"What?"
"A guy singing. Over the radio."
* * * * *
Ferraro shook his head. He pulled over and they listened. Routine
police calls squawked from the speaker. Kleiber frowned. "No, this was
singing. It--there!" Faintly behind the official monotone they heard
a man's voice singing. "You know who that sounds like? Van Richie."
"Van Richie? Come on. He's dead."
"Could be a record. Anyway, he ain't dead. He made a movie here a while
back."
"Ten years ago."
"Yeah, but he ain't dead."
"He isn't singing on the radio, either."
Kleiber stared at the radio. The singing had faded out. Ferraro eased
the car back into the stream of traffic and his thoughts back to
Patricia Ann. They were interrupted again as he drove past the Garden.
"I tell you," Kleiber said, "that was _Van Richie_."
Oh, great, Ferraro thought. Now he won't be able to let up on _that_
for a week.
* * * * *
"It's cold in here," the girl said. The man at the easel didn't answer.
She hugged herself and tucked her feet under her, frowning petulantly.
"Alex?"
"Put a sweater on," the man said without looking away from his
painting. His voice echoed in the huge loft.
"I've _got_ one on."
"There's a blanket there."
With a sigh, the girl lay back on the bed, pulling the blanket around
her. She draped one arm over her eyes, shielding them from the banks
of fluorescent lights. Under her ear, on the not-very-clean pillow, she
tucked a tiny pocket radio.
In the corner, water dripped from a tap into the chipped basin. Dimly
the sounds of the traffic on Tenth Avenue floated up to them. Almost an
hour passed. When she looked up, the man was standing back, frowning at
the canvas.
"That's enough for now," she said gently.
He dropped the brushes on the taboret and wiped his hands absently, his
eyes on the half-finished painting.
"Alex?"
"Hmm?"
"Keep me warm."
Only then did he look at her. He came and stood over the bed, faintly
smiling. She lifted a corner of the blanket like a tent flap.
They lay watching the lopsided moon inching over the edge of the
streaked and gritty skylight. In the dark, she giggled.
"What's so funny?"
"I just heard Van Richie. Right in the middle of the news."
"Get that thing out of here."
"He just came right in while the man was talking."
"Give it to--"
"Listen." She held the radio to his ear. He listened briefly, then
turned the radio off and put it on the table.
Later, when he got up for a cigarette, he saw it in the light of the
match. "How did you know that was him? You weren't even born then."
But she was asleep.
* * * * *
Harry Freed locked up on the dot of nine. He left a night light over
the rear counter, connected the alarm, and walked wearily to the car.
The traffic was lighter tonight. Thank God. He was exhausted. Waiting
for the light at Seventh Avenue, he leaned his head back against the
seat and closed his eyes. It would be nice if Edith had a cup of hot
cocoa ready for him. But tonight was Perry Como. She'd be glued to the
set.
A horn honked behind him. He started, jerked forward and stalled the
car. The light changed back to red before he could get it started
again. People at the crosswalk stared at him. He felt himself blushing.
Edith was right. They should have bought her brother's car last spring
and got rid of this one.
The pavements were still wet, repeating the lights of Times Square in
blurred patches of color. The rain had killed the day's receipts. He
dreaded telling Edith. They said tomorrow would be better. He switched
on the radio to get the news and weather.
The traffic moved slower now. He looked nervously at his watch. Even
with Perry Como, she didn't like it when he was late.
Why hadn't Saul made both deliveries today? Why only one? Reminder: see
Hodges at the bank tomorrow. And write Ruth; ask about his nephew's
broken arm.
Horns again. A cop waving him on. God, he was tired. His eyes. Edith
wanted him to get glasses.
"... clearing, with some cloudiness. Wind from the north ..." Van
Richie singing.
Why are they always digging up Ninth Avenue? Maybe Eleventh would be
better. Crazy taxis. Look at that nut, cutting in and out.
_Van Richie?_
He twisted the dial. "Wheat was off but cotton was higher...." "Our
love came much too soo-oo-oon!" "Next news at 10:30...." "Real,
unfiltered tobacco flavor...."
He had heard him, though. He was sure of it. He told Edith about it
when he got home. She said he was crazy. Van Richie had retired long
ago.
* * * * *
The book had pictures of things he knew, with the English names beneath
them. Each word was spelled the way it was pronounced. With the rug
wrapped around him and the book spread on top of the radiator, Gabriel
Sangre said the word aloud, slowly, trying to remember what Miss
Alvirez had said: where the mark was, was louder.
He was hungry. But he did not eat. What was left in the window-sill box
had to last until Friday.
"_Chay_-r." "_Tay_-bel." "_Kow_-ch." He shivered, forcing his knees
between the uprights of the radiator. In bed, he knew, he would be
warmer. But also he would fall asleep. He wanted to finish the lesson.
He did not want to disappoint Miss Alvirez.
Tomorrow would be hard again. A long day, with the stacks of trays and
the heavy dishes and the miles of running around the big kitchen, with
the old Italian barking at him and the waiters pushing him and cursing
him. But he could not go to bed.
He rested his forehead on the book. The heat bathed his face. It felt
good. It made him forget the cold wind outside and the grey and gritty
buildings. It felt like the sun. The island sun that warmed him as he
worked with his father in the fields. Down the long rows side by side,
with the sound of the sea far away and the shrill voices of his sisters
coming faintly across the valley.
The tears came again. He could not stop them. But this time as they
came, he heard music. Singing. A man singing. Faintly, like the sound
of his sisters far away. It was in English. It was not a song he had
ever heard on the Sebastiano's radio. It was not one from the juke box
at El Puerto, uptown. It was a small voice, a gentle voice, and he
liked it. Once or twice he caught a word he knew.
He sat there with his head bowed forward, the rug wrapped around him,
crying for the sun and listening to the singing in his head.
* * * * *
The secretary was nice to him. He could tell she had heard of him. Not
_heard_ him. She was too young. But heard _of_ him. Well, small favors.
She called him Mr. Richie, which nobody in Hollywood would have done.
Feldt was nice, too. Up from his chair, hand out. Some of them just sat
there and let you come to them. But he had that same quick, searching
look as they shook hands.
"Sixty-three," Van Richie said.
Feldt smiled but did not quite blush. "I figured it had to be around
that. For what it's worth, you don't look it."
"Thanks." Richie sat down. Feldt returned to his chair behind the desk.
"I talked to Marvin on the coast last night. You're it for us, he says."
"Good. I hope so."
"Yeah, we do, too. It's been a while." Feldt looked at the paper in
front of him. "1941."
"I did some stock out there after the war."
"Yeah. But the last feature was '41. And you were still a, you know...."
"A crooner." Richie smiled with one corner of his mouth.
Feldt smiled, too. "Yeah, a crooner. This one's only got two songs,
y'know."
"I know."
"It's mostly light comedy."
"Marv explained all that."
"Yeah, well...." Feldt carefully squared the paper with the corner of
his blotter. "1941, y'know that's sort of a while ago."
"Yes, it is," Richie said evenly. "Look, Mr. Feldt, if you're trying to
tell me I'll have to read for it, just say so."
"Okay, I just said so."
Richie fitted a cigarette into his holder. His lighter failed and Feldt
held a match for him. "Thanks." He exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Who for?"
"Oh, Abe. Me. Probably the producing team."
"It's always a team today, they just don't have a producer any more, do
they?"
"Just a few of us. Six people, maybe. Seven."
"Just lines?"
"Well, mostly, yeah. We may have a piano there."
The corner of Richie's mouth turned up again. "I _can_ carry a tune,
you know."
Feldt laughed. "Sure, sure. But just to see how it sounds and all."
Richie stared at him, not smiling. Feldt turned off his own laughter.
He shrugged. "What the hell, Van, 1941. We got a bundle in this one.
We're taking no chances. None."
Outside, the secretary's typewriter chattered unevenly. Richie blew a
smoke ring. "Okay," he said, feeling suddenly tired, "Any time you say."
Feldt walked to the elevators with him. "Incidentally, Van, I hate to
ask, but what's with the sauce problem these days?"