“Hey, boy, how are you?” he mumbled.
“So-so, can’t kick. You still blowing?”
“Oh, sure, dad.”
“I’m supposed to meet some creep who’s got a gig at White Roe for the summer. So I’ve been paging the bastard for the past hour, and he still ain’t showed. You know him, maybe?”
“What’s his name?”
A card appeared in pudgy fingers. The hole in the face opened again. “George Mackler. You know him?”
“Piano?”
“Yeah.”
“I know him. He’ll be around. He likes to be late. It makes him like a leader.”
“Leaders should be hung. And I mean by the—”
“You see Rog Kiner around anywhere?”
“Who’s he?”
“Tenor man. Used to be on the Jerralds band with me. You see him?”
“No, I don’t even know what he looks like. Hey, was you on the Jerralds band when he had that shakedown in Sioux City?”
“What shakedown?” Andy asked, avoiding the curious eyes.
“You know, man. When a couple of the guys was—”
“Listen, I got to cut out. You see Rog, you tell him Andy’s looking for him.”
“Yeah, sure, but I don’t know him.”
He shoved away, colliding with a man holding a box of ties, bow ties in blacks, maroons, blues.
“Need a tie, cousin?” the man asked.
“No.”
“Good ties. Cheap. Come on, cousin, you need a tie.”
“Get the hell out of my way.”
“Sensitive artist,” the salesman snarled.
He pushed through, almost knocking the salesman down. Where the hell was Rog? What time was it? He had ten dollars in his pocket now, ten hot, itchy dollars, and he wanted to spend them, and he knew what he wanted with that ten, and he had to find Rog — or somebody else, somebody he knew, but preferably Rog because he had to borrow a spike, too, why the hell had he thrown away his spike, what had ever possessed him to do such a goddamn foolish thing?
You did it because you’re off it, he reminded himself. Yes, I know, I’m off it, and I realize I’m off it, and this doesn’t mean I’m going back on it, this is just something to calm me down a little, maybe Rog’ll be holding some mootah, the mootah won’t harm me, or maybe even just a sniff of the bigger stuff, that doesn’t mean I’m going back aboard, it doesn’t mean that at all, if only I could find Rog, he ought to be here somewhere, Jesus Christ, where is he?
He had to get out of the sound.
The sound was deafening, and he remembered back to a time when the sound had been an exciting thing to him, just stepping onto the Floor had been an exciting thing, seeing the people you knew, feeling a part of the music business, a real part of it, telling jokes, and booking jobs, with the mike booming in the background, and the murmur of voices like a big swelling wave of warm water. But it wasn’t that now, it was only noise now, and he had to get away from the noise or he’d bust. He pushed his way through the crowd again, ants, ants, and a girl vocalist he’d seen around raised one shapely leg and said to the man standing with her, “Do you like my new shoes?” and then she took off one of the shoes and handed it to him, and he studied it like the mastermind of the leather industry.
He reached the steps and he climbed upstairs rapidly, walking past the sign which said, “These doors will close at 3:00 P.M.,” and then into the office itself, and past the booking and contract windows, and then over to the bulletin board, looking for Rog at the same time, never stopping his search for Rog. A few musicians were standing near the board, and he looked at them and then glanced at some of the notices not really reading them, just wanting the printed words to blot out the memory of the noise below, wanting the well-ordered typewritten notices to obliterate the disorderly chaos he had just left.
Pursuant to instructions received from the National Secretary, the following name has been placed on the National Defaulter’s List for failure to make payment of balance of $47.75 due on claim of member...
And below that:
All talk-over rehearsals must be paid for at regular rehearsal rates. This above ruling of the Executive Board will be strictly enforced.
He scanned the unfair notices, and then he turned away from the bulletin board and walked toward the dues windows, searching the faces of the members waiting in line. A huge white sign stood to the right of the windows, the black letters on it blaring:
IF YOU OWE TAXES PLEASE PAY THEM BEFORE ENTERING DUES PAYMENT LINE AND AVOID INCONVENIENCE TO YOURSELF OR YOUR FELLOW MEMBER.
My fellow member is Rog, he thought, and where the hell is my fellow member? Jesus Christ, do I have to go down into the arena again? He shook his head disconsolately and then started for the stairs. The sound rushed up the stair well, distant now and almost pleasant. It grew in volume as he got closer to it, and then he was in the center of it again, and the voices were all around him, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to blot out the sound that way, knowing he was being foolish, you see with your eyes, you see with your eyes.
“You stupid son-of-a-bitch! What did he give you? Three Saturdays in a row, right? I warned you about this. I warned you about that bastard! He’s got you tied up for three Saturdays, and what else did he give you?”
“Well... nothing so far. He just...”
“Nothing! Gornischt! And that’s all you’re going to get. And you’ll be lucky if the son-of-a-bitch doesn’t farm you out someplace. You think he’s giving you those Saturdays because he loves you? You’re a bass man who can sing, so he’s saving on a vocalist. I can get you all the Saturdays you want, you dumb jerk. What about the Fridays and the Sundays? None of those, huh? And do you know who’s gonna get dropped first if the job gets cut? You! Goddammit, this burns my ass. Because I warned you, I warned you!”
“Well, how was I supposed to know...”
“Because I told you, that’s how. Try to get out of those jobs. Go ahead, just try. See how easy that’ll be. You’re a sucker! A plain, damn-fool sucker.”
He spotted Rog.
He spotted him, and his heart leaped up into his face, and he called, “Rog! Hey, Rog!” but the sound drowned out his voice, and he cursed the sound, and he cursed the crowd and he began shoving his way through to where Rog was standing.
“Tie clasp, cuff links, Mac?”
“No,” he said. He glanced at the array of jewelry on the cardboard box, copper tie clasps and cuff links, each decorated with a G clef.
“Buck for the clasp, buck and a half for the links, two bucks for the set, Mac.”
“No,” he said again, and he pushed past and shouted, “Rog! For Christ’s sake, Rog!”
“Meyer Koenig. Meyer Koenig. Alfred Bunn. Alfred Bunn. Shirley Carp. Shirley Carp. Paul Sidio. Paul Sidio.”
He pushed through, feeling as if he were swimming on a sea of crawling flesh and sound, swimming toward land. He felt as if he would cry, and then Rog was standing beside him, and he reached out and touched Rog’s shoulder, and Rog spun around.
He was a dark boy with dark hair and dark eyes and a sallow complexion. His face broke into a smile when he saw Andy, his lips skinning back over even white teeth.
“Hey, dad,” he said. “How are you?”
“Great.” Andy smiled, relieved. “I’ve been looking for you.”