Whistling in the Dark
Tamara Allen
Published by Lethe Press at Smashwords
Copyright ©2009 by Tamara Allen.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the author’s creation or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Published as a trade paperback original by Lethe Press, 118 Heritage Ave, Maple Shade, NJ 08052
ISBN 1-59021-049-2 / 978-1-59021-049-9
Cover art by Lorraine Brevig
Book Design by Toby Johnson
_________________________________________________________
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Allen, Tamara.
Whistling in the dark / Tamara Allen.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-59021-049-2 (alk. paper)
1. Gay men--Fiction. 2. Pianists--Fiction. 3. World War, 1914-1918--Veterans--Fiction. 4. New York (N.Y.)--Fiction. I. Title.
PS3601.L4365W47 2009
813’.6--dc22
2008051308
To Eric, Nick, and Robyn
for their love and support
My grandmother, Hallye
for her inspiration
And my great-grandfather, Harry
I wish I could have heard you play.
Fifty cents secured the last private room at the 41st Street hotel, but the musty sheets and the brazen frolic of mice under the bed left Sutton thinking he should have saved the change and slept on the sidewalk. Awakened in the wee hours by a pounding at the door, he was convinced of it. Rising, he felt his way to the door and cracked it open, to be blinded by police lanterns. The frightening thought that his family had sent police after him woke him fully and he shielded his eyes as much to hide his face as block the light. “What is it? What do you want?”
Behind the light, an irritated voice muttered, “It ain’t him. Too young.” Another offered an officious apology as a gloved hand grabbed the doorknob and shut out the intrusion, leaving Sutton in the dark, listening to a noisy retreat.
They were looking for a lawbreaker. And that wasn’t him. Not yet, anyway. Deciding he’d had enough sleep, he dressed and left the hotel, amid the crash and squabble of policemen still searching door by door. He headed east, away from glum apartments as worn down as he felt, away from the odors of fish and sewage and coal fires, toward the distant lights that promised shops and restaurants and possibly jobs.
Though only October, he felt chilled in his coat. From street lamp to street lamp he walked, all but holding his breath in between, in awe of the darkness that hid doorways and stairwells and swamped passages between buildings. He’d never been fond of the dark and, while this wasn’t nearly as miserable as huddling in a dugout hours before dawn, he found the strain to his hearing and eyesight an altogether too familiar experience.
This wasn’t the New York he remembered from the handful of trips taken in the shelter of family and friends—nor the one that had been a passing rush of color, light, and noise on his way overseas. The trip home from France was only a memory of endless parades; even now, he could see traces of confetti in the gutters and pavement cracks.
This New York was bigger and faster than the one he knew. Neither the troopship nor the crowded camp where he’d trained had seemed so rampant with life and movement. It brought to mind the enormous beehive he and the neighbor boys had once knocked out of an oak at his grandfather’s farm. It had been a wild race back to the house and he’d still been stung. His grandfather had joked that it was a lesson in doing unto others. His father had said in all seriousness that if you thwart a fellow’s industry, you can expect to bear his wrath. Sutton remembered being astonished that so many creatures could dwell in such close quarters and still carry on as if they had all the room in the world.
This humming nest of humanity appeared to be managing it nicely and, further, took no notice of him whatsoever. Everyone he passed seemed to know the trick of surviving where you knew no one and no one wanted to know you. He saw it in their faces. And it was a secret they were not predisposed to share. Let him scramble as they had. It had been his own decision to jump in. Let him sink or swim. No one would bend the rules for his sake.
That was all right. He wouldn’t ask them to.
“Well, hello.”
The voice out of the darkness made him jump. He noticed then that his meandering had led him to a park. Dense stands of trees and hedges hid paths. A match flared and the stranger lit a cigarette. “You’re at the hotel down the street.” He offered Sutton a cigarette and when Sutton declined it, shrugged. “Know I’ve seen you. Lonely place, ain’t it?”
“The mice don’t seem to find it so.”
The comment won him a chuckle and the man moved nearer. “Yeah, it ain’t too clean, either. You leaving, then?” He nodded at the suitcase.
“Yes, probably. The Y might have something later tonight.”
The man drew on the cigarette. “Not likely. Soldiers, they’re taking the rooms. Taking the jobs. You a soldier?”
“I was,” Sutton said, expecting that would end the conversation.
“How many of them Jerries you spike?” He made a spearing motion and Sutton, uneasy, backed away. The man stepped into the lamplight, hands upraised. “I didn’t mean nothing. Wanted to go over, myself. Bum knee.” In the light, he looked older and wearier. “I’m Lem, by the way. Sure you won’t stay another night? You can bunk with me and we’ll split the cost. Hell, I’ll pay the whole thing. I just hate sleeping alone. You know how it is.”
Maybe it was the man’s self-deprecating grin or the clumsy invitation, but Sutton believed him. “You want to share a room?”
“You thinking about it?” Lem kept his voice low, as if they were conspirators plotting something illegal—which Sutton supposed they were. But as lonely as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to rush into something new. Lem might provide a distraction, but he would also be a reminder. Sutton needed more time to forget.
“I’m not looking for a—roommate. Or for anything else, except a job.”
Lem caught his sleeve. “You’re making it a whole lot more complicated than it is. Honest, just one night. Keeps you from being alone. Keeps me from being alone.” Fingers circled his wrist, a callused thumb brushing his palm. “What’s your name?”
Blinding white light hit them. Lem swore with sudden vehemence and broke to run. The policeman grabbed him. Sutton realized it was the same officer who’d been searching the hotel. A second officer looked Sutton up and down. “Well, damn. You get lost on your way back from the ball, Cinderella?”
Confused, Sutton shook his head, but the first officer cut in. “On his way back to Yonkers, more like. Chasing after kids now, are we?”
The last, directed at Lem, provoked an indignant sputter. “The hell with you. It was he come up to me, not the other way ‘round. He’s the one with the hotel room,” he added with a nod at Sutton’s suitcase.
Shaken, Sutton tried to explain himself, but Lem continued to complain so ferociously, he couldn’t get a word in. The policemen turned a deaf ear to them both and walked them across the road to the wagon. At the police station, Sutton was shown to a crowded cell; most of the men were asleep on benches or, worse, the stained cement floor. In one corner, a noisy group laughed and carried on, unperturbed by the surroundings. They paid him no mind, except one dark-haired man his own age who bold as brass winked at him. Sutton moved to a relatively unoccupied corner and wrapped his hands around metal bars like ice. He hoped the wait would only be a few hours, because he didn’t think he could bring himself to use the toilet in the corner. And he couldn’t fall asleep. He didn’t dare.
Chapter Two
In the cell, Lem grinned as if it were all a game. “You know, we’ll be out in a few hours. Come over and sit with me. No one’ll care.”
Sutton looked at him in disbelief. “We’re in jail.”
Lem shrugged. “If you’re going to be arrested for it, might as well enjoy it. Enjoy what you can. You ought to know that better than anybody, soldier boy.”
“Have you done so before—in here?”
“Heaps of times.” Lem’s grin came back. “You thinking about it?”
“I’m thinking I’d like to be alone for a while.”
“Not going all moral on me, are you?” Lem pressed closer and laid a clammy hand on the back of Sutton’s neck. “Come on, then,” he said softly. “I’ll warm you better than whiskey.”
Sutton tried to pull away, but Lem’s grip firmed as if Sutton were a stray pup to keep in check. “Cozy corner for us over here,” he said, and pushed Sutton toward it. Sutton resisted, with a push that sent Lem stumbling backward to land hard on a bench. Lem was on his feet instantly, easy-going pretense gone, and Sutton backed away, though there was nowhere to go.
“For Christ’s sake.” The dark-haired fellow had wandered over. “Here, have a drink.” He held out a flask and Lem, after a hostile glance at Sutton, accepted it. “Name’s Jack,” the fellow went on cheerfully. “I’m getting up a card game. Want to join? One of us’ll win enough to pay up when they collect the fines.”
Sutton felt sick under an assault of fresh anxiety. A fine—and the alternative would no doubt be a lengthy prison sentence. He grasped hopelessly for a way out that didn’t involve asking his father for the money.
“Your first time?” The dark-haired fellow—Jack—watched him with a certain sympathy. “Waiting’s the worst. Come over and play a few hands.”
It might be a welcome distraction—but telephoning his father to pay a gambling debt in addition to a fine would decidedly not improve the situation. “I’d just like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”
Jack shrugged. “Offer stands, if you get tired on your own.”
Three hours later, Sutton had to agree the waiting was something other than enjoyable. The only break from worry came when the policeman inquired after a John Smith and half the men in the cell stood. Sutton had to laugh and, for a few minutes, awe overtook anxiety. It was all so unreal, so far from anything familiar. It seemed impossible that he could be endless miles from home and in such terrible straits. When he had been expelled from school, he hadn’t imagined things could get much worse. He should have been grateful the university trustees hadn’t turned him over to the police, then—but he’d felt only disappointment that no one had debated the harm of his caring for David or David for him.
The idea of returning to Topeka to explain to his family just why he’d been expelled had made his slim prospects in New York seem worth the risk. But days of navigating unfamiliar streets and evading unanswerable questions had taken the shine off the adventure. With no references nor even a letter of recommendation, a job proved difficult to come by. Talk of rising rents had added to his doubts. In a letter, he had confessed to his family that he was in New York—nothing more. He dreaded facing his father after all that had happened. A fellow couldn’t breathe around the man without being told just how to do it.
But now—here he was, in a city that took his breath away altogether. God, how he missed school—and David. He missed the brush of fingers on his hand when David passed him in the crowded halls. He missed the tousled head on the pillow beside his and the arm draped comfortably across his stomach. He missed falling asleep with the scent of Egyptian tobacco in the air.
Fishing in his coat pocket, he withdrew a folded rectangle of linen paper, the worse for having been unfolded a number of times.
Sutton,
I’m sorry we couldn’t have a proper good-bye, but it’s best this way. You know I won’t forget what you’ve done. Some fellows would’ve given me up. I wish I could return the favor and help you land on your feet somewhere, but you know the difficulty in it. Perhaps we’ll meet in a fairer world. Until then, bonne journee. Think kindly of me, if you can.
David had been sensible enough to not sign it. Too sensible and ready to call it quits when they might’ve found a way to see each other. Sutton folded the paper and returned it to his pocket. Had he been in David’s place, he wouldn’t have been so smart. He might have given up the teaching position, to run away together and start fresh.
At first light, the cell began to empty as, one by one, prisoners were led away. Another hour crawled by and still Sutton waited, feeling with a sinking heart that he must be last on the list. He dozed off—and what seemed a moment later, the shout of his name startled him awake.
Chilled to the bone and worried anew, he shivered all the way down the long corridor to the courtroom. He had come up with a plan to sell his best suit in order to pay the fine, if the judge was amenable. But as he stood before a stoop-shouldered man who looked as though he’d been up most of the night himself, the plan seemed suddenly foolish and naive. The judge gave him no more than a glance, but took the paper a clerk handed over and frowned at it. “Degenerate disorderly conduct.” He rested his head on his hand and yawned. “And here we have one Sutton Albright?”
Sutton found his voice. “Yes, sir. If I might—” He cleared his throat. “It’s true I was in the company of the man the police were searching for, but only because he accosted me.”
The judge looked at him then. “Why were you wandering about at two in the morning?”
“I—sometimes don’t sleep well. Walking about is a help.”
The frown eased a fraction. “That so? You claim New York residency.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are you from? Originally,” he said, with a perceptible twitch of his lips.
“Kansas.” The judge waited and Sutton tried to swallow his dread. “Topeka.”
“Topeka,” the judge said with a slow nod. “Interesting. I just recently read in the Times about a fellow who made his fortune with the rail line out of Topeka. A Phillip Albright. Any relation?”
“I’m not sure I understand the need for these questions, sir.”
The judge’s hint of a smile became the real thing. “Mr. Albright, I suggest you take whatever money you have in your pocket and buy a ticket back to Topeka. I’m sure New York seemed like an exciting place on your way overseas, but you look to me like a fellow who’s run up against more excitement than he’d planned on. Go home and live a long, happy life. I don’t want to see you in front of me again.” He thrust the document at the clerk. “Get him out of here.”
As the bailiff escorted him from the dock, Sutton’s legs threatened to give out from under him. He heard the judge mutter to his clerk. “One more boy in here and I’ll take it up with the city, myself. Goddamned war.”
With a firm nudge from the bailiff, Sutton left the courtroom and made his way downstairs to the lobby. His suitcase returned to him, he was back on the street, a street transformed since he’d last seen it. People passed with a purpose in their step. He still shook with relief that he had regained his freedom.
He couldn’t go home. He knew there would be recriminations and he cringed at the thought his parents might decide the war had damaged him in mind as well as body. His sister’s beau, John Campbell, had come home from France forever changed. After electroconvulsive treatments, people said he was better. They had insisted he was. But when Sutton had chaperoned his sister on a visit to the Campbell farm, John had been a quiet figure rocking all evening by the fire.
It was a sight Sutton had never been able to forget. And despite what had happened to John, his own parents might want to turn him over to doctors. His mother would be inclined to think he suffered from some sort of nervous exhaustion she’d read about. Once a doctor assigned a respectable name to his behavior and his father cubbied him into a respectable position to keep him out of trouble, his mother would find a foolish girl willing to trade love for social position and arrange an entirely respectable marriage. The rest of his life neatly mapped out and all he had to do was live it.
A steady rain fell and people hustled past under umbrellas and wet newspapers. His own umbrella long since sold, Sutton let his hat take the brunt of rainfall. He wanted to walk until he hated New York and felt desperate for home. But by the end of the morning, chilled, damp, sick at heart, he still didn’t want to leave. Maybe New York was hard and vast—even a little frightening. But he had seen its promise. He had believed in its possibilities, believed it could ease the heartache that the nightmarish weeks in France had left him. And if those possibilities didn’t shine as brightly now, he still wanted to hold on and hope.
It was just awfully hard to hold on with thirty cents in your pocket.
On the corner stood a luncheonette, its lit interior beckoning through the plate glass. He fingered the last of his change, trying to decide how best to divide it between dinner and breakfast. If he skipped dinner, he could still while away one last hour over coffee. He could listen to the chatter of strangers and dream that home was here in the city and he was free to live as he liked. Maybe the feeling would stay with him on the dreary walk to the station and the long train ride. Maybe it would even shield him from the grim disappointment in everyone’s faces when they saw him again.
Chapter Three
It was something to marvel at, how quickly an hour could pass when a fellow preferred it to crawl along. Sutton shook his head when the waitress asked if he’d like more coffee. She gave him an inquisitive smile. “Suppose I ought to tell you about our specials today. We’ve got some fine goulash or chowder with toast for ten cents along with your coffee. Since you’ve already had the coffee...” She was pretty in a tomboyish way, with a figure as straight as a lamp post, carrotty hair that didn’t care for the restraint imposed on it, matching freckles—and green eyes so sympathetic, he felt cheered.
Not to mention hungry. “The goulash sounds rather good.”
“Then let me freshen up your coffee and I’ll be right back.”
Hardly five minutes passed before she was back with a steaming bowl and a plate of toast. She slipped around the counter to scoop up a fallen napkin, wincing as she bent down. Sutton caught up the napkin and handed it to her. “Are you all right?”
“Thanks. Just lifted one too many vegetable crates, I guess.”
“You lifted them?” She was so slim and small. “Do you need some help? I’ve a few minutes—”
“Aren’t you the gentleman.” Back came her cheery grin. “It’s all right. I suppose Ida will hire someone in a day or two when neither of us can get up the dropped napkins.”
“Hire someone?” The coffee wasn’t settling so well in his stomach. “You’re hiring?”
“Ida’s looking for an errand boy.” She pointed to a small sign pinned on the wall by the kitchen door.
Sutton stared at it, then at her. “Please don’t be offended but—wouldn’t it make more sense to hang the sign in the window?”
The waitress had a likeably throaty laugh. “Ida means to give the job to someone who eats here regular. Someone who knows the neighborhood.”
“Do you think she might consider me?”
“You? But—”
“I’m looking for work. I’ll do whatever you want.”
She studied him. “Well, I don’t know. You live around here?”
“Not exactly—but I’m becoming better acquainted with the neighborhood by the day.” God knew he felt as though he’d walked every foot of it. “Whatever you’re looking for, I’m sure I’m the fellow for it. I’ll take on anything.”
Her smile came back softer. “You’re eager enough. It’s a lot of cleaning, lifting, carrying—”
“I can do it.” His arm had healed suitably for that work, anyway.
She patted his shoulder. “I’ll talk to Ida. Eat up, if you can sit still.” She was laughing as she went.
Sutton sat, but he could hardly bring himself to eat. The job would probably pay a pittance and he’d be back to sleeping in the mice-ridden hovel of the night before, but...
The woman who came around the counter wasn’t more than an inch over five feet, but seemed taller as she stood with thin, sinewy arms folded and feet apart—much like his old sergeant, he mused—right down to the hobnailed boots. Her gray hair worn in a thick bun at the nape of her neck made all more prominent her black brows and a jaw as square and indomitable as any man’s.
“You’re looking for work?” She tilted her head and the line of her mouth thinned further. “Answer me quick.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The job’s cleaning, lifting, delivering, some fixing of meals, and whatever else I might think of later on.” Her gaze narrowed. “Why would you want it?”
“To stay in New York. It’s my last chance. My only chance. I’ll work hard.”
“That you will. Can you start today?”
The question took him by surprise. “I don’t see why not—”
“Good. You live nearby?”
Hesitation couldn’t be helped. “I—” He sensed it would be a fatal mistake to lie to her. “I’ve no place to stay just yet, but I’ll find one later tonight.”
“Whatever suits you. I’ve a room to let, upstairs. It ain’t much but it’ll be convenient, if you’re interested. Of course it will come out of your pay.”
“Naturally.” Well, it couldn’t be worse than where he’d been sleeping. “I’m grateful to you, ma’am.”
“Esther will show you the room.”
She turned to go back to the kitchen and Sutton realized the interrogation was over. “She never even asked my name. Or for references or anything—”
“She’ll keep you on if she likes your work. And if she wants you,” Esther said, cupping her hands around her mouth, “she’ll just bellow, ‘boy!’ and scare you out of your socks.” She grabbed his hand and gave it a shake. “Esther Clark, by the way.”
“Sutton Albright.”
“My, that’s gilt-edged. Good luck, Sutton. You’ll need it.”
She led him up a narrow flight of stairs into a short hallway. There were two rooms on either side and then the hall turned, leading to more stairs. Behind the stairs, a door opened into a room barely large enough to contain a cot, small table, and chair. The single window looked out upon the bricks of the building next door.
“You’ll want another blanket,” Esther said, oddly subdued. “I’ll scare one up for you.”
He didn’t like to think she felt bad about the accommodations. True, there was hardly space to move around in—but at the moment it looked like all the room in the world. “Thank you, Esther. And not just for the blanket.”
She studied him. “You’ll be okay?”
“I’m sure it will take some getting used to. But that’s all right. I’m grateful for your help.”
The concern in her eyes eased. “I’ll get you the blanket.”
Sutton dressed in the soft-collared cotton shirt and brown wool trousers he had purchased a few days after selling his second-best suit. He put his suitcase under the bed, leaving the rest of his clothes inside. It was just as well he’d pawned his books, pocket watch, and everything else, as he had neither shelf nor drawer for personal possessions. Not that it mattered. What he needed most at the moment—hope—he’d gotten back in spades.
By ten o’clock, all he wanted or needed was a bed upon which to collapse. He had hauled in and unpacked crates, peeled potatoes and carrots and shelled peas, pounded steaks, bussed tables, washed dishes, and scrubbed down the kitchen at closing. His hands were raw, his shoulder aching. When the last customer left, Esther mentioned to Ida that someone next door had asked her to bring over a sandwich and a bowl of chowder. Ida turned a dubious eye on Esther as she reached for her coat.
“You lollygag over there too much, girl. He’ll go this time. You tend the pots.”
Sutton took the basket Esther prepared and went out into the chilly night. A dim light shone through the plate glass windows across the way, but he could hear the faint sound of a piano. Though the shop sign read closed, he followed Esther’s directions and went in without knocking. The piano’s bright notes filled the place and he stopped to listen. As his eyes adjusted to the light, flashes of color lurking in the shadows took shape. A pair of china dogs guarded either side of the door and a few feet further in stood a painted wooden elephant, waist-high, its jeweled eyes glistening with lifelike interest. Japanese lanterns bobbed in the breeze from lazily circling fans. Old and new maps of the world adorned the shabby walls and, overhead, a map of the heavens.
There were toys everywhere, some he remembered from childhood. He knew he’d owned a spinning top like the one perched on the windowsill. And the rocking horse nestled between two bins had a familiar air. He wanted to explore but, remembering why he was there, followed the music through the aisles to the back of the store. He assumed the dinner was meant for the pianist and, judging by the way he played, the poor fellow needed nourishment right away. An inviting collection of old books filled several shelves and Sutton promised himself he would come back sometime. Daylight would be preferable, anyway, to lingering in darkened aisles while the eyes of several stuffed creatures peered down at him from the topmost shelves. Someone with an impish sense of humor had poised them to make the customer half-wonder if he was not about to be pounced upon.
Ducking past the wings of a stuffed owl, Sutton walked until the aisle ended. There, beside a cluttered workbench in the corner, stood the piano—a handsome, older upright with a fresco of doves carved in the front panels. Persian carpets in need of a beating covered the back wall and he realized they muted the sound or he would have heard the music much more clearly from the street. Taking up most of the space on the workbench, amid coils of wire and scattered tools, sat two varnished boxes faced with knobs and switches, the whole contraption attached to the horn from a phonograph. A radio set, he realized. He’d seen one before, in a magazine. This one was not as sleek, but looked far more complex with its numerous dials, bulbs, and the wire running everywhere. He thought the pianist was sending out music—but the bulbs were not lit and Sutton had an idea they should be, in order for the thing to work.
If the pianist did intend to play on the radio, it was surely not any time soon. He hunched over the keys, hands poised with aching uncertainty as he squinted at the sheet music. Reluctant to interrupt him in the midst of a piece, Sutton looked around for a place to sit and noticed the light coming through the pebble glass of a door to his right. He knocked politely and when there was no answer, tried again a little more urgently.
In mid-knock, the door swung open, putting him nearly nose to hawkish nose with a man who reeked of cigar smoke and impatience. Wiry of hair and of figure, he had eyes so dark brown Sutton thought at first they were black. They sparkled out of a face with sharp corners that nonetheless looked capable of good humor. At the moment, a frown twisted the mouth, the initial hope in the dark eyes fading to frustration. “We’re closed—” He noticed the basket. “Oh. From next door?”
“Yes, sir. I think Esther’s only packed enough for one.”
“That’s what I asked for.” He turned back to his pile of paperwork while he puffed his cigar, thoughts clearly elsewhere.
In the amber glow of light through the lampshade, Sutton took in the old oak desk with its multitude of drawers, the leather sofa scattered with pillows, and a haphazardly stuffed bookshelf behind the desk. He quietly cleared his throat. “Is the dinner for the gentleman playing the piano?”
“What?” The man squinted at him, puffed on the cigar, and then waved away the smoke. “No, it’s for the gentleman pounding the life out of the damned thing.” He picked up a half-full bottle of scotch and poured some into the glass. Already a damp ring surrounded it on the blotter. “Good God, give it to him, already. I can’t take much more of this.” He swung another look at Sutton. “Where’s Esther?”
“She’s doing the washing up.” Sutton extended a hand. “I’m Sutton Albright. Mrs. Carlisle’s just hired me.”
“Yeah?” He seemed dubious, but shook Sutton’s hand. “Harry Warner. And the gentleman playing the piano,” he said with a wryly mocking emphasis, “is Ox.”
“Ox?” Well, it did suit. “Just Ox?”
“Vivian Oxtoby. But I’d stick with Ox, if I was you.” He went out and Sutton followed. Ox struggled his way through the same piece, still coming too jarringly with the chords. Harry winced and wrapped a hand around Ox’s wrist. “You keep hitting them like that and they’ll start hitting back. Take a break and have some supper.”
Ox let his hands slide to his lap. “Doing my best.”
“I know.” Harry clapped a broad shoulder. “Jack does, too.”
“He ain’t back?”
“Not yet.”
Sutton sensed the worry passing between them and wondered if he should just put down the basket and go. But then Ox raised his head and, pushing a shaggy fall of brown hair out of his eyes, smiled shyly at Sutton. “That’s for me?” He rose from the bench to tower close to half a foot over Sutton’s five eleven. “Esther didn’t want to come over?”
Harry dismissed the question with a shake of his head. “It’s Ida, looking after Esther’s virtue. Or keeping track of the time she wastes here.”
None too sure about the former statement, Sutton was at least able to reassure on the latter. “Ida mentioned lollygagging.”
“She would, the old—” The telephone interrupted, making Harry jump. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he snapped and spun on his heel to hustle back to the office. Ox hurried after him and Sutton followed with the basket. He reached the doorway as Harry picked up the receiver. “Yeah? Yeah, that’s me. Go ahead and put him through.”
Ox hovered over the desk. “It’s Jack?”
Harry hushed him with an agitated wave. “Hey, are you all right?” he said into the telephone. “Where are you? Oh, hell. Jack, I swear to God—yeah, yeah. We’ll be there in a little while.” He hung up and sank into the chair with a groan.
Ox sank into the chair opposite. “How much does he need?”
“Twenty-five. He’s scraped together fourteen. You coming with me?”
“Sure.” Ox handed over six dollars. “That’s all I got. Including the dollar in my sock.”
“Your socks are better off than I am.” Harry counted out four dollars and change. “Goddamnit. Ten lousy cents.”
“I’ve got that bond,” Ox said. “And some thrift stamps at home.”
“Keep your stamps. Maybe Esther’s got some change—”
“Wait a minute,” Sutton said, remembering. “I’ve got a dime.” He tossed it onto the pile and both men turned their heads to stare at him.
“Who’s he?” Ox whispered.
“Ida’s new errand boy.” Harry jabbed the cigar in Sutton’s direction. “Albright, ain’t it? Thanks, kid. I owe you.”
On his way out, Sutton stole a glance at the piano. He could stay away from concert halls and band pavilions, but he apparently couldn’t avoid music the rest of his days. It found him even in this rough and tumble corner of New York. He supposed even a simple tune whistled on the street would make his heart ache for a long time to come.
But there was nothing to do for it. Six doctors had confirmed that the damage to his hand was permanent. He had refused to accept it until the cast came off and he’d played again, to find the pain had not faded with the knitting of bones. When his technique deteriorated with subsequent practice, his parents had relegated the piano to the back parlor. The plan to permit him to study abroad after college was forgotten, and the conservatory teacher his father had hired returned to Kansas City for good.
In the months afterward, Sutton had toughened his spine with the knowledge that others had come home from the war in far worse shape—or hadn’t come home at all. If some of the spark had gone from life, at least he was alive to grieve.
With a piano just next door, he’d have to toughen his heart. New York was home now and here he would find new dreams to replace the old. Looking forward was the only thing to do. If his hand wouldn’t heal, his heart would. Until then, he could find books at the library and he hadn’t the pocketbook for novelties—and if Bailey’s Emporium offered anything else of interest, he was probably better off remaining in serene ignorance.
Chapter Four
There were idiots and then there were idiots. Jack, according to Harry, had achieved a standing heretofore unknown to ordinary men. And Harry meant it, judging by the glum silence which had replaced most of the usual exasperated muttering. Though he had pretended otherwise to his fellow jailbirds, Jack was battling enough guilt over his arrest. Having Harry sore at him on top of that was a feeling he wouldn’t have wished on old Fritz himself.
Other than the initial grumbling, not a word did Harry say to him until they’d bid Ox good night and trudged out of the shop and upstairs to Jack’s apartment. Harry appeared intent on making sure he was all but tucked in before daring to leave him alone again. Jack didn’t know whether to be annoyed by it, or relieved that Harry gave enough of a damn to bother. Settling for a mix of the two, he dropped onto the sofa and rested an aching head on the pillows.
“Going to give me hell now or in the morning?” He tried for light, but it came out weary.
“Nice to know you expect me to return the favor.” Harry switched on a lamp and looked around. “Don’t you ever clean this place?”
“I said I was sorry. I wanted to ring you earlier. They wouldn’t let me.”
“If I was the cop hauling in that rowdy crowd, I wouldn’t have let you out five minutes, either. You find what you were looking for?”
Surprise took the edge off Jack’s sleepiness. “First time you’ve ever asked for details.”
“Jesus. I ain’t now.” Harry sat across from him and leaned elbows on knees. “I just wanted to know if it was worth it.”
“You’re asking if I had a good time?” Jack shrugged. “I didn’t have a bad one.”
“Yeah? You like getting yourself tossed into jail with a bunch of deviants?”
Jack looked at him steadily. “If they’re deviants, so am I.”
Harry, as usual, refused to be fazed. “You have to go around with those low class types?”
Jack pulled off his coat, tossing it to a chair, and lit a cigarette. “We were just out for some fun.” He decided not to mention the side trip to the baths. “You know the crowd at the ‘mat. They cut up, sure, but they’re good as gold, underneath.”
“Yeah, if only the cops could see it that way. I’m just glad you rung me up instead of Chase.”
“Well, maybe I shouldn’t have.” He knew Harry was tired, because Harry wasn’t the sort to throw another fellow’s mistakes in his face. Godawful tired, himself, Jack couldn’t help taking him to task. “You aren’t my dad—”
“Thank God for that.” Harry pushed out of the chair with a grunt. “It’s turning me prematurely gray just being your friend.”
“Let me live my life.” Jack snubbed out the cigarette. “I survived a goddamned war—”
“So you can throw yourself into any trouble you want? Is that what you’re trying to prove?”
Jack pushed his fingers through his hair, cradling his head in his hands. Harry had gotten used to his sojourns but this was the first time that night had turned into a long day without any sign from Jack that he hadn’t been robbed, drowned, or shanghaied.
So maybe Harry had every right to be sore. But Jack was too tired to argue and too out of sorts to concede that Harry might have a point.
Harry seemed to realize it. “Get some sleep,” he said. Still gruff, but weary, too.
Then the door closed and Jack was alone, with just the night left to face.
The apartment was cold but Jack didn’t feel like wrestling with the radiator. Switching on the kitchen light, he eased the milk bottle from the back of the icebox and poured himself a gin, neat. He considered the bottle for a long minute before taking it with him down the hall to the front bedroom, where he kept his old radio receiver. It remained a work in progress he liked to tinker with, spread over two tables bathed now in the moonlight of a clear night that promised the sort of reception any sane man would trade sleep for in a heartbeat. It looked like it belonged on the table beside his mother’s sewing machine, where it had sat since he’d built it his last year at school. If his mother had liked listening to music over the radio, maybe everyone would. Dreaming of the possibilities made life worthwhile again.
It seemed too much to hope that a little music on the radio could lure customers into the emporium. The parade of imports from all over had been a constant delight to Jack while he was growing up. His dad had always said they peddled a necessity; a little fun to nourish the soul. But curiosities were pricier and more difficult to come by in a war-ravaged world. The emporium had become a rundown shop in need of repair, in need of more inventory—in need, really, of one James Bailey, Sr.
Jack’s heart shrank in his chest at the thought. His dad wouldn’t have been happy to know about the frequent trips to the pawnshop these days, nor the money borrowed from people who would do a whole lot worse than throw him in jail if he didn’t pay it back. Harry had been none too pleased about the latter. Sure, it hadn’t been the brightest notion to borrow from Marshall Chase, but with the ban on transmitting lifted, Jack couldn’t bear to wait. A hundred had shored up the month, assuring the cash to cover living expenses and providing him the opportunity to build a new transmitter, buy more vacuum tubes, and barter for the parts to cobble together a microphone. That had inspired him to enlist a reluctant Ox to play piano—and as skeptical as Harry was over the whole idea, he had to realize it was their last hope.
Sleep didn’t encroach again until well past midnight, letting loose of him before any nightmares could gain momentum. Jack lay in the early light and wallowed in the happy possibility that every sleep from now on could be as sane and uncorrupted as it had been before he’d gone globe-trotting at President Wilson’s invitation. He’d always wanted to see the world—but snaps of charred fields and broken bodies were not scrapbook material. Still, he had survived that hell on earth and he could remember his elation on the ship to New York. It was as vivid as his memory of a grim-faced Harry and teary-eyed Ox waiting at the gate, with news they hadn’t been able to put in a letter.
How fresh and full life had seemed, up till that moment. All through the voyage home, he’d imagined the pride in his dad’s eyes, the joy in his mother’s. He still tried to imagine it whenever he had a bad night. It didn’t help as much as the gin.
Chapter Five
Sloughing off the clothes he’d slept in, Jack immersed himself in a tubful of warm water, a small pleasure he had learned never to take for granted again. When he was clean and dry, he stood over the kitchen sink and emptied the remaining gin. The liquid slipped away down the drain and he watched with a regret that was mild for the moment. Breakfast had a greater appeal. He went across to Ida’s, hoping to wheedle at least some toast and coffee from Esther, and maybe pie. He had already run a tab as long as Ida allowed and if she was around this morning, he could forget even the coffee.
But Esther had opened. He saw her red curls go by as she hustled at the busy counter. The kitchen hadn’t warmed the place yet and Jack kept his coat on like everyone else as he grabbed an empty table. Leaning elbows on it, he buried a yawn behind his hands. It was going to take more than two nights’ sleep to catch him up.
“Good morning.”
The voice was vaguely familiar. Jack turned to connect it with a face and sat up in surprise. He remembered that solemn smile and the eyes, a soft gray that took the starch out of an apparent reserve. It was his fellow jailbird, still in a crisp shirt and perfectly knotted tie, but this time with his sleeves rolled up and apron wrapped around his trim build. And he seemed equally startled to see Jack.
“You!”
The simultaneous reaction drew the attention of the diners around them. Jack, tickled by the coincidence, couldn’t resist. “Decide to walk the straight and narrow?”
Fair cheeks flushed at that. “Please,” he whispered, leaning toward Jack. “Don’t tell Mrs. Carlisle. She won’t keep me on if she knows.”
“Not a word.” Jack backed up the promise with a reassuring smile and reconsidered the breakfast possibilities. “I’ll have eggs—scrambled—and toast, coffee, bacon—extra bacon—a couple of wheatcakes and some of Esther’s doughnuts, if there are any left.” Once it was eaten, Ida would just have to put it on his tab.
“Is someone joining you?”
“If they do, they’ll have to order their own eats. Got a newspaper?”
“I’ll try to find you one.” He started for the kitchen just as Jack remembered the pie.
“Oh, hey, Mabel—” Jack snagged a handful of apron strings. “Any of Esther’s apple pie left?”
The waiter favored him with a wryly arched brow, but added the pie to his order. When the coffee came, Jack shrugged out of his coat and settled in to kill an agreeable half hour. He made it to the twenty minute mark before Ned Hennessy swung through the door. Though Jack scowled pointedly at him, Ned didn’t take the hint. Greeting Jack with a slap on the shoulder, he sat and helped himself to the newspaper and a leftover piece of bacon.
Jack leaned toward him. “You going to take that out of the money I owe Chase?”
Ned looked up from the paper with sour amusement. “Smart guy. You used to be, anyway. Come on, Jackie. You know your dad wouldn’t want you to live like this, day to day on borrowed cash. He wouldn’t like it and I don’t either. Maybe you and me had a misunderstanding. No point in letting that come between us.” He grinned suddenly. “Remember the jobs we pulled on the tourists? The money we made, escorting those saps through our sinful little corner of town? Good days. We could have those again, only better.”
Jack tossed a half-eaten donut on the plate. “A little misunderstanding?”
“Sure. Harry was just talking through his hat, like always. I never threatened him. And I sure never talked to the landlord. Why would I do that? You got the best goddamned rent in town. Mrs. Madigan hikes up your rent, what good’ll that do me?”
“You didn’t tell Harry she was raising our rent? Never said you’d make up the difference if we signed the lease over to you? Never swore up and down you and I agreed the shop was yours if I didn’t make it back home?”
He found a certain fascination in Ned’s lies. Jack wanted to think the best of him—had, until Harry put him wise to what Ned had been up to while Jack was overseas. Ned hadn’t known what a good friend Harry had become, what a lifeline, in letters back and forth all the months Jack had been gone and Harry had kept shop—for his parents when they couldn’t, then for him. Ned hadn’t pulled any wool over Harry’s sharp eyes—and he seemed to be catching on that Jack wasn’t the same trusting kid who’d followed him everywhere when they were younger.
Ned sighed like he’d caught on to a lot of things. “Believe what you want, but I was just trying to do you a favor. A lot of guys didn’t make it home. You really think Harry was going to keep shop forever?”
Jack smiled at the thought. “Maybe.”
“Harry’s a hell of a lot more practical than you. He’d have sold the place in a heartbeat. He was just hanging on for your sake.”
“Friends do that kind of thing, I hear.”
“What friends do is tell it to you straight. You want to make a bundle of money, you’ll come into this deal. Sure, it’s a different kind of business, but Chase knows all about it. He can get us going and whatever else we need to know, we’ll pick up along the way.”
“The cops would shut us down the minute Chase brings in the booze.”
Ned shook his head. “The man knows how to keep the cops happy...” His lip curled, eyes darkening, and Jack realized it was directed at the waiter, who’d been clearing a table next to theirs and, no doubt to Ned’s mind, overhearing more than he should. Ned grabbed the fellow and pushed him into a chair. “Doing a little eavesdropping, pal?”
There was a telltale shifting before the confession came. “It wasn’t intentional. Wiping down tables doesn’t call for a lot of concentration. I suppose my thoughts wandered—”
“That sort of thing can get a guy into trouble.” Ned’s tone played friendly. “What’s your name?”
“Sutton Albright.”
“Yeah? Sounds like somebody. You somebody?”
Sutton’s mouth twitched. “Not these days, no.”
Ned clapped a hand on Sutton’s shoulder and leaned in close. “I know what you overheard. I also know you’re going to keep it to yourself. You know how I know?”
“There’s no need to threaten me,” Sutton said. “I’m not someone either the police or the judge will hold to as a credible source.”
“You’ve been in Dutch with the law?” Ned snorted. “Get this one,” he said to Jack. “A regular hooligan, ain’t he?”
Sutton with his fair-haired spit-and-polish looks didn’t strike Jack as a criminal either—even though beyond the surface innocence lurked a certain rueful variance with the world in general. Of course a slew of experiences could put a fellow at odds with the world and with himself to boot, and Jack figured he could safely narrow it down to one in particular that probably haunted Sutton. Hell, no one came away from that experience without the ghosts of the dead trailing after him.
“I think he gets the picture, Ned. Let the kid go back to work.”
Ned waved a dismissive hand. “Go on, get out of here,” he said and, as Sutton obliged, added, “Make sure you stay out of other people’s business.”
“Stay out of other people’s business.” Jack savored the words. “Good advice.”
“Unless it’s business you’ve got a stake in. Which I do.”
“So you’ve been saying.” Jack got up. “How much of my breakfast did you eat?”
Ned took out his wallet and tossed a dollar bill to the table. “That should take care of it. And there’s plenty more where that came from.”
“Nice. Chase hire you on to break legs full-time? Or did you squeeze that out of Gertie?”
“I don’t take money from my sister.”
“No? Where is she these days, anyway?”
Ned shrugged. “Off chasing some Rockefeller, I guess. What’s it to you?”
“She miss me?” Jack couldn’t resist. Gert had been stuck on him for ages, to Ned’s annoyance. Ned deliberately ignored the question and went back to finishing off the bacon, no doubt feeling obligated since he’d paid for it.
Jack left him to it and went across to the shop to find that Harry and Ox had moved the piano right up beside the transmitter. Maybe Harry hadn’t been too keen on the plan to try advertising on the radio, but he was being one hell of a sport about it.
Amused, Jack went to find him and found Ox instead, settled on the office sofa with a pile of sheet music in his lap. “Guess I worried you guys a little.”
“You scared us.” Some people called Ox slow, but Jack knew he figured things out with his heart instead of his head. If that took a little longer, who could say it was a bad thing?
Jack sat beside him. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
Ox nodded. “I ain’t mad. Did you go to the club?”
“Yeah. The ladies send their regards.”
Ox reddened. “They remembered me?”
They’d remembered him as that shambling, bashful boy who’d ordered a root beer. Ox had been overwhelmed by the bawdy jokes and merciless flirting, until Jack had spirited him to the automat and split a handful of nickels between them so they could eat all the pie they pleased.
“They want you back.” Jack bumped his shoulder. “Never met such a gentleman before, they said.”
Ox’s blush deepened. “You don’t really kiss them, do you?”
“Only the way I kiss you,” Jack said, planting one on his cheek.
“He’s saving himself for the right fella,” Harry drawled, coming in with a handful of sheet music. He met Jack’s gaze. “Quit with the penitent look, will you? I ain’t about to feel bad for bawling you out. You get any sleep?”
“Boy, did I.” Jack cherished the memory of it.
“Glad to hear one of us did.”
Some apologies were more difficult than others, but he could get to the heart of the matter, too. “Harry—I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, and I’m sorry I bet on Dizzy Legs in the fifth. We all got regrets.” His tone went quieter. “Don’t worry about it, will you?”
“I’m glad you’ve got such a soft spot for longshots,” Jack said ruefully.
Harry sent cigar smoke spiraling with an impatient wave of his hand. “Here...” He handed the sheet music to Jack. “The simplest chords you can find. I’m going over to Rosen’s and see if they still want a little help with the books.”
Regret that had been throwing only the occasional punch at him kicked him squarely in the gut. “If anyone’s taking on extra work—”
“Now calm down. I was just thinking they’ve got a phonograph they might be disposed to lending, in return for the help.”
“How’re we going to buy records? We’ll need more than just a few. We play the same music over and over and we’ll bore everyone to tears.”
Harry sank into his chair behind the desk. “You dump the booze again?”
“How’d you know?”
“Had a feeling. Damn, some good gin, too. Next time, give it to me.”
“I’m figuring this was the last of the next times.” Jack kept his attention on the sheet music. It was enough that he could feel the weight of Harry’s troubled gaze.
“You know, Jackie, the doc can give you something to get to sleep—”
“God, no thanks. From drunken bum to opium fiend. I’m swimming in enough debt already.”
“Chloral, you ass.”
“Oh, hell no. I’d chuck it like I did in the hospital. Where’d you two come up with all this music? It’s a million years old.”
Ox made a face. “Two years of lessons. And it ain’t that old.” His blue eyes were all sympathy. “How about a cup of milk? I always get to sleep with a cup of milk.”
Jack shuddered. “You guys’ll do me in. Here—” He waved a sheet. “This one’s got hardly any notes.”
He sailed it over the desk to Harry, who snatched it out of the air. The music still aloft in his grip, Harry wrinkled his nose, then promptly tugged back his coat lapel to bury a sneeze. Anxiety stirred in Jack’s gut, but Harry was quick with a diagnosis.
“Dust.”
“You sure?”
“You want to take my temperature?”
“Maybe later. Anyway, you can quit sneezing all over your coat. No one’s coming in to arrest you.”
“Dust,” Harry muttered. “Just dust.” He blew a cloud of it off the sheet music. “Come on, Ox. Let’s see if you can pick out this one.”
The morning crawled by without a single customer, so Jack encouraged Ox to keep practicing. That lasted until Esther came around the aisle and stopped short at the sight of Ox tapping the keys. As he limped to the end of the piece, she set down her basket to applaud. Ox lurched off the piano bench. “Got a delivery to pick up—”
“Hello, Ox,” Esther said before he could go.
“‘Lo, Esther,” Ox gasped as he shot past her. The shop door slammed an instant later.
Harry chuckled. “I’ll bring him back. Save me a sandwich.”
Jack hopped off the workbench, giving Esther room amongst the clutter to open up the basket and unearth sandwiches and coffee. “Ida let you escape for an early lunch?”
She nodded, looking him over. “You all right?”
“As rain. Harry buy all this?” He wasn’t hungry, but Esther’s feelings were bruised enough for one morning.
“When he stopped in for breakfast,” she said. “He thought you two would be busy this afternoon. With the piano, I mean.”
“Not busy selling, that’s for sure.”
Esther scooted onto the workbench and smoothed her apron over faded brown-checked skirts. She gingerly picked up a headset. “You really going to have Ox play on the radio?”
“Maybe in a week or so. He needs to brush up.”
“I’ll say—” She broke off, biting her lip. “I’m sure he’ll be tops by November.” She laid the headset on the basket. “Jack? I’ve got a couple of dollars—”
“Can’t let you do that, Es.”
“But—”
“Not in your wildest dreams. If I have to, I’ll borrow money for a phonograph.”
“You do that and Harry’ll be standing in line behind Chase and the rest to pummel you. And God knows what’ll be left to pummel. You know what Chase did to Ray Walker last year? And he owed half what you do.”
“Have a sandwich, Es.”
“I’m serious. He—”
“Okay, okay.” Jack swallowed a mouthful of warm coffee. “I won’t borrow any more, I swear. If Ox can’t do it, I’ll learn to play this monster myself.” He sat at the keyboard and looked over the notes on the page. How Harry and Ox translated that mess into music, he’d never know. He cracked his knuckles, and plunked a few discordant notes from one end to the other.
Esther laughed. “Why do you need music? Just tell them about the emporium.”
“I’ve got to give them a little something to remember me, to get them to stop by.” He tapped a plaintive note. “If they’ll come. Sometimes I look around at the odds and ends my folks collected and I think it belongs to a world we left behind somewhere.”
“Same old world,” a pleasant voice cut in from behind him. “Same restless, disenchanted world yearning for a little distraction.”
His stout figure bundled in a long overcoat, snowy beard nestled in the fur collar, Marshall Chase perused the used books at the end of the aisle. Chase wasn’t the only one who had stopped by. Jack saw the fierce scowl on Esther’s face and he didn’t have to ask. At least her warning kept him from reacting when Ned patted his shoulder, less a greeting than an opportunity to show off his ring—real gold from the look of it. “Business a little slow today, Jackie boy?”
“Seems downright dead.” Chase’s deep bass sounded the last word like a knell. “Could be no one’s in a playful mood. Understandable.” He closed the book and scooped a tin soldier out of a bin. “Well, I’ll be damned. The very men I commanded in my youth.”
“Me, too, Mr. Chase.” Ned helped himself to a sandwich. “Not bad eats, Red.” He smirked at Esther. “Ida ought to let you do all the cooking.”
“You can’t take this place from Jack.” Esther’s voice shook. “And you can’t bully him into breaking the law—”
Jack gave her hand a squeeze. “Better go before Ida comes looking for you.”
“I won’t leave you here with them,” she whispered.
Jack wondered where the hell Ox and Harry had gotten to. “There won’t be any trouble. Right, boys?”
“No trouble.” Ned brushed the crumbs off his hands. “Just showing the place to Mr. Chase, that’s all. Now that he’s an investor, too.”
Chase tapped a piano key. “Good sound for an upright. What, twenty years old? We could certainly put it to use.” He gazed around. “Plenty of room back here for a band. You’d have the theater crowd coming in from just down the street...” He fell quiet as he looked over the radio. “Build this, yourself?” He twisted a dial and, at Jack’s protest, smiled. “It’s a grown-up world now, Mr. Bailey. You’ve seen it firsthand. Survived the worst of it. Time to leave the toys and junk behind. Step into the twentieth century with the rest of us.”
The shop door opened with a mad tinkling of the bell and a thunder of feet. A breathless Harry and Ox appeared and, finding Jack still in one piece, collapsed on each other in relief.