“I’m sure it’s nothing of the sort.” Martin owed small sums across the city, but most of those were to tailors and haberdashers, not the types to seek out a bum debt in the last hours of a Friday night. And if it was a friend—well, anyone who knew him would know to ask around at one of his regular haunts.
“You know I’ve had my misgivings about renting to musicians. I’ve always rented to hardworking people. People who need a good night’s sleep to prepare for an honest day’s labor. It’s only on account of your wife that I overlook your late hours. She’s from a good family, and it’s a privilege to have her here.”
Martin resumed his ascent. “Rosemary is the better half,” he said over his shoulder. “No question about it. But fear not for our marriage. I will seek out this mystery caller—but at a more reasonable hour. For now, I must prepare for another night of dishonest labor.”
Mrs. Fichetti sputtered but Martin pursued his retreat with such purpose that by the time he opened the door to the apartment, he could hear Mrs. Fichetti’s door shutting, followed immediately by the thunk of her dead bolt being thrown. Catching his breath, he added this latest run-in with Mrs. Fichetti to the long ledger of reasons why they had to get into a house of their own. When they had first moved in, they believed this apartment was nothing more than a way station, a place to get settled, where Rosemary could have the baby and they could figure out what it meant to be husband and wife—to be a family. He had never bargained on four years upstairs from Mrs. Fichetti, had never imagined that part of the cost of these rooms was required attendance at their landlady’s spontaneous, rambling sermons on the evils of popular music, strong drink, horse racing, FDR, communism, the way women wear their hair these days, or any other topics of concern gleaned from Father Coughlin’s radio program and the pages of the New York Journal-American.
Certainly Rosemary would have agreed; she was one who bore the brunt of Mrs. Fichetti’s attentions and opinions. But for now Martin was alone in the apartment, and this was a rare event. Not being alone, but being alone here. He often felt that the apartment belonged to Rosemary and their two girls, Katherine and Evelyn. He was only a visitor, an interloper, whose greatest contribution to these five rooms—other than the rent that kept them here—was the wardrobe that sprawled across one side of the bedroom he shared with his wife. A double-tiered rack ran the length of one wall, bearing up the small fortune in shirts, suit coats, blazers, trousers, ties, and other items of apparel that Martin had accumulated during his first years in New York. The wall was a riot of gabardine, serge, and worsted wool; there were tweeds, plaids, pinstripes, herringbones, windowpanes. The run of shirts was more muted—white, blue—and all French-cuffed. The wall came to life again where Martin draped his neckties: polka dots, rep stripes, batiks, angular geometrics, undulant paisleys. Every color of the rainbow was represented, along with colors that nature had never imagined. Next to this was stationed a hat rack, where fedoras perched like plump, shadowy doves.
It would have been easy to dismiss Martin as a dandy, but there was more to it. When he had been newly arrived in New York, he was eager to claim the golden, Hollywood-bright destiny that all Americans seemed to believe was their due. He hoped that by attiring himself in the unmistakable regalia of the American man—the suit worn by Clark Gable in It Happened One Night, a hat pitched at the same angle as William Powell’s in The Thin Man—this careful crafting of the outer shell would transform his inner being as well. In the right collar, foulard tie, and double-breasted, broad-shouldered gabardine jacket, he would not only look like an American but become one: a creature freed from the sordid history of the Old World and looking boldly to the future. This half of the room was more than a walk-in closet, more than Martin’s attempt to create in miniature his own Macy’s menswear department. It was an alchemist’s workshop, in which he endeavored, through daily application of cotton, silk, leather, and pomade, to transform his base nature into something more noble.
But now the wardrobe was outmoded. He kept his clothes in impeccable condition, but the suits were no longer the latest styles, not since Evie had come along. Another mouth to feed, and even with a dresser full of her big sister’s hand-me-downs, there were plenty of other expenses. Martin wasn’t so coldhearted that a new suit came before Easter dresses for the girls—not that Rosemary would have allowed it anyway. Back when his song had been popular, when it seemed that it was all the start of something big, Martin thought they were moving beyond the need to make those sorts of choices. Now every day was full of the small deprivations and constant calculations that always seemed to work their way between him and Rosemary.
And there was a man looking for him—a hard-eyed, rough-hewn fellow who wanted to know his whereabouts—and what could that be about but money? Apparently the man hadn’t said when he would return, or where he could be found, should Martin want to seek him out. Something about the whole episode struck Martin as queer. If it had happened downtown, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. The Manhattan night world where he spent his time was lousy with bounders and stay-outs, boozers and loudmouths and sloppy drunks who bellowed at all hours and in all places for another round, the loan of a five-spot, a fourth encore, or simply a firm handshake and a slap on the back from a bosom friend of three hours’ acquaintance. He saw it every night, more often as the little hand on the clock ended its climb and began the greased descent through the small numbers leading up to dawn. But it wasn’t a world that followed him back to the Bronx.
UP THE ECHO chamber of the stairwell came Mrs. Fichetti’s shriek, impossible to sort into words. It was a wavering melody punctuated by the percussion of feet thumping against the stairs. The melody faded and there was only the insistent rhythm of footsteps drawing nearer, a low bass rumble that erupted into the snare-drum crack of a fist against his door.
“Martin!” a voice called out. “Martin Dempsey! Open the feckin’ door!”
Martin swung his feet over the edge of the bed and before he was fully awake he was out the bedroom door and into the living room. He scanned the room for something that could double as a weapon, and discounted his shoe (too small) and a secondhand saxophone (too valuable, even secondhand) before yanking an electric cord from the wall and taking up the Bakelite lamp that sat next to the sofa.