Whistling in the Dark Read online

  Not to mention hungry. "The goulash sounds rather good."

  "Then let me freshen up your coffee and I'll be right back."

  Hardly five minutes passed before she was back with a steaming bowl and a plate of toast. She slipped around the counter to scoop up a fallen napkin, wincing as she bent down. Sutton caught up the napkin and handed it to her. "Are you all right?"

  "Thanks. Just lifted one too many vegetable crates, I guess."

  "You lifted them?" She was so slim and small. "Do you need some help? I've a few minutes--"

  "Aren't you the gentleman." Back came her cheery grin. "It's all right. I suppose Ida will hire someone in a day or two when neither of us can get up the dropped napkins."

  "Hire someone?" The coffee wasn't settling so well in his stomach. "You're hiring?"

  "Ida's looking for an errand boy." She pointed to a small sign pinned on the wall by the kitchen door.

  Sutton stared at it, then at her. "Please don't be offended but--wouldn't it make more sense to hang the sign in the window?"

  The waitress had a likeably throaty laugh. "Ida means to give the job to someone who eats here regular. Someone who knows the neighborhood."

  "Do you think she might consider me?"

  "You? But--"

  "I'm looking for work. I'll do whatever you want."

  She studied him. "Well, I don't know. You live around here?"

  "Not exactly--but I'm becoming better acquainted with the neighborhood by the day." God knew he felt as though he'd walked every foot of it. "Whatever you're looking for, I'm sure I'm the fellow for it. I'll take on anything."

  Her smile came back softer. "You're eager enough. It's a lot of cleaning, lifting, carrying--"

  "I can do it." His arm had healed suitably for that work, anyway.

  She patted his shoulder. "I'll talk to Ida. Eat up, if you can sit still." She was laughing as she went.

  Sutton sat, but he could hardly bring himself to eat. The job would probably pay a pittance and he'd be back to sleeping in the mice-ridden hovel of the night before, but...

  The woman who came around the counter wasn't more than an inch over five feet, but seemed taller as she stood with thin, sinewy arms folded and feet apart--much like his old sergeant, he mused--right down to the hobnailed boots. Her gray hair worn in a thick bun at the nape of her neck made all more prominent her black brows and a jaw as square and indomitable as any man's.

  "You're looking for work?" She tilted her head and the line of her mouth thinned further. "Answer me quick."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "The job's cleaning, lifting, delivering, some fixing of meals, and whatever else I might think of later on." Her gaze narrowed. "Why would you want it?"

  "To stay in New York. It's my last chance. My only chance. I'll work hard."

  "That you will. Can you start today?"

  The question took him by surprise. "I don't see why not--"

  "Good. You live nearby?"

  Hesitation couldn't be helped. "I--" He sensed it would be a fatal mistake to lie to her. "I've no place to stay just yet, but I'll find one later tonight."

  "Whatever suits you. I've a room to let, upstairs. It ain't much but it'll be convenient, if you're interested. Of course it will come out of your pay."

  "Naturally." Well, it couldn't be worse than where he'd been sleeping. "I'm grateful to you, ma'am."

  "Esther will show you the room."

  She turned to go back to the kitchen and Sutton realized the interrogation was over. "She never even asked my name. Or for references or anything--"

  "She'll keep you on if she likes your work. And if she wants you," Esther said, cupping her hands around her mouth, "she'll just bellow, 'boy!' and scare you out of your socks." She grabbed his hand and gave it a shake. "Esther Clark, by the way."

  "Sutton Albright."

  "My, that's gilt-edged. Good luck, Sutton. You'll need it."

  She led him up a narrow flight of stairs into a short hallway. There were two rooms on either side and then the hall turned, leading to more stairs. Behind the stairs, a door opened into a room barely large enough to contain a cot, small table, and chair. The single window looked out upon the bricks of the building next door.

  "You'll want another blanket," Esther said, oddly subdued. "I'll scare one up for you."

  He didn't like to think she felt bad about the accommodations. True, there was hardly space to move around in--but at the moment it looked like all the room in the world. "Thank you, Esther. And not just for the blanket."

  She studied him. "You'll be okay?"

  "I'm sure it will take some getting used to. But that's all right. I'm grateful for your help."

  The concern in her eyes eased. "I'll get you the blanket."

  Sutton dressed in the soft-collared cotton shirt and brown wool trousers he had purchased a few days after selling his second-best suit. He put his suitcase under the bed, leaving the rest of his clothes inside. It was just as well he'd pawned his books, pocket watch, and everything else, as he had neither shelf nor drawer for personal possessions. Not that it mattered. What he needed most at the moment--hope--he'd gotten back in spades.

  By ten o'clock, all he wanted or needed was a bed upon which to collapse. He had hauled in and unpacked crates, peeled potatoes and carrots and shelled peas, pounded steaks, bussed tables, washed dishes, and scrubbed down the kitchen at closing. His hands were raw, his shoulder aching. When the last customer left, Esther mentioned to Ida that someone next door had asked her to bring over a sandwich and a bowl of chowder. Ida turned a dubious eye on Esther as she reached for her coat.

  "You lollygag over there too much, girl. He'll go this time. You tend the pots."

  Sutton took the basket Esther prepared and went out into the chilly night. A dim light shone through the plate glass windows across the way, but he could hear the faint sound of a piano. Though the shop sign read closed, he followed Esther's directions and went in without knocking. The piano's bright notes filled the place and he stopped to listen. As his eyes adjusted to the light, flashes of color lurking in the shadows took shape. A pair of china dogs guarded either side of the door and a few feet further in stood a painted wooden elephant, waist-high, its jeweled eyes glistening with lifelike interest. Japanese lanterns bobbed in the breeze from lazily circling fans. Old and new maps of the world adorned the shabby walls and, overhead, a map of the heavens.

  There were toys everywhere, some he remembered from childhood. He knew he'd owned a spinning top like the one perched on the windowsill. And the rocking horse nestled between two bins had a familiar air. He wanted to explore but, remembering why he was there, followed the music through the aisles to the back of the store. He assumed the dinner was meant for the pianist and, judging by the way he played, the poor fellow needed nourishment right away. An inviting collection of old books filled several shelves and Sutton promised himself he would come back sometime. Daylight would be preferable, anyway, to lingering in darkened aisles while the eyes of several stuffed creatures peered down at him from the topmost shelves. Someone with an impish sense of humor had poised them to make the customer half-wonder if he was not about to be pounced upon.

  Ducking past the wings of a stuffed owl, Sutton walked until the aisle ended. There, beside a cluttered workbench in the corner, stood the piano--a handsome, older upright with a fresco of doves carved in the front panels. Persian carpets in need of a beating covered the back wall and he realized they muted the sound or he would have heard the music much more clearly from the street. Taking up most of the space on the workbench, amid coils of wire and scattered tools, sat two varnished boxes faced with knobs and switches, the whole contraption attached to the horn from a phonograph. A radio set, he realized. He'd seen one before, in a magazine. This one was not as sleek, but looked far more complex with its numerous dials, bulbs, and the wire running everywhere. He thought the pianist was sending out music--but the bulbs were not lit and Sutton had an idea they should be, in ord
er for the thing to work.

  If the pianist did intend to play on the radio, it was surely not any time soon. He hunched over the keys, hands poised with aching uncertainty as he squinted at the sheet music. Reluctant to interrupt him in the midst of a piece, Sutton looked around for a place to sit and noticed the light coming through the pebble glass of a door to his right. He knocked politely and when there was no answer, tried again a little more urgently.

  In mid-knock, the door swung open, putting him nearly nose to hawkish nose with a man who reeked of cigar smoke and impatience. Wiry of hair and of figure, he had eyes so dark brown Sutton thought at first they were black. They sparkled out of a face with sharp corners that nonetheless looked capable of good humor. At the moment, a frown twisted the mouth, the initial hope in the dark eyes fading to frustration. "We're closed--" He noticed the basket. "Oh. From next door?"

  "Yes, sir. I think Esther's only packed enough for one."

  "That's what I asked for." He turned back to his pile of paperwork while he puffed his cigar, thoughts clearly elsewhere.

  In the amber glow of light through the lampshade, Sutton took in the old oak desk with its multitude of drawers, the leather sofa scattered with pillows, and a haphazardly stuffed bookshelf behind the desk. He quietly cleared his throat. "Is the dinner for the gentleman playing the piano?"

  "What?" The man squinted at him, puffed on the cigar, and then waved away the smoke. "No, it's for the gentleman pounding the life out of the damned thing." He picked up a half-full bottle of scotch and poured some into the glass. Already a damp ring surrounded it on the blotter. "Good God, give it to him, already. I can't take much more of this." He swung another look at Sutton. "Where's Esther?"

  "She's doing the washing up." Sutton extended a hand. "I'm Sutton Albright. Mrs. Carlisle's just hired me."

  "Yeah?" He seemed dubious, but shook Sutton's hand. "Harry Warner. And the gentleman playing the piano," he said with a wryly mocking emphasis, "is Ox."

  "Ox?" Well, it did suit. "Just Ox?"

  "Vivian Oxtoby. But I'd stick with Ox, if I was you." He went out and Sutton followed. Ox struggled his way through the same piece, still coming too jarringly with the chords. Harry winced and wrapped a hand around Ox's wrist. "You keep hitting them like that and they'll start hitting back. Take a break and have some supper."

  Ox let his hands slide to his lap. "Doing my best."

  "I know." Harry clapped a broad shoulder. "Jack does, too."

  "He ain't back?"

  "Not yet."

  Sutton sensed the worry passing between them and wondered if he should just put down the basket and go. But then Ox raised his head and, pushing a shaggy fall of brown hair out of his eyes, smiled shyly at Sutton. "That's for me?" He rose from the bench to tower close to half a foot over Sutton's five eleven. "Esther didn't want to come over?"

  Harry dismissed the question with a shake of his head. "It's Ida, looking after Esther's virtue. Or keeping track of the time she wastes here."

  None too sure about the former statement, Sutton was at least able to reassure on the latter. "Ida mentioned lollygagging."

  "She would, the old--" The telephone interrupted, making Harry jump. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he snapped and spun on his heel to hustle back to the office. Ox hurried after him and Sutton followed with the basket. He reached the doorway as Harry picked up the receiver. "Yeah? Yeah, that's me. Go ahead and put him through."

  Ox hovered over the desk. "It's Jack?"

  Harry hushed him with an agitated wave. "Hey, are you all right?" he said into the telephone. "Where are you? Oh, hell. Jack, I swear to God--yeah, yeah. We'll be there in a little while." He hung up and sank into the chair with a groan.

  Ox sank into the chair opposite. "How much does he need?"

  "Twenty-five. He's scraped together fourteen. You coming with me?"

  "Sure." Ox handed over six dollars. "That's all I got. Including the dollar in my sock."

  "Your socks are better off than I am." Harry counted out four dollars and change. "Goddamnit. Ten lousy cents."

  "I've got that bond," Ox said. "And some thrift stamps at home."

  "Keep your stamps. Maybe Esther's got some change--"

  "Wait a minute," Sutton said, remembering. "I've got a dime." He tossed it onto the pile and both men turned their heads to stare at him.

  "Who's he?" Ox whispered.

  "Ida's new errand boy." Harry jabbed the cigar in Sutton's direction. "Albright, ain't it? Thanks, kid. I owe you."

  On his way out, Sutton stole a glance at the piano. He could stay away from concert halls and band pavilions, but he apparently couldn't avoid music the rest of his days. It found him even in this rough and tumble corner of New York. He supposed even a simple tune whistled on the street would make his heart ache for a long time to come.

  But there was nothing to do for it. Six doctors had confirmed that the damage to his hand was permanent. He had refused to accept it until the cast came off and he'd played again, to find the pain had not faded with the knitting of bones. When his technique deteriorated with subsequent practice, his parents had relegated the piano to the back parlor. The plan to permit him to study abroad after college was forgotten, and the conservatory teacher his father had hired returned to Kansas City for good.

  In the months afterward, Sutton had toughened his spine with the knowledge that others had come home from the war in far worse shape--or hadn't come home at all. If some of the spark had gone from life, at least he was alive to grieve.

  With a piano just next door, he'd have to toughen his heart. New York was home now and here he would find new dreams to replace the old. Looking forward was the only thing to do. If his hand wouldn't heal, his heart would. Until then, he could find books at the library and he hadn't the pocketbook for novelties--and if Bailey's Emporium offered anything else of interest, he was probably better off remaining in serene ignorance.

  - Four -

  There were idiots and then there were idiots. Jack, according to Harry, had achieved a standing heretofore unknown to ordinary men. And Harry meant it, judging by the glum silence which had replaced most of the usual exasperated muttering. Though he had pretended otherwise to his fellow jailbirds, Jack was battling enough guilt over his arrest. Having Harry sore at him on top of that was a feeling he wouldn't have wished on old Fritz himself.

  Other than the initial grumbling, not a word did Harry say to him until they'd bid Ox good night and trudged out of the shop and upstairs to Jack's apartment. Harry appeared intent on making sure he was all but tucked in before daring to leave him alone again. Jack didn't know whether to be annoyed by it, or relieved that Harry gave enough of a damn to bother. Settling for a mix of the two, he dropped onto the sofa and rested an aching head on the pillows.

  "Going to give me hell now or in the morning?" He tried for light, but it came out weary.

  "Nice to know you expect me to return the favor." Harry switched on a lamp and looked around. "Don't you ever clean this place?"

  "I said I was sorry. I wanted to ring you earlier. They wouldn't let me."

  "If I was the cop hauling in that rowdy crowd, I wouldn't have let you out five minutes, either. You find what you were looking for?"

  Surprise took the edge off Jack's sleepiness. "First time you've ever asked for details."

  "Jesus. I ain't now." Harry sat across from him and leaned elbows on knees. "I just wanted to know if it was worth it."

  "You're asking if I had a good time?" Jack shrugged. "I didn't have a bad one."

  "Yeah? You like getting yourself tossed into jail with a bunch of deviants?"

  Jack looked at him steadily. "If they're deviants, so am I."

  Harry, as usual, refused to be fazed. "You have to go around with those low class types?"

  Jack pulled off his coat, tossing it to a chair, and lit a cigarette. "We were just out for some fun." He decided not to mention the side trip to the baths. "You know the crowd at the 'mat. They cut up, sure, but the
y're good as gold, underneath."

  "Yeah, if only the cops could see it that way. I'm just glad you rung me up instead of Chase."

  "Well, maybe I shouldn't have." He knew Harry was tired, because Harry wasn't the sort to throw another fellow's mistakes in his face. Godawful tired, himself, Jack couldn't help taking him to task. "You aren't my dad--"

  "Thank God for that." Harry pushed out of the chair with a grunt. "It's turning me prematurely gray just being your friend."

  "Let me live my life." Jack snubbed out the cigarette. "I survived a goddamned war--"

  "So you can throw yourself into any trouble you want? Is that what you're trying to prove?"

  Jack pushed his fingers through his hair, cradling his head in his hands. Harry had gotten used to his sojourns but this was the first time that night had turned into a long day without any sign from Jack that he hadn't been robbed, drowned, or shanghaied.

  So maybe Harry had every right to be sore. But Jack was too tired to argue and too out of sorts to concede that Harry might have a point.

  Harry seemed to realize it. "Get some sleep," he said. Still gruff, but weary, too.

  Then the door closed and Jack was alone, with just the night left to face.

  The apartment was cold but Jack didn't feel like wrestling with the radiator. Switching on the kitchen light, he eased the milk bottle from the back of the icebox and poured himself a gin, neat. He considered the bottle for a long minute before taking it with him down the hall to the front bedroom, where he kept his old radio receiver. It remained a work in progress he liked to tinker with, spread over two tables bathed now in the moonlight of a clear night that promised the sort of reception any sane man would trade sleep for in a heartbeat. It looked like it belonged on the table beside his mother's sewing machine, where it had sat since he'd built it his last year at school. If his mother had liked listening to music over the radio, maybe everyone would. Dreaming of the possibilities made life worthwhile again.