Swansong

Christmas Eve, 1932. In the central plaza of Goodrich’s Department Store on Seventh Avenue is an enormous Steinway grand piano, a powerful architecture of gleaming black ebony and satin ivory. Bought in some inexplicable moment of extravagance by the founders of Goodrich’s, it is the only one of its caliber north of 32nd street, and should be a marvel of design and engineering to anyone who passes by. But on Christmas Eve, it would take nothing short of an Act of God to catch the attention of stressed shoppers and put-upon shop assistants, and so hundreds of people shove straight past the magnificent creature without a pause or a glance, indifferent to the beauty of its lines and craftsmanship, deaf to the crystalline music that pours from the propped-up lid, and blind to the unassuming man coaxing a melody from the keys.
He is content to remain invisible; it is a blessing to him. He enjoys this seeing without being seen, this hiding in plain view, this way of touching strangers in a small, unobtrusive way, through his music. Nobody pays him much mind, but he makes a habit of glancing up at the happenings outside the cocoon of his performance.
Which is why when someone actually stops to listen, he is quick to clock them. He doesn’t mind it, per se, but being watched always makes him slightly uncomfortable – a regrettable trait in a performer. But, as a performer, he has down to a science the trick of appearing absolutely unruffled, no matter what was transpiring around him.
So when he glances up in the course of a sonata to find a beautiful woman staring at him, he does not appear outwardly moved. Had she been standing closer she might have glimpsed the momentary tensing of his jaw, and a resigned sort of twitch of his eyebrow, but she stands at attention at a distance, across the atrium of the department store. But he performs his usual acknowledgment, a quiet smile and polite nod, before self-consciously returning his attention to the keyboard. She’ll be gone after a song or two. Nobody ever really lets music keep them from the business of life for very long. But it’s nice to think that something in his music has snagged her for a moment from the crowd. There is some reason, after all, that he came out here to do this, when there is a perfectly good baby grand waiting for him in his studio. Or maybe because it is Christmas Eve, and being out and amongst strangers is preferable to being in and by himself. The piano is the anonymous extension of himself, and if it can follow someone home through the streets on the snatch of a hummed melody or the trill of a whistle, then perhaps a small part of him has had somewhere to go as well.
It is after three or four more pieces that he realises the woman has not moved. He might not have noticed her except that her stance is so peculiar: she is standing stock still in the middle of the pedestrian thoroughfare, an island of stillness and focus in an otherwise mad sea of rushing humanity. A glance shows she is still standing there, unmoving, not so much watching as staring, and in a stroke the peaceful benevolence of the mood he’s created evaporates. Annoyance and the old self-consciousness creep in to replace it. It’s not unfamiliar, this feeling of being stared-at, but that doesn’t make it any more pleasant, and his posture unconsciously takes a defensive cant, even while his face remains placid and his playing as fluid as ever. Some things never really get easier.
Finally the crowds begin to thin and the great clock above the door shows five minutes to six; Goodrich’s is about to close. After a few more pieces and a medley of O Tannenbaum and Silent Night of his own arrangement – he isn’t above enjoying
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Christmas music – he finishes with a sigh and draws the lid down over the keys. He sits for just a moment longer, sparing a glance for the woman who, incredibly, is still standing just there. She’s a distance away, but he can tell that she’s attractive, and his annoyance increases. He’s avoiding getting up, because sitting gently masks those things about his appearance he wishes were not so noticeable, and the woman, the pretty woman, is still inexplicably watching him.
The process of getting up is awkward and clumsy, and always leaves him looking as if he’s only half-finished doing it. He shrugs into a greatcoat and grabs his hat, then reaches for the cane that hangs over the lip of the piano. It’s a plain thing, unremarkable, and utterly undistinguishable from ten thousand others just like it, except that the varnish around the handle is dark with use, and the patterns of wear correspond to the roughened pads of his left hand. It doesn’t take away the limp, but it helps a bit. Even so, the twist in his torso and the curve of his back puts his whole body out of kilter, and it is utterly impossible for him to walk in any way that is not cumbersome and halting.
He has to walk past her to get to the door. There are really only two options. He can ignore her completely – the coward’s way out – or he can do what he has forced himself to do day in and day out for most of his life, a discipline which has likely given him every advantage he’s ever yet received.
He can be uniformly polite and friendly. He pastes a bland expression on, and steels himself to walk past her, only to see as he draws even with her, that she still does not move. In fact, she wasn’t staring at him, as he’d assumed, but her gaze is fixed unblinkingly on a point that might have been far distant, or might be just inside herself. Until now, from across the hall, he’d been able to tell only that she was attractive in a general sort of way. But he feels whatever self- assurance he had waver as he draws nearer and the details of her face come into focus. Her features, until now just a smudge in the evening lights, are a combination of elegance and delicacy: a petite face, with a small nose only just upturnt, and a compact mouth turned slightly down at the corners. Her face is a lovely oval, defined by a clear jawline sweeping down into a slender neck, and framed by a halo of dark blonde – or perhaps a very light brown – hair that sweeps back in waves too generous to be called fashionable. Along one cheek, a thin red scratch was the only blemish. She looks as though she belongs to some past time. But it is the eyes that make any face, and although he can’t tell their colour from this distance, he can see that they hold a soft light that seems predisposed to warmth but, he thinks, not quite to laughter. The air of melancholy about her is so perfectly concordant, so harmonious that the idea fixes in his mind that she is the human incarnation of a gentle minor chord, struck softly into existence.
He knows this to be a ridiculous instance of sentimentality on his part, until he gets close enough to see that there are tear tracks running down her face.
He is quite close to her now, but still she has not noticed him, lost in a sort of sad trance. He looks around at the shoppers still rushing about. How many hundreds of people have passed right by her without pausing, without even noticing? He loves this city, loves its inspiration and its mad, invigorating power. But sometimes that same power frightens and disgusts him. He feels his annoyance and some of his self- consciousness evaporate. Though he doesn’t really know as much, he has something of a weakness for things in pain.
“I’m afraid that’s all for today.” His words have the desired effect of gently breaking her reverie. She starts, and looks at him in mild surprise.
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Her eyes are green. “Oh,” is all she says. If she’s come back to the here and now, she seems not quite certain of it, seeming mildly surprised by finding herself there. He should get on with his night; there are more troubled souls in this city than could ever be helped. He doesn’t know her trouble; probably there’s nothing he can do, and he should just go. But somehow he just... can’t quite.
“Are you alright - ” He makes a quick judgment call. “ – miss?” “I’m sorry, I... I must have been dreaming.” “Yes, I could see. ‘Away with the faeries,’ as they say.” He expects that to draw a smile, but it does not. She remains solemn.
“The music was so very beautiful I just... got lost.” Her voice is low and smooth, with almost a hint of natural melodiousness.
“Well, I’m pleased you enjoyed it.” He fits his hat to his head and prepares to wish her a good night, perhaps even a merry Christmas, but she speaks again.
“But it was... I didn’t recognize the composer...?” It is a question. He smiles. “I’m afraid that’s because he’s not terribly famous; most of those were mine.” “Yours?” She looks at him curiously, but again without the usual pleasantries; she is too serious for polite smiles and bland compliments. In fact, she almost looks about to cry.
It is such a strange reaction, he can think of nothing say but, “Yes.” “And you come here to play them?” “If only so that they get to be heard by someone other than myself, yes.” “To have such a gift,” she muses. “And to be able to share it with people. To contribute something so beautiful to the world. You are so very lucky.”
He stares at her. She stares back with perfect sincerity, her eyes wide and candid. Of all the things he has ever been called, “Lucky” certainly has never been one of them. Quite the opposite. If she is joking at his expense, she gives nothing away. Her eyes keep his while he considers the beauty of what she’s just expressed.
“Yes,” he says finally, rather quietly. “You’re quite right, I am very fortunate.” She nods, as if satisfied that he’s echoed her, and her mouth gives the weakest twitch upward, as if she is trying to smile, but can’t quite manage it.
It seems the end of the conversation, but everything in him protests against walking away without so much as a name, a telephone number – without any sort of closure. Before him is an extraordinary and singular creature, and he craves more – more knowledge, more insight, even just to prolong his chance to admire her beauty, and he opens his mouth to ask – what? Would she like to have dinner? Can he walk her somewhere? Does she need a ride?
And he closes it again almost immediately. That doubting, cynical voice reminds him that wooing this woman, or even knowing her better, is not a privilege he can claim. The whole idea is absurdly out of bounds.
“Good evening,” he says, as warmly as he can manage, taking one last chance to drink in the expression of her eyes, gazing sadly but earnestly at him.
“Good evening,” she replies softly, and he firmly but politely strides – or limps as purposefully as he is able – to the door, which opens onto a snowy Bryant Park Square.
Afterward, he never tormented himself with what might have been; there was no doubt in his mind that he’d done the right thing in walking away. But the encounter left him with a charmed feeling, an impression that something slightly magical had briefly
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touched him. Not just in the form of her undeniable beauty, but he kept replaying what she’d said. Lucky... He was lucky...
For all his hardships, he was a confirmed optimist, with a thirst to find the best in every situation. So he was happy, very happy, to be reminded so specially that he had more to be thankful for than most. The thought was warming, and it made the loneliness of Christmas just that bit easier to bear. For months afterward, that brief, strange encounter became a small talisman, that he could refer to in times of difficulty and say “My music moved her. She reminded me of my blessings... All is well.”
And perhaps there was some magic at work after all, for only two weeks later, Norman Wilder, pianist, composer, and managing agent, closed a full-year contract for weekly broadcasts with WBNY, on behalf of a Mr. Grant Murdoch, radio singer.
Chapter Two
In the radio broadcast building and headquarters of WBNY, a voice was ringing out from a soundproofed room. The voice was exquisite, smooth and resonant, with a timbre that felt as though the singer was gazing fondly at you.
A man put words into a microphone stand, set before a window where several dozen people – mostly women – gazed adoringly through the glass. The man was as beautiful as the voice, tall, handsome, with a strong jaw and broad, square shoulders in his double-breasted suit, and dark hair slicked back smartly.
Another man sat playing the piano, entirely hidden from the crowds at the viewing window, apart from his hands, which deftly executed the accompaniment. Although his face was pleasant enough, with a shrewd look and intelligent eyes, and dark hair slicked back neatly, framing his face with a widow’s peak, he had a crooked, hunched look about him, as if something about his entire body was lopsided.
Another microphone stand was situated before him over the piano: it was his voice which poured out the beautiful notes.
“What about the beauty and the romance that are sent from above? Don’t you know there’s nothing that matters but love...”
Applause rang out from the audience in the outside room, and a radio man with heavy jowls and a mustache announced the end of the broadcast, along with the advertising credits.
“You have just heard Grant Murdoch in a group of songs, composed and accompanied by Norman Wilder on piano. Today’s broadcast was brought you in part by Timson’s Castile Soap, by Orbit Gum, and by the Rockefeller Foundation for Music and Art. Through the generosity of these sponsors, and the cooperation of the Radio Advertisers’ Association, the Murdoch-Wilder broadcast will now come to you every Thursday evening, at seven o’clock. Please stand by for further station announcements...”
But whatever the station wished to announce was lost in the deafening cacophony of high-pitched female chatter, as the audience erupted into twittering conversation, like a convocation of hundreds of excited birds.
Inside the broadcast studio, things were slightly quieter. Wilder sat at the piano marking notes on a score, while Murdoch gathered his hat and coat and sent his chauffer around for his car. Spotting a large bundle of notes on the desk, Murdoch picked it up by the twine that bound it, smiling and nodding at its heft.
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“Make sure the secretary puts aside the best ones for me, will you?” He said over his shoulder to Wilder. “How many are there?”
“About five hundred,” said Wilder. “Hey that’s the most I’ve gotten yet,” exclaimed Murdoch, although to whom Wilder was not exactly sure.
“I congratulate you,” he said in a neutral tone. “Hmm,” mused Murdoch, still admiring the stack. “Oh, I’m putting in a new song for next week’s broadcast. I’ve a copy of it here. If you look over the words I can coach you in it when we rehearse on Monday.” Wilder held out the piece of paper he’d been marking.
Murdoch looked at the proffered paper with contempt. “Say, we put in a new song just last week. I've gotta have some time to myself.”
And with that he shrugged on a trench coat with the help of his chauffeur, took up a cane – for Murdoch a fashionable affect, rather than a necessity – and strode from the studio with his gloves under his arm and a pen clasped ready in his hand. On his way out, he smiled and gave a chummy wave to the station announcer, Glenn, but no sooner had he stepped out of the sanctity of the studio that the twittering, clamouring crowd of females descended upon him, begging for autographs..
“Oh, Mr. Murdoch, would you sign this photograph?” “Oh Mr. Murdoch, your voice is just divine!” “I just love watching you sing, you've got the swellest voice I've ever heard!” “Oh Mr. Murdoch, I just love your songs, they're so beautiful, I could listen to you forever!”
Murdoch was obliging, a perfect gentleman. “Why that's awfully sweet of you girls.” “Why of course I’ll sign one for you, no trouble at all.” “Oh you're a singer too? Why yes I'd love to hear you – if you'll give me your number I can get in touch with you. Perhaps I could be instrumental in getting you an audition...”
“And if your voice is anything like your face I'm sure it’s mighty pretty...” Back in the sound studio Wilder watched him go, then got up and turned his attention to the stack of letters on the desk. He stood and began flicking through them. Most of them were variations on the same theme:
“Dear Mr. Murdoch, my name is Emily Hastings, and I'm a second year student at junior secretary college. I think you're just the neatest, and if I could have a photo of you with your autograph, it would be the swellest 20th birthday present a girl could ever ask for...”
“Dear Mr. Murdoch, I just love your broadcast. Every week I prop up your picture next to my radio and picture it singing to me. My name is Sarah Reynolds...”
“Dear Mr. Murdoch, it broke my heart to hear that you and Miss White broke up last week. You must be sad, but I always knew she wasn't good enough for a man like you. Here is my picture, in case you feel lonely I hope you will give me a call, I know we'd be just perfect for each other...
“Dear Mr. Murdoch, sometimes I lie in bed when your broadcast comes on, and take off all my clothes and picture myself just swimming in your voice, which is so rich and smooth I almost feel like I could drizzle it over my breasts like chocolate...”
Wilder raised his eyebrows; it appeared it was true what they said about celebrity attracting the craziest sorts. The amount of fan mail coming to “Mr. Murdoch” had gone up drastically since the broadcast went weekly, as had the bizarre-ness of some of the
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notes. He smiled, too amused by the very idea even to be disturbed, and put them in the pile to pass to the secretary for answering. He briefly considered just binning them, but his conscience mumbled with chagrin that even mad people deserve a polite response to their letters.
He sifted through a great deal of drivel and nonsense, while the pile for the secretary grew, but every once in a while he’d run across a different sort, and he put these in a separate pile.
“Dear Mr. Murdoch, I’m writing this to you from my bed in St. Magnus’ hospital, where they tell me I am dying...”
“Dear Mr. Murdoch, The fellas in the prison block might say that listening to your show makes me a sap, but I don’t think appreciating quality music ever made nobody a sissy...” “Dear Mr. Murdoch, I’ve been so blue since my Charlie got sick, and listening to your songs is about the only thing I look forward to in the week. That one you sing about stormclouds, and love, gives me great hope, but I’m afraid it always makes me cry...” These sorts meant something to Wilder, and he put them aside to take home and answer himself.
He flicked through four or five hundred, until after almost an hour he reached the bottom of the pile, turned over the last one, and stopped.
It was addressed to him. The fan mail, was never, ever addressed to him. Even the notes that praised the quality of his music, the beauty of his melodies, even these always came addressed to Murdoch, as if Wilder was nothing but a robot at the piano keys. He tried not to let this bother him; his music was reaching people, and that was what mattered.
But here, in front of him, appeared to be his first ever piece of fan mail. He opened it.
Dear Mr. Wilder,
For a long time now, I have been thinking of writing to you. I’ve struggled with the decision, as I am ashamed of my circumstances and part of me dreads the thought of asking for your help. But I was listening to your broadcast this evening and found myself arrested by your song Music is the Answer, and I couldn’t get it out of my head – either the melody or the sentiment.
I used to be a singer. I say “used to be” because I have not sung now for almost two years. It used to be my life, my whole world, but ever since my father died last year, it has become empty and meaningless for me, and no matter how hard I try to find it again, almost the minute I open my mouth, my voice will not come. I am frustrated to distraction by it – I could almost say despair. I have seen several so-called specialists, but all have dismissed me out of hand as a hopeless case, doomed to fail, not worth the trouble. I don’t need to tell you how much it hurt to hear that I would never sing again, and that I should just settle down to housekeeping and think no more about it. As if I could go a day, or even an hour, not thinking about it.
You may wonder why I’m writing to you, as I understand teaching is not your main specialty, not like composing and managing. But I have to tell you that Mr. Murdoch has such and depth and beauty to his voice, that inspire and compel me like nothing I’ve ever heard before. I read in the paper how you discovered Mr. Murdoch while he was doing modelling work, not thinking he could sing at all. And I thought, if you could discover
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something so marvelous in Mr. Murdoch without expecting to, then you’d be the one to know if there’s anything inside of me worth salvaging, or not.
I can’t tell you how much it would mean to me to have an appointment with you, for you to try whatever is left of my voice and give me your assessment. If you could please name the time and day, and your fee, I would be so very grateful.
Sincerely yours, Lara Hamilton
He frowned at the letter. Then read it again. It was puzzling, deeply enigmatic yet sincere, almost desperate. Certain phrases of it seemed to echo.
Arrested by your song... Dismissed as a hopeless case, doomed to fail... Such depth and beauty, that inspire and compel me... If there’s anything inside of me worth salvaging...
Very deliberately, he drew out a sheet of paper and wrote a careful response, trying to quell the feeling that there was something momentous in this. He kept his penmanship even and his tone neutral. He told himself there was probably nothing he could do for her, if others had tried and failed. But had they really tried? Or had they, as she claimed, just ignored her? He knew perfectly well how it felt to be dismissed without so much as a chance, to be told what you should be, rather than given credit for what you could be.
He named a date – the Monday two weeks hence – and gave the address of his studio. As he sealed and stamped the envelope, there was a knock on the studio door, and Robertson entered.
“Hi there, Norm.” Mac Robertson had a serious demeanor, but his words were friendly enough.
“Hello, Mac.” “Good broadcast tonight, as always,” he said. “The numbers are excellent – the station polls estimate a million people tuned in tonight and last week.”
Wilder looked up at him. “A million people...” Mac smiled, knowing what was in Wilder’s mind. “It’s a good gig. You’ve done very well, for this station and for yourself. And for Murdoch, even if he doesn’t know it.”
“Hm,” was all Wilder said. “I’ve got new material to show you, if you’ve the time.” “That’s just why I came down. Happy to be the first one to hear Norman Wilder’s latest hit before it goes big.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, you know, Mac,” said Wilder, chuckling as he got up from the desk and made his halting way to the piano bench. After pausing a moment to collect himself – he had no score in front of him – he began a simple, arpeggiated introduction, and sang in a golden voice:
“Out where the moonbeam greets the morning, Someone is waiting patiently. Out where my ship of dreams is sailing, Over a calm, romantic sea. And when the distant blue horizon Beckons to me, I know I’ll be, Out where the moonbeam greets the morning, Greeting the one who waits for me.”
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“Well? What do you think?” Robertson considered only a moment before replying. “It’s the best thing you’ve written yet. It’s going to be an instant hit, even without our help.”
Wilder felt the warm satisfaction of praise from a man whose taste he respected. Robertson moved to the wet bar and poured them each a measure of Scotch. Handing one to Wilder, he toasted him before drinking. Wilder followed suit with a cautious sip. He enjoyed the taste, but was wary of making a habit of any particular vice.
“When can you have it ready?” “I could have it for tomorrow evening’s broadcast, if I could convince Mr. Murdoch to take a night off from the nightclubs and rehearse for once.” He’d meant it jokingly, but it came out more bitterly than he’d intended, and Robertson looked at him sharply.
“You’re having trouble controlling Murdoch then,” he said. “Hmm,” sighed Wilder. “I underestimated his... independent spirit.” “And overestimated his work ethic, I think.” “Indeed.” Robertson was a serious sort, but he was a problem-solver at heart, and it was a relief to finally admit to someone that he was having difficulties with Murdoch.
“Well,” sighed Robertson. “To be honest with you, I’m not sure there’s anything I can do about it just now. But you’ll be renewing your contract at the end of next month...” He paused, waiting for Wilder to contradict him. They hadn’t actually discussed whether Wilder and Murdoch would be re-signing with Robertson, or moving on at the end of their agreement.
“Mac,” said Wilder. “You took an extraordinary chance on me that few other producers would even have considered. You have my gratitude, and my loyalty.”
Robertson nodded. “I appreciate that. And I was going to say, there’s no reason we can’t specify rehearsal hours in the contract.”
“It’s an idea,” said Wilder. “I’ll think more about it and let you know.” “Excellent, excellent,” said Robertson, finishing his dram and standing to go. Friendly he might be, but he was a businessman, and efficient with his time. “I’ll see you next week then, and we’ll go ahead and hype that new number like there’s no tomorrow. Would you be interested in recording it? Assuming it does well, we can have an EP ready to sell Friday morning.”
“You know I would, just tell Moore to make the arrangements for the studio slot over the weekend.” Wilder spoke casually, but inside he was glowing at the thought of a recording. If he could negotiate performing and radio into a recording career, his reliance on Murdoch would grow less and less.
“That’s grand. I’ll have Moore set it up. Good night.” “Good night.” Robertson left, and Wilder was gathering his few letters – including the one to post to Ms. Hamilton – and took his coat off the rack, when another knock came on the door. “Excuse me, Mr. Wilder sir?”
Jimmy, the gawky studio page, was sticking his freckled face through the crack in the door. Wilder smiled.
“Yes Jimmy, what can I do for you?” “Excuse me sir, but there’s a dame here wanting to talk to you.” Jimmy glanced behind himself. “Wants to talk to you about her singing voice, sir.”
Wilder’s mind immediately went to the letter in his hand. “Oh. Yes, of course. Show her in Jimmy.”
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“Right, Mr. Wilder.” Wilder hung his hat and coat back up and sat down at the desk. He knew he didn’t look quite so lopsided when sitting, and for some reason he found himself caring about this, although he usually forced himself not to.
A moment later, Jimmy showed in a pretty, black-haired woman with sloe-dark eyes that held a sort of quiet, slow laughter.
“Thank you so much for seeing me Mr. Wilder.” He smiled in return. “Not at all. Ms. Hamilton, I presume?” Confusion clouded her face. “No... I’m afraid my name is Milly. Milly Pearson.” She glanced at the door where Jimmy stood.
“Oh.” Wilder felt a flush creep up the back of his neck. “I’m terribly sorry. My mistake entirely. Please forget about it. What can I do for you, Ms. Pearson? I understand you are a singer?”
“Yes, that’s right.” She sat down in the chair opposite him, which he had indicated. “I’ve been studying since I was sixteen, but I would like to know whether I’ve got what it takes to really make it. To reach the top.”
Wilder smiled. “Well it isn’t an easy matter to reach the top. But it is simple to test your voice, and I can give you my honest opinion, if that’s what you’re looking for?”
“Yes, exactly. I've reached a crossroads. I need to make a difficult decision, and I need to know whether it makes any sense at all to continue on with my music."
"I understand. I do hope, though, that whatever I tell you, you will not entirely give up on music. Too many people, I think, calculate art in terms of "all or nothing." That unless it will make you rich and famous, it's merely an indulgence, not worth pursuing. Whether or not you have the talent to make your living from it, I have found music the most constant friend and companion of my life, and I imagine I would find it so even if it were not tied to my career."
She smiled, an expression which livened her somewhat muted features. "I know just what you mean. Don't worry, I won't let whatever you say put me off music. Like you, I love it too much for that. But I've reached a turning, and I've got to decide which way I'm going within the next couple of weeks."
"I see. Well then, let us make an appointment. I usually reserve Mondays for coaching, how about this coming Monday?"
"That would be perfect," she said, reaching into her handbag for a diary. He reached into his breast pocket for the same.
"Until next Monday, then, Miss Pearson." He rose, and walked her haltingly to the door. It didn't seem to matter so much now.
"Thank you," she said warmly. "And goodbye." "Goodbye." "Jimmy," he called out the door. "Could you have Sandy bring the car around, please. I'm done for the night."
"Sure thing, Mr. Wilder." Once more, he grabbed his hat and coat from the coat stand. He just had them on, when another knock came at the studio door. Not Jimmy... perhaps Miss Pearson had forgotten something?
But before he could say "Come in," the door opened and three men walked in, whom he had never seen before. Two of them were proper bruisers. Large, dull-looking fellows, one of whom was smoking a cigarette, which Wilder eyed with annoyance. The third was a small man wearing a shiny suit and too-large a smile. Although Wilder didn't like the look of him in the least - shifty, greasy, and untrustworthy - he followed his own rule and reserved judgement based on the man's behaviour, which, considering he had
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just walked uninvited into Wilder's studio office just as he was trying to leave for the night, did not exactly incline him to liking the man.
"Hello, gentlemen. Is there something I can help you with? I'm afraid I was just leaving..." Wilder was polite as usual, but didn't quite bother to keep the insinuation out of his voice.
"As a matter of fact, there is. It'll only take a few minutes." The small man smiled, not at all a prepossessing expression, and something more than annoyed Wilder. It put him on his guard. "The names Ike, Ike Bergen, JD."
Bergen reached out a hand to Wilder, who shook it automatically, but without replying, and without smiling.
"Me and my friends here want to talk to you about a business opportunity. If you'll have a seat and pour us a bit of that Scotch, we'll talk it over with you. I don't think it'll take long for you to see our point of view."
Wilder couldn't claim to know just what this Bergen fellow was driving at, but it seemed perfectly plain - judging by the silent bruisers that flanked him - that it was something unsavoury. Wilder wanted no part of it, and besides, he found their presumption and over-familiarity acutely offensive.
"I'm sure you've a very interesting proposal to make, but I'm afraid you're going to have to make an appointment with me as would anyone else. As I said, I am on my way out."
For just an instant, an expression flickered across Bergen's face that was both savage and furious, but it was gone instantaneously, replaced by his customary sycophantic smile. "Of course, Mr. Wilder. I understand. When can you pencil me in?"
Wilder pursed his lips - mentally. No part of him was actually inclined to make an appointment with this creature and his bulldogs.
"On Tuesdays I lunch at the Weston Club on 34th Street. You can find me there. Now that’s my car ready. I bid you good night, gentlemen.” He grabbed his cane from the hatrack and, as gracefully as someone who limped badly could manage, left the room. “See you Tuesday, Mr. Wilder
Wilder inclined his head to show he’d heard, then continued on to where Sandy, his chauffeur, was waiting for him in the hall.
Sandy cast a significant look behind, before taking Wilder’s briefcase and following him out and into the lift.
“Who was that fellow, boss, if you don’t mind my asking? Only, I didn’t like the look of him a bit.” Sandy had a heavy New York drawl, but he had worked for Wilder for over a year, and proven himself not only cleverer than he sounded, but incredibly loyal as well.
“No harm in asking, Sandy. His name was Bergen.” “Bergen? As in Ike Bergen? What did he want with you?” “He... He wanted to talk to me. Something about a business proposition. He barged in without making an appointment, so I told I would meet him another day. Why, don’t tell me you know a fellow like that, Sandy?”
The lift emptied into a grand lobby, from which four sets of engraved glass doors emptied onto the street. A little smoke shop stood on the corner, serving cigarettes, drinks, and sweets to the people working in the building. It was manned by a petite blonde named Nancy, whose round, rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and dimples seemed to have been taken straight from the advertisements of one of her cigarettes. Wilder and Sandy both tipped their hats in passing, and Nancy smiled and waved to them.