Yes, Martin was on to something, and it was the sound of the band that had pushed him to walk out on Chester. These Monday sessions were proof that he wasn’t just imagining what he could do if he was the one counting time and building the set list. Since last week’s rehearsal, he had bounced between light-headed joy and a sour stomach of dread: How could it be that this band would only live for a day, a musical mayfly, and then disappear? Every man in the band had another regular gig. Martin had already been forced to replace the trombone when Joe Falco went off for a three-month stand in the Poconos. And Hooper, his ace trumpet, had a gig at the World’s Fair that he hoped to flip into a seat in the house band for The Hot Mikado, which was moving this month from Broadway out to the fairgrounds.
But Martin had a plan—his own top secret plan—and he hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. It was too far out in the world of what-if, a sunshine daydream locked up tight against the cold rain of reality. But over these past few days that lock had begun to turn and the tumblers to fall into place. He had set it in motion by quitting Chester’s band. Click: the first number in the combination. Then there was the news, delivered today by half the members of the band, that his song had been rearranged by none other than Benny Carter and was driving the dancers into a frenzy at the Savoy. It was a sign that Martin’s star might again be on the rise, and—click—that was the second number. And then there was this band, his band. They had been working toward this moment for months, when they would move beyond being musicians playing a session to being a real band. In a session, someone was always gassing around, showing off. It was a ragtag business, playing for the joy of it. But now the band had come together. No doubt about it, this band could really swing. Click: the last number in the combination.
So this was Martin’s plan: Saturday wouldn’t be the end, it would be the beginning. He had learned plenty from his early days in America playing one-night stands with nonstop touring bands, and then later with Chester during their summer tours. He knew the towns where a band could play to a packed house and then do it all again in the next town over. It was a dog’s life, to be sure, but they only had to keep at it long enough to make a name for themselves. And with the way Hoop was blowing that horn, the way he absolutely tore apart “One O’Clock Jump,” and with the bandleader being the man who had written “That’s More Like It,” well, that was a sure bet in Martin’s book. They would blaze a path across the territories and then return in triumph to New York, where they would settle in as the new house band at somewhere like the Pennsylvania Hotel. It sounded crazy to be thinking about the Pennsylvania, which had been Basie’s spot for years, while the band was sweating through its paces at a hole-in-the-wall like the Dime, and that was one reason he hadn’t breathed a word of it. But hadn’t Benny Goodman been ready to break up his band in the middle of their marathon cross-country tour? It had been a complete wreck right up until they went to L.A. for one last show at the Palomar, where they blew the roof off the place. That success, broadcast live around the country, carried them back to New York like conquering heroes, and it had been nothing but gravy for those guys ever since.
But he was getting ahead of himself, because sure, there were hurdles to overcome.
Martin knew that before the band played a single note at the reception, half the crowd would already be in a lather. What kind of joke was this? Colored musicians? An integrated band? The wedding guests would have a laugh if Martin were to assemble an all-white band and put them in blackface. That would be a gas. Like dancing at the Cotton Club, they would say. But this? He could already imagine the look on Dennis Dwyer’s boiled-potato face. And he hadn’t told anyone. Not Rosemary, even. She would only argue him out of an idea that he knew was a good one, but it was Rosemary, after all, who had recruited Martin as the bandleader, and hadn’t he taken to the job with gusto? Had he complained, even once, about the wedding?
And then there was the long-term plan. Rosemary wouldn’t exactly go wild about Martin being out of town for weeks, maybe months, at a time, but if that plan got them out of Mrs. Fichetti’s and into a house of their own, then all, he supposed, would be forgiven. More and more since the baby was born she had been giving out about his late nights and the hours kept by a musician, but isn’t that what she’d signed up for when they married? He had to believe that what really troubled her were the close quarters with a nosy landlady always looking over her shoulder. If she had her own place to mind, she wouldn’t care if Martin was on the moon five nights a week.
Getting Hoop and Teddy Gaines on board was also going to take some doing. Even if Hoop complained that his current gig was a straitjacket, a straitjacket kept a man warmer than no jacket at all. And there could be other hurdles. Even in New York, there were ballrooms that wouldn’t book mixed bands, and he’d heard it was ten times worse down south, where there was loads of money to be made playing one-nighters. It was hard to figure, but Martin was confident he could sort it all out. Times were changing—when Benny Goodman jazzed up Carnegie Hall, Basie and Fletcher Henderson and plenty more joined him on the bandstand, and hadn’t the crowd applauded like mad? He was also counting on Hoop’s wife, Lorena, to help her husband see the light. Hoop was always telling Martin that she could sing like an angel, and if the band took off, it could mean steady work for both of them—and maybe being together on the road would smooth out the rough patches. In a different life, Rosemary would make a crackerjack tour manager. There was no one better at keeping all of the i’s dotted just so. But you sure couldn’t put your wife and kids on the road with a crowd of musicians. He wasn’t raising his girls to be tinkers.
He could feel it now, closer than it had ever been. On Saturday everyone would hear it and they would all know that the group was too good to break up. That’s when Martin would lay it all out for them. The Martin Dempsey Orchestra would spring fully formed from his head and they would march out together, ready to take on the world.
WHEN THE LAST note ended and brought the rehearsal to a close, there was a hush, then a collective intake of breath. Someone cursed, with reverence, for the sound that had filled the room. Only then did they realize just how much they were sweating in the narrow, lightless confines of the Dime. Stretching like men coming out of trance, they staggered off the club’s one-step riser and went in search of the jackets they had shucked off, the shirts slung over music stands.
Teddy Gaines came out from behind the drum kit and leaned against the piano. “Word is you gave old Chestnut your walking papers,” he said.
“I did,” Martin said. “Just so.” A nervous smile tricked the corners of his mouth, as if this was a joke he hadn’t gotten used to telling.
“This here’ll be something new,” Hooper said. “I never played with a bandleader who’d lost his mind.”
Gaines and Exley, the bass player, both guffawed. They had been thinking the same thing since the news broke of Martin’s midsong departure.
“Come on, now,” Martin said, fishing a slender chrome case from his pocket. He deftly removed a cigarette and laid the case on the piano. “It’s the sanest thing I’ve done in a long while.”
“So what was it,” Hooper said, “the steady paycheck got you down? Tired of playing on the radio all those years? Too many rich folks buying you drinks?”