“You know there’s more to it than that.”
“Do I?” Hooper helped himself to a cigarette and the use of Martin’s lighter. He took a few languid drags.
“Could you do it?” Martin said. “Play that la-dee-dum night after night? There’s no life in it.”
“There’s no life in starving either.”
“You’re worse than Rosemary.”
“Rosemary must be a saint. If I quit a gig like that, Lorena would cut off my balls and throw them in the river.”
“I thought she did that the day you got married.”
Hooper laughed. “You might have balls, but you’ve got no brains. You don’t like what Chester’s cooking? Clean your plate and when the job’s done, go to Minton’s, or to Monroe’s, or do what we’re doing here—just play. You think I’m living my dream, playing for the squares at the fair? But I’m getting paid to play, and there’s plenty who can’t say the same.”
Hooper was trying to keep it light but he knew he was lecturing. He could already hear Lorena’s voice in his head. Life lessons from Professor Hooper, she would say. Thank you, Dr. Know-It-All. She could make it sound like a joke, like a pet name even, or she could make it clear that he was working her last nerve. But it was a hard habit to break: when you’re the oldest of six, you grow up telling everyone else just how it’s going to be.
Hooper shook his head. “Maybe I’m just as crazy as you—letting you talk me into playing a party for a bunch of drunken white folks.”
“They won’t all be drunk,” Martin said. “Not at first.”
Hooper mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. Futile. Both the rag and his head were soaked.
“You really think this is going to work?”
“It’s going to be grand,” Martin said.
“I don’t know what world you’re living in, but it’s not the real one.”
“You don’t think we sound brilliant?”
“We’re better than brilliant. That’s not the part I’m worried about.”
“You could have said no.”
“I guess I’m not living in the real world either.”
MARTIN HAD PLANNED to stop at the Plaza after practice. As far as he knew, Francis and Michael had come and gone in the night without making a sound. The only sign of them in the morning had been a pillow and a folded sheet on the sofa, and that giant bottle of champagne, empty in the kitchen. But with the news that his song was lighting up the Savoy, he had a new mission: to visit every music store between Midtown and Harlem. If the sheet music was selling, then that was a sure sign of success. And if they’d stopped carrying the sheet music last year? Then he’d tell the clerks to put in a rush order, because his song was sure to be the biggest hit of the summer.
On his way out the door, Martin was stopped by the Dime’s owner, Artie Gold. Artie usually passed time at the Monday rehearsals at a round table at the back of the club, tallying last week’s receipts and gabbing with the men who delivered the essentials: ice, beer, linens, seltzer.
“Looks like you’re developing a fan club,” Artie said.
“Is it the beer guy?” Martin said. “Or is it the iceman? I tell you, the icemen love us.”
“No, you dope,” Artie said. “Didn’t you see who I was talking to? That was John Hammond.”
Hammond’s name knocked the wry smile right off Martin’s face. Every musician in New York City—in the whole Western Hemisphere—hoped to catch the eye of John Hammond. One nod from Hammond was a ticket to the top; just ask Billie Holiday, or Benny Goodman, or Basie himself. The word on the street was that Hammond had paid out of his own pocket to install the air-conditioning at the Famous Door during Basie’s long, legendary run. That’s how badly he wanted Basie to make a splash, and it was just the kind of thing Hammond did for his musicians. But folks around town also called him the Undertaker, because just as likely as not, when you saw Hammond in the audience he didn’t have his eye on you—he was there to tell your bandleader about his latest find, some kid fresh off the train from Chicago who was perfect for the seat you were currently occupying.
“Hammond?” Martin said in disbelief. “Here?” He was sure Artie was pulling his leg, but what if—
“He caught your last number and he wanted to know where he could see the whole act. I told him you were just a bunch of shoeshine boys I let play on Mondays out of the kindness of my heart.”
“You didn’t!”
“Of course I didn’t. Sheesh. I told him you had a wedding up in Woodlawn—when is it, Saturday? Leave me an address and I’ll pass it on.”
“Why don’t you give me his number and I’ll ring him up? No need for you—”
“Yeah, it doesn’t work that way,” Artie said. “Just don’t get your hopes up, okay? He’s a busy man. And Woodlawn? Sheesh—that’s like the other side of the moon.”
Don’t get your hopes up? Martin’s hopes had never been higher. Quitting Chester’s outfit, then hearing about his song at the Savoy, then feeling the band in full swing—he had all the numbers in the combination that would unlock his future. On Saturday the door would open wide, and John Hammond himself would be waiting on the other side.
THE PLAZA HOTEL
IT WAS LATE IN the evening when Michael got out of bed. His clothes from the previous night were still pooled on the floor: his jacket near the bedroom door and then his trousers and then another step to his tie, his shirt. The shoes, like Mr. Yeats, were nowhere in sight. If the bed had been three feet farther from the door he would have collapsed on the carpet—that’s how exhausted he had been when they had reached the hotel in the early-morning hours. Still, he was shocked that they had found the place at all.
When they’d crept out of Martin’s apartment, Michael on tiptoe and Yeats in an insubstantial shuffle, the mantel clock registered ten minutes after three. Michael had realized during his Saturday stroll down Fifth Avenue that he could still tell time—the meaning of the short and long hands had not been lost in the fog that still obscured letters and numbers. He had since made a point of seeking out clocks, whether on lobby walls or church towers. This was something he could know. This was proof that he was still a part of the delimited world.
The street outside Martin’s apartment was occupied only by bent-necked streetlights, and when Michael asked Yeats the way to their hotel, the old man seemed puzzled. He took a few steps to the right, then paused and muttered to himself. He turned left but lacked the conviction to take a step in that direction.
“Are the pages on the big book of time turning again?”
Yeats nodded gravely.
Michael scanned the row of houses that ran the length of the block. A lightbulb burned in only a single window. The rest of the buildings were dark. He could imagine that in each house a family slept untroubled by the waking world. “Sure it’s fine,” Michael said. “It’s all peace and quiet.”