FullReads

“I’ve got to go and make up in a few minutes. So get this. I’m not going to stick down in this basement eating house forever. I’ve got too much talent. If I only had a voice–I mean a singing voice. But I haven’t. But then, neither had Georgie Cohan, and I can’t see that it wrecked his life any. Now listen. I’ve got a song. It’s my own. That bit you played for me up at Gottschalk’s is part of the chorus. But it’s the words that’ll go big. They’re great. It’s an aviation song, see? Airplane stuff. They’re yelling that it’s the airyoplanes that’re going to win this war. Well, I’ll help ’em. This song is going to put the aviator where he belongs. It’s going to be the big song of the war. It’s going to make `Tipperary’ sound like a Moody and Sankey hymn. It’s the—-“

Ruby lifted her heavy-lidded eyes and sent him a meaning look. “Get down to business, Leon. I’ll tell her how good you are while you’re making up.”

He shot her a malignant glance, but took her advice. “Now what I’ve been looking for for years is somebody who has got the music knack to give me the accompaniment just a quarter of a jump ahead of my voice, see? I can follow like a lamb, but I’ve got to have that feeler first. It’s more than a knack. It’s a gift. And you’ve got it. I know it when I see it. I want to get away from this night-club thing. There’s nothing in it for a man of my talent. I’m gunning for bigger game. But they won’t sign me without a tryout. And when they hear my voice they—- Well, if me and you work together we can fool ’em. The song’s great. And my make-up’s one of these aviation costumes to go with the song, see? Pants tight in the knee and baggy on the hips. And a coat with one of those full-skirt whaddyoucall- ’ems—-“

“Peplums,” put in Ruby, placidly.

“Sure. And the girls’ll be wild about it. And the words!” He began to sing, gratingly off key:

Put on your sky clothes,
Put on your fly clothes,
And take a trip with me.
We’ll sail so high
Up in the sky
We’ll drop a bomb from Mercury.

“Why, that’s awfully cute!” exclaimed Terry. Until now her opinion of Mr. Sammett’s talents had not been on a level with his.

“Yeah, but wait till you hear the second verse. That’s only part of the chorus. You see, he’s supposed to be talking to a French girl. He says:

`I’ll parlez-vous in Francais plain
You’ll answer, “Cher Americain,”
We’ll both . . .'”

The six-o’clock lights blazed up suddenly. A sad-looking group of men trailed in and made for a corner where certain bulky, shapeless bundles were soon revealed as those glittering and tortuous instruments which go to make a jazz band.

“You better go, Lee. The crowd comes in awful early now, with all these buyers in town.”

Both hands on the table, he half rose, reluctantly, still talking. “I’ve got three other songs. They make Gottschalk’s stuff look sick. All I want’s a chance. What I want you to do is accompaniment. On the stage, see? Grand piano. And a swell set. I haven’t quite made up my mind to it. But a kind of an army camp room, see? And maybe you dressed as Liberty. Any
way, it’ll be new, and a knockout. If only we can get away with the voice thing. Say, if Eddie Foy, all those years never had a—-“

The band opened with a terrifying clash of cymbal and thump of drum. “Back at the end of my first turn,” he said as he Red. Terry followed his lithe, electric figure. She turned to meet the heavy-lidded gaze of the woman seated opposite. She relaxed, then, and sat back with a little sigh. “Well! If he talks that way to the managers I don’t see—-“