Night and Day (2 page)

“I’m a little confused,” you admit. “You’ve only heard one song. All the other auditions I’ve gone on, they’ve asked for three or four at the very least.”

“We only needed one,” Rick says. He’s been quiet during his sister’s commentary, leaning back in his chair and watching you. You’ve known that, although your surface attention has been on Corinna. His watchfulness has been a bug on the back of your neck. “The Starlight needs certain people. She knew you when you came in the door. The rest is just window dressing.”

“Ignore him,” Corinna says. “He’s fanciful. If you’d like to do a few more songs, be my guest. We’re both relatively sure that you’re what we’re looking for, but if you’d be more comfortable with our decision after you’ve shown us a little more of what you can do, then by all means. Finish your lunch first.”

A thought occurs to you. “You said ‘all kinds of people.’ Are you talking about, what—politicians? Gangsters?”

Corinna laughs. “Oh, a few of each, but not too many. We’re not connected, and it’s not worth their while for anyone to shake us down. No, the kind of people who come here are just not the kind you’ll see at other clubs around the city. Not all of them are rich, for one thing. For another thing—” She leans forward, her hands on the table. “—we don’t separate people based on their skin color or ancestry. You’ll see Negroes and Orientals and Mexicans here.”

“And queers,” Rick says with a grin. “We have queers too.”

There’s a rushing sound in your ears, and you put your head down on the table. A cool hand lights gently on the back of your neck. “It’s all right, Nathan. No one will judge you here.”

“How the hell did I end up here?” you murmur.

“Because you belong here,” Rick says.

Corinna’s fingers are slim but strong, and they knead the tension out of your neck. “Harry sent you,” she says, “because he knew we were looking for a male singer who would fit in with our clientele. Who are not the usual run of people but are still people, and who still deserve a place where they can enjoy themselves and feel safe. You’ll see mixed-race couples, and yes, homosexuals, and occasionally cripples who love the music even if they can’t dance, or can only dance awkwardly. Other places would turn them away, or only let them in to laugh at them. Starlight’s not like that.”

You don’t lift your head until you hear Rick at the piano again. He’s playing “I Surrender, Dear” and it makes you laugh even when you really want to cry. “I keep waiting for the punch line,” you say, and stand up.

And the roaring sound is back, and then, nothing.

WHEN YOU
finally open your eyes, you’re someplace else. You’re not sure where—it’s not the dingy little one-room apartment you were locked out of three days ago, but it’s not the airy room you’d once had at your folks’ house, either. It’s small but clean, and there’s a window fan purring along happily. There are no watermarks in the ceiling, it doesn’t smell like mildew, and the bed is comfortable.

“It wakes,” Rick says, and you look over to see him in a chair, tilted back against the wall on its back legs, his fedora over his eyes.

“How did you know?” you ask curiously.

“Shift of the bed springs, change in your breathing. I’m a musician. I notice sounds.” His voice is low and lazy, an odd contrast to his sister’s crisp, businesslike tones. “Coco deals with the business end, I deal with the artists. We both deal with the drunks. Dealing with the collapsible is a new one, but I’m the one with the muscles, so Butch and I won the draw. We’re upstairs of the club.”

You sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed. You’re in stocking feet; your battered shoes are set on the floor beside the wooden dresser. Your head aches, but you feel more stable than you have for twenty-four hours. “Thanks,” you say, feeling it’s inadequate.

Then you notice the tan suitcase by the door. “That’s my suitcase,” you say stupidly.

“Yeah. There was a late-payment notice in your coat pocket, and Butch went down to deal with it. He said the place was a dump, so he packed up all your stuff and brought it back with him. You can stay here until you find a better place. Unless you
liked
that one?” Rick’s voice turns suddenly uncertain.

“Hell, no,” you assure him. “But I can’t stay here. It’s not right.” You go to stand up, but you lose your balance and sit down hard.

“Easy, baby,” Rick says. He drops the legs of the chair onto the floor and comes over to sit down beside you. “You’re pretty messed up, Coco says. Been too long without food.”

You put your face in your hands. Your elbows feel like blades on your knees: sharp and mean. “It was either eat or pay rent,” you say wearily, “and so rent it was, until there wasn’t anything left. I tried to find work, but there’s nothing. I didn’t know what to do. One of the guys where I applied for work saw that I had voice training and gave me Harry’s address.” You look up then, and you know your expression is fierce, and so is your voice. “I can’t stay here,” you say. “I don’t take charity.”

Rick isn’t offended. He snorts in amusement. “This ain’t charity, baby. This is an investment.”

It’s your turn to snort. “Investment in what? Yeah, I have a voice, and I’ll work hard to entertain your guests. But unless you do professional management on the side and have an in with some record company, that’s all I’ll do for you. It’s not like you seem to even want to bring in more business, what with your ‘nobody but members and vetted guests of members’ baloney.”

“And if we did want to manage your career?”

“What career? Harry’s a manager, and he sent me to you. So I guess he doesn’t think I have much to offer him, anyway.”

Rick drapes an arm over your shoulder. He means it comradely; he can’t know what it means for you to be touched like that, like a human being. It’s weight and warmth and comfort all at once. Something you’ve been missing far too long. “He knows you need experience, Nate. You could be the next what’s-his-name, the Crosby kid, but Detroit Conservatory or not, you don’t have the background in performance you need to get anywhere in this business. You’ll get that experience here. And it’ll be experience like anywhere else—just ’cause we’re a private club doesn’t mean we don’t have problems with drunks and hecklers and asses. We get the occasional fight here, even. And melodrama—God, do we get melodrama. You’ll see.”

He gives a gentle squeeze to your shoulders and stands up. “In the meantime, Coco wants you to come down and see what you’re up against. You won’t perform tonight. Tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it. Tonight, though, you come down for dinner, you schmooze with the clientele, you get introduced around. If you feel like it—and only if you feel like it—you can sing a song or two with the band, just to get the sense of it.”

“I don’t have anything to wear….” You’re starting to feel panicked. Too much, too soon.

“God, you sound like a woman.” Rick is laughing. “There’s a monkey suit in the closet. It’s mine, so it’ll be a bit big on you, but if you come downstairs early enough, we’ll have one of the girls stitch up the pants hems. I’m a giraffe.” He points at a door you didn’t notice before. “That’s the bathroom. There’re towels and that sort of thing in there for you to use. I’ll bet a dollar to a doughnut you’ll feel better after a shower.”

“Oh, my God,” you say with feeling. “A
shower
…!”

He laughs again, then bends down and gives you a quick kiss. His lips are warm and firm on yours, but gone too quickly; he’s halfway across the room before you even realize what’s happened. “Come down in an hour or so,” he calls as he leaves. “For dinner.”

And he’s gone, and you’re left in the empty room, your mouth tingling from the kiss and the shower waiting. A shower. You feel the grin spreading on your face and get up, slowly this time, so you don’t go all dizzy again, and find your way into the bathroom. It’s beautiful: white and clean and equipped with fluffy white towels and soap and a razor. The water is hot and, despite the heat of the day, feels wonderful. You stand under the stream, scrubbing, until the water that sluices down your body isn’t brown anymore, and then you do it again, just for the luxury of it. You wash your hair twice for the same reason, and when you step out to shave, you’re wrapped in a towel so thick you’re dry almost before you get your face soaped up. The razor is sharp and cleans your whiskers so well you can’t even feel the stubble, and when you’re done, the face that stares back at you from the mirror is ten years younger. It’s thin, with cheekbones like knife blades, and the eyes are too large and too deep set, but it’s your face again. You run your hand over your smooth cheek and smile.

The “monkey suit” is a tuxedo, with a black cummerbund and a pleated shirt. The shirt’s too big, but the cummerbund’s adjustable, so you fix it so they both lie neatly before shrugging into the jacket. Not much you can do about the fit of that. There are black silk socks and garters folded on top of a pair of black dress shoes, so you put those on too, and then the tuxedo trousers. The pants are long, so you turn up the cuffs until you meet the girl who’s supposed to fix them and slide your feet into the shoes. They fit. When you look at the man in the mirror over the dresser, you almost don’t recognize him. Then you run your hand through your hair in your habitual gesture, and the locks fall into place, and it’s you again. You need a haircut.

DOWNSTAIRS THE
place is no longer empty and cavernous. Instead, a half a dozen waiters in black and white scurry around, setting tables; another half-dozen waitresses are folding napkins that the waiters snatch up as soon as they are finished. Three bartenders are sorting through the bottles and glasses, and a trio is setting up on the dais, drums and a bass joining the piano. You had wondered if Rick ever stood straight; now you see he does. He’s tall and elegant as he gives directions to a pair of cigarette girls. He’s wearing white tie and tails; his dark hair is brushed back from his forehead and brilliantined, making him look like a film star, but a stray curl dips over his brow, giving him a rakish look. He’s beautiful as he laughs at something one of the girls says, and you know you’re in trouble. You know from bitter experience that just because a man kisses you, it doesn’t necessarily mean they’re queer. Some men are just ebullient. But Rick doesn’t strike you that way; he’s too laconic and deliberate.

Corinna comes in, and she’s beautiful too, but where Rick is earth and fire, she’s all air and ice. Her gown is white and glitters faintly in the light; she’s so pale the white should wash her out, but it doesn’t; it only makes her look like a snow princess. The hair is up again, but more softly, and a spray of more of those diamonds is clipped to the side of her head. The men in the room all look at her as she enters; you can almost hear their sighs.

She’s beautiful, but not your kind of beauty. Your eyes go again to Rick, in his black cutaway and white waistcoat, sleek and elegant and powerful, so different from when you first saw him this afternoon. Only to find that he is looking back at you, his dark eyes unreadable.

Then he smiles, and the moment’s gone, and he’s walking across the club to the stairs you’ve just come down, holding out his hand for you to shake. “You look great,” he says. “The jacket’s a bit big, but only if you know to look.”

“The pants need hemming,” you say. He doesn’t release your hand right away but stands smiling at you just a moment too long. Then he’s taking your elbow and steering you toward a table. He pushes you gently into a chair and gestures; a young woman in a waitress uniform comes over with a sewing kit in her hand. “This is Billie,” Rick says, “our costumer.”

She snorts inelegantly and pulls out another chair, setting it between the two of you. “Here,” she says, patting the seat, “put your tootsies up here, and I’ll fix those hems.”

You obey, and while she’s tacking up the hem, she’s talking a blue streak to Rick about her boyfriend, the weather, the state of the Union, her landlord, her landlord’s Pomeranian, and an argument overheard on the streetcar. After a while you tune her out; her voice is just background music to the hum and clatter of the club getting ready to open.

“… think he’s asleep,” she says, and you open your eyes and look at her.

“Who, me?” you ask, and she and Rick laugh. You hadn’t even registered when she’d had you switch legs, but now you do remember it, vaguely, and she picks up her sewing kit and trots off toward what Rick informs you is the employee lounge.

“Ready for introductions?” Then he pauses and asks, “You crazy about your name?”

“Nathan?” you ask in puzzlement.

“No. The Pederowski part.”

“You want to change it to something like ‘Peters’?” That would be okay; you went by “Peters” for a while when you were trying to make it in New York.

“Nah, nothing so banal. I’m thinking something like ‘Petroff,’ something a little more exotic. You got cheekbones sharp enough to slice, and those dark eyes. You look Russian.”

“I probably am, somewhere back a ways,” you admit. “Polish, Lithuanian, Scottish… a regular Heinz 57, me.”

“So Petroff or Pedrov or something? Coco?”

She comes across the room, gliding.

“What do you think about Nathan Petroff?”

Oddly enough, she seems to know what he’s talking about. You get the feeling he’s like this all the time, and she’s just used to translating. “I like it,” she says decisively. “It suits him, and it’s more marketable than plain Nathan Pederowski. It won’t bother your family?”

“Ma’am,” you say bitterly, “I haven’t got any family to be bothered.”

“You do now,” she says matter-of-factly and glides away.

You’re breathless with shock, staring after her. Her casual words are a blow, but not painful; it’s like a blast of cool air from a fan on a hot day. Then there’s a hand on your back and Rick’s voice in your ear. “It’ll be okay, Nate. Now, let’s get you some supper.”

Over her shoulder, Corinna calls, “I had them set your meal in the office. Go over the details and have him sign the contract, Richard. We’re too busy out here.”

“Oh, right,” Rick says, and he moves his hand down to the small of your back, not quite pushing, but guiding you back to the stairs and up to the first landing. There’s a door there marked Office, and he edges you in. It’s like Corinna, all white and polished and elegant, with silvery metal and white leather. The desk is silver metal and glass. Even the phone is white.