"All the way. You're going to have to push it."
The piano resumed. Richie's voice was true but small. The whisperer
groaned. "He could use that old megaphone right about now."
When the number was over, Richie came down from the stage and joined
them. "You need help, Van," Feldt said bluntly.
"What about it, Ben?" They all turned to a man sitting alone, several
rows back.
"You don't want a lapel mike?" Ben asked, coming slowly down the aisle.
"Too much cable trailing around. There'll be dancers all over that
stage."
"Lavalier the same thing?"
"The same thing."
"Look, why hide it?" asked the man who'd mentioned the megaphone. "Just
fly a pencil mike. When he's ready, drop it down."
"It breaks the mood," one of the writers said.
"Nuts, the mood. You can't _hear_ him."
"There's one thing we can do...."
"A microphone out of the sky?" the writer groaned.
"Awright, a floor mike, then."
"There is one thing," the electrician began again.
"What's that, Ben?"
"Well, it isn't cheap."
"Of course not," the senior member of the producing team said.
"You mind if you look a little fat, Mr. Richie?"
"Not if they can hear me, Ben. What's the gimmick?"
They listened grimly to the electrician's plan. Feldt glanced at
Richie. He looked old and tired and small. God, Feldt thought, I hope
we haven't pulled a rock.
* * * * *
"For your information," Sergeant Kleiber said, "Van Richie hasn't made
a record in 26 years. 1936."
"Fine. Great," Ferraro answered. Inwardly, he groaned. It was _weeks_
now.
"And he sure ain't dead."
"Okay, you looked it up and he's alive." Ferraro moved the car
skillfully through the traffic. "Fine. I'm glad to hear it."
"Looked it up nothing. He just opened in a show right here on 46th!
That's him in person we been hearing. I told you. I know that voice."
"Yeah, you told me."
"Look, why don't you admit you were wrong for once?"
"The hell do you mean? I heard the singing. I said that."
"All you said was he was dead or it was a record or something."
"All I said was I never heard him sing those songs. Where'd you get
all this about he's in a show?"
"Drive by! Turn in 46th! It's right on the sign! Turn in!"
Oh, nuts, thought Ferraro, what do I care if the guy _is_ in a show?
"There. See? Slow down."
"I can see it."
They moved on down the block, past the other theatres. Ferraro
shrugged. "Okay, he's still around."
"Sure is. And that's him we hear singing."
"But at night. How can he be on the radio if he's in a show? They
wouldn't be doing a broadcast from the stage every night."
Typical, thought Kleiber. In the wrong, so now he attacks. He couldn't
say I was wrong or you were right or sorry or anything. "Okay, he's
still around." Big deal. And now boring in about the broadcasting.
Well, the hell with him. They were getting too many of his kind from
the Academy nowadays. The know-it-all, you-heard-it-here-first type. He
was coming up for an advance in pay-grade on the first of the month. He
had big plans to get married. Well, let him stay in the barrel a while
longer. It wouldn't hurt him. Pat or Peg or whatever her name was could
wait. He made a mental note to get Ferraro's fitness report form from
the clerk when they got back to the precinct house.
* * * * *
"Can you turn that down a little?"
The girl shrugged and turned the volume control on the tiny radio. A
sudden blare of sound crashed and echoed in the quiet studio. "Sorry,"
she called, hastily twisting the knob the other way.
"Damn it, Nell, you do that every time. You've had that thing a year
now."
"Every time! You always exaggerate when you're mad. The other one was
just the opposite, is all."
He didn't answer. He turned back to the canvas and worked silently for
several minutes. It was not going well but he kept at it doggedly,
frowning in concentration, his lower lip trapped between his teeth.