, but Bobbi put her hand on my arm.
“You’ll need some privacy, won’t you?”
“That would be a help.” And plenty of light, too.
“You won’t get it here for a while, people will interrupt. Let me go to him, tell him to meet me in my dressing room in five minutes. I’ll make sure he’ll be there with bells on whether Ike warned him off or not.”
“Angel, you’re a devil.”
“Just knock first to make sure Adelle’s out.”
Bobbi wasn’t striving for extra attention when she walked over to join Grant, but she got
it all the same. Her looks on top of the publicity linking them in a possible romance guaranteed that anyone interested was watching. Her face lit with a sweet unaffected smile, she put her hand out to him; he took it and drew her suddenly in close, but only pecked her on the cheek like a fond brother before putting a friendly arm around her. He was playing it careful, not too little or too much for the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen! My beautiful guest on the show tonight!” he called out, then stood back and applauded.
Bobbi took a bow, then turned to applaud at Grant herself. The mutual admiration display might go on for longer than five minutes; I took the opportunity to get an early start toward the backstage area. With everyone looking at them, no one noticed my quiet exit through the service door to the kitchen, and the staff there was too busy to bother with me. They were used to my mug anyway.
The back hall where the dressing rooms were was nearly cleared out. Just a couple chorus girls remained, and they were too involved talking to see me walk past. I gave Bobbi’s door a snappy knock, but happily heard no reply. It was unlocked; I went in and turned on the light.
Flowers. Lots of fresh new flowers had been brought in, roses, big bronze chrysanthemums, humble bluebells, daisies, and I don’t know what others turned the place into a crowded and fragrant greenhouse. They were different from the ones Bobbi had had, so I could assume these were all Gordy’s doing. Adelle was going to have a tough job getting this load home—unless Gordy volunteered to help.
I made myself comfortable in a chair by the closet. It wasn’t visible from the door, though I could see the whole room fine in the dressing-table mirror. Grant would not, of course, be able to see me.
My wait went on for longer than five minutes. Bobbi must not have been able to get Grant apart from the others long enough to deliver even a whispered invitation. He was probably milking the crowd for every drop of adulation he could get.
After about a quarter hour, though, I heard footsteps approach and pause outside, then the door was pushed open. It was welcome-to-myparlor time.
Only the fly wasn’t Grant, but Ike LaCelle. With no small disgust for the false alarm, I vanished just as he started to walk in. It made hearing more difficult, but I could follow the progress of his footfalls on the floor. He circled the room once, opened the closet, then checked on the tiny bath. Unhurried, he crossed back to the door.
“It’s clear,” he said.
Someone else came in.
“This is not a good idea,” LaCelle continued.
“The lady wants to see me, who am I to say no?” said Archy Grant. He seemed to be in a remarkably good mood, even for a man whose business it was to be happy all the time.
“She’s poison for you, Arch. Lemme fix you up with someone else.”
“Tomorrow, maybe. First I find out what I’m getting tonight.” Glass clinked on glass and I thought I recognized the sound of a bottle being set down.
“That boyfriend of hers is dangerous. I tell you there’s something wrong with him.”
“Gordy’s just got you spooked.”
“Fleming’s the one who’s done the spooking. You didn’t have him looking at you like that, like the world was gonna end.”
“Ike, you are not scared of some nobody kid like him.”
“Damn right I’m scared. I know a creep when I see one.”
“I’ve seen him and he’s nothing.”
“I just can’t talk to you when you’re like this.”
“So we’ll talk later—when I’m a lot more relaxed . . . ” Grant trailed off into a long chuckle, sounding very pleased with himself. “Now get out before she comes. I don’t want you spoiling the mood while she’s in it.”
“You said she wasn’t so hot for you last night.”
“She just changed her mind, same as the rest. All she needed was a taste of what it was like doing the show.”
“Just like that? I don’t think so. That broad’s got more brains than you think. This is a setup, pal. Her creep boyfriend’s gonna come busting in on you both and either he flattens you or they shake you down for dough.”
“Then I’ll lock the door.”
“Archy—”
“I can take care of myself, Ike. And if the kid makes trouble we handle him like the others. Jeez, isn’t it enough I let you come check things here first? Stand guard in the hall if you want, but get scarce.”
Ike went out, grumbling.
“And don’t let her see you,” Grant said in farewell as he shut the door.
He walked back and stopped before the mirror. When I silently returned to solidity a few feet behind him he was inspecting his teeth and smoothing his hair back. He was a really good-looking man, maybe a little thick around the neck and shoulders, but with striking brown eyes, and an ingrained expression of pleasant humor. He looked like he knew the number on everything and would share it with you for a beer and a handshake. I’d been right about the bottle; he’d brought champagne and two glasses.
I stood very still, watching him for some time before he started to feel it. Not that I have one of those airs of evil surrounding me; this was the sort of feeling anyone gets when they sense somebody’s staring at them.
Grant straightened slow, and used the mirror to check the room, then turned slightly to look toward the door. That’s when he glimpsed what just shouldn’t have been there out of the corner of his eye. He twisted fast to face me, drawing in one sharp breath, eyes going wide, and backed hard away, bumping against the table. Things rattled and fell over. The image of the room in the mirror shivered.
His heart was banging fit to burst. I could hear its thudding ten feet away. I’m not like the undead in the storybooks and movies; I don’t take pleasure in terrifying people—not usually. But for Archy Grant I found myself making a big exception. His pop-eyed expression of horror was giving me the kind of laugh he’d probably never before inspired in anyone. I couldn’t help myself. It was probably just as well, too. Better this laughter than for me to be angry with him.
“Hi, Archy. Great to see you. I really enjoyed the broadcast.”
“What . . . you . . . ” His skill for ad-libbing had deserted him.
I fixed my gaze on him, smiling. “We’re gonna have a little talk.”
10
MY head ached like a bum tooth, but it was worth it.
I’d thought everything out, all the stuff I had to make clear to Grant, all the changes I wanted from him. By the time I finished he no longer had any interest in pursuing Bobbi, though he still liked her—but only as a friend, as another colleague in show business. He would always treat her with respect and not do or say anything that would be detrimental to her career. My promise to Bobbi was intact. Maybe he wouldn’t go out of his way to promote her, but he sure wouldn’t arrange through LaCelle to destroy her.
In light of their conversation, I made sure Archy would be convincing to LaCelle about his change of mind for this particular seduction. I also planted a very strong suggestion that he and Ike stop playing their carrot-and-stick routine with women. The idea wouldn’t last long, a couple weeks, maybe even a month. Suggestions that went against a person’s normal behavior and inclinations tended to be short-lived and needed periodic reinforcing. If Grant and I crossed paths on a regular basis I would do it as opportunities occurred, but I wasn’t counting on that to happen. It’d be up to chance, and I was content to let it remain so. Anything more and I’d be telling him how to run his life. I had my own life to worry about; I didn’t have time for his as well.
The concentration necessary for what I was doing cost me, hence the thumping between my temples. I’d have to make a stop later at the Stockyards to balance the effort.
Of course, Grant remembered absolutely nothing about any of it.
He stood calm and blank-faced, staring at air until I got behind him, snapped my fingers, and vanished. I’d seen enough stage hypnotists to have picked up a few theatrical touches for myself.
When Grant quit the
room, LaCelle—who had posted himself down the way as guard after all—saw and came over. I was floating unseen next to Grant and listened shamelessly.
“What? She stand you up?” LaCelle sounded relieved.
“I got to thinking about what you said and you’re right. I’ve got no business going after her.” Grant was doing fine, speaking almost word for word what I’d given him.
“What d’ya want me to do about her?”
“Nothing. She’s a great talent, let her run with it. And lay off the boyfriend, too. No more guys following him around.”
“But I thought you wanted to—”
“No more guys following him around,” Grant cheerfully repeated.
And that was that.
Mentally dusting my hands, I took myself away to materialize in an unused corner, then went back to the party, feeling very satisfied about myself and the world.
Things had gotten noisier with the booze flowing so free, and the musicians decided to put in some extra playing time. It was much the same as it’d been on opening night, only the attention was divided between Bobbi and Adelle. Bobbi was busy for the moment, but I spotted Madison Pruitt at the chow line. I could take care of my business with him to fill the time until she was free.
Maybe he wasn’t a creative type, but I did know better than to get between him and food and waited until he’d loaded a plate and carried it off to a table. He’d apparently been grazing for a while, as his area was crowded with empty plates containing identical remains of what he was now digging into. When Madison found something he liked, he stuck with it.
“How you doing?” I asked, walking over.
He looked up, mouth full, and said something unintelligible, but friendly in tone, gesturing for me to sit. For the amount of food he was always packing away he was ever on the gaunt and gangly side. His loose clothes were informal tweeds, lots of them, with two knitted vests under the coat. Either he was cold all the time or trying to pad out his thin form. I hadn’t seen him for the last few months. He’d been injured by scabs at an auto-plant sit-down strike, who gave him a concussion and broken arm. Both seemed healed up; he wore no cast, but there was a white scar over his left eyebrow that hadn’t been there before. He looked a little older, a little more worn.
