Lair of Dreams

In the city of six million dreams, Evie and Sam were the dreamiest. New York couldn’t get enough of the newest gossip sensation. Everywhere they went, they were mobbed: Sitting ringside at the fights. Posed beside a millionaire’s champion horse at a Long Island stable. Dining in the elegant Cascades Room of the Biltmore Hotel beside an orderly row of potted cherry trees. Watching Bye, Bye, Bonnie at the Ritz Theatre. Stepping out of Texas Guinan’s infamous 300 Club with confetti in their hair or skating on the frozen pond in Central Park. Fans clustered outside the radio station and the Winthrop Hotel and even the museum hoping for a glimpse of New York’s latest golden couple. Nightclubs vied for their patronage. Gifts small and large arrived by messenger in boxes thick with tissue paper—“A token of our ‘divine’ affection!”—and inside would be a brooch or cuff links and a promise of the establishment’s best table on any night Sam ’n’ Evie would care to grace them with their presence and, oh, perhaps the Sweetheart Seer would be kind enough to mention their establishment fondly on the radio or in the papers?

Letters poured in by the thousands. The Daily News posted a picture of the adorable sweethearts in Mr. Phillips’s majestic office, buried up to their necks in fan mail. Radio Star listed Evie’s “Tips for Savvy Shebas,” which included “Never leave the house without rouging your knees” and “Keep your enemies close, and your flask closer.” Thanks to the two of them, WGI was fast becoming the number one radio station in the nation. A line stretched around the block from WGI to get in to Evie’s show.

She loved every minute of it.

“And don’t forget, darlings,” she reminded listeners. “Sam and I will be hosting the opening-night party for the Diviners exhibit at the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult next week. If you buy a raffle ticket, you can win a free object reading performed by yours truly.”





On the West Side of Manhattan lay a congested strip of real estate called Radio Row where an enterprising sort could purchase radio parts of all kinds, from the commonplace to the hard-to-find. What Sam sought now was very hard to find, indeed. It was all he thought about as he walked up Cortlandt Street, past stores blaring music and competing sidewalk salesmen trying to entice passersby with the siren’s call of the newest, most expensive models: “Brand-new crystal set!” “Westinghouse—it’s all electric!” “Radiola means quality!” “Trust Cunningham tubes—they’re insured!” “Sound so clear you could go next door and not miss a note through the wall!”

Sam stepped inside a dark showroom, past the boring suburban mom-and-pops admiring the showroom wares, carefully avoiding eye contact with overeager salesmen readying their smooth pitches. He kept his head down on his way to the sales counter, hoping he wouldn’t be recognized. At the counter, a mustachioed man with slicked-back hair finished writing up a sales slip and smiled at Sam. “Could I interest you in a new radio today, sir? We’ve the newest models in stock—six-, eight-, and ten-tube circuits.”

“What I really need is a Buffalo tube. But so far, I haven’t had much luck finding it. I understand Mr. Arnold carries them?” Sam said, sliding over a folded note attached to a five-dollar bill he’d lifted from a wallet on the way over.

The man’s smile vanished. “Mr. Arnold, you say?”

“Yes. Ben Arnold. That’s the fella.”

“Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?” The man disappeared behind a heavy drape at the back of the store. A few minutes later, he returned. “It seems that we don’t have that part right now, sir. It has been ordered.” The man returned Sam’s note minus the five dollars. “This is your receipt of purchase. But I’m afraid this is the last time Mr. Arnold can order this part for you, sir. Your particular model is very… popular at present. A bit too popular, if you take my meaning.”

Sam grimaced. Sam ’n’ Evie. The spotlight from their cooked-up romance was throwing a little too much glare on Sam’s private life.

“Pal, I hear you like a crystal set,” Sam said.

Out on the street, he opened the note. A key had been taped to the inside. There was no accompanying information. A salesman waved Sam over. “Could I interest you in a Zenith six-tube model with superior musical tone? It’s fully electric!”

“Thanks, pal. So am I,” Sam shouted. He shoved the note and key in his pocket, walking away from the cacophony of Radio Row toward the rumble of the Ninth Avenue El.

Down the street, the men in the brown sedan watched it all.