A Conversation with the Mann (18 page)

I had to jump in, cut Fran off before she did a hara-kiri job on her own career.

“What's the big deal?” I tossed out, nonchalant despite my internal bleeding. “They don't want to see me, they don't want
to see me. Why force 'em to sit through the act?”

“Because they won't look at you otherwise, that's why. Because it's wrong. It'd be one thing if they didn't think you were
funny, but they won't even do you the courtesy of sipping their comp drinks while you tell jokes.”

Frannie was civil rights before civil rights had a name. The idea of holding your ground against bigots had been branded into
her by the hot memories of her father's embarrassed looks as he was politely, coldly, shamefully turned away in front of the
watching eyes of his family from “exclusive” restaurants and “restricted” hotels. Exclusive. Restricted. Fran had grown up
speaking the secret code of anti-Semitism. She'd grown up learning not to flinch from it the way her father had. And now she
was about to equal-opportunity herself right out of an audition.

“Why are you making a stink over things when I'm not? CBS doesn't want me, I'll sell my act to NBC. Besides, it's not as if
I don't love it in the clubs.”

“Sure you do. You love the clubs, the smaller the better. If you had things your way, you'd book yourself right back into
the Fourteenth Street Theater.” Fran wasn't buying my I-don't-care bits. Not even a little. I kept on selling. Had to for
her sake. For her sake I worked my deceits, told her how the audition was no big deal to me. How another one would come along
same as a gypsy cab, and how CBS'd be sorry when someone else snatched me up. I told Fran I almost felt bad for her having
to sing for some guys from the biggest television network, pen poised over paper, ready to sign her up.

With my sad little show I was able to lure Frances to the notion of not quitting the audition. My lies were obvious, but so
was my desire that she go on.

She would, on a condition: “You'll be in the audience?”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

Then we all stood around some, talking about what a real good thing this audition was going to be for Fran. I smiled a little.
Acted happy. One more lie.

Pretty soon Fran excused herself, said she wanted to go home and pick out a dress, some numbers, rehearse them … . Generally
she wanted to start the process of getting ready for the biggest night of her life. One more round of congratulations to her,
and Fran left.

The second she was out the door Sid started talking, not wanting to let the dead air get any staler. “Like you said, to hell
with them if they don't want you.” He still looked ill. “Sooner or later NBC's going to—or ABC. They're the ones really shaking
things up— they'll get a look at you, and they'll go nuts. These CBS suits, they don't know what they're missing.”

God bless Sid. He was a worse liar than I was.

F
RIDAY NIGHT
. The Village. The Blue Angel. The vibe: good. The crowd: good. The CBS talent scouts seated among them. Sid was juiced with
a nervous excitement proud-pop-style. I was a little cuckoo myself, dizzy and light-headed like I'd been downing smoke from
a jazzman's cigarette. It wasn't anticipation that had me feeling that way. Part of me was not right, feeling something I'd
never thought I'd feel for Fran. No matter it was her big night, there was part of me that was a small percent jealous. I
tried to drive the feeling away with thoughts on how happy I was for Frances. I tried real, real hard.

Eventually the house went dark and the show started, and, eventually, after some warm-up acts, Fran took the stage and did
her set. I half expected her to throw the audition, to take a dive: If you won't watch Jackie, then I won't
let
you watch me.

She didn't. Forget about her tensing up at her first recording session, that night Fran was nothing but a songbird.

Set over, the audience went nuts with itself. The CBS guys were all smiles.

After the show Sid borrowed the club manager's office and had a powwow with Fran and the two talent suits. I settled in for
a wait while they talked business. The wait turned out to be a short one. Of course it was. How long did it take to tell Fran
she was sensational, you loved her, you wanted to pay her big money to put her on television?

Not long at all.

The two CBS guys came out of the office first, backslaps and broad smiles, high on happiness for finding a piece of talent
so obvious, the blind could've spotted it. Then came Sid. Then Frances.

Fran crossed to me, wanting to say something. She said nothing, knowing whatever thing she said would be the wrong thing.
She kissed me. She left.

The next time I kissed Frances she would be a star. The next time, and the last time.

S
id and I were having a sit-down. The topic: the future of Jackie Mann. A future I felt I was rushing toward at a slower and
slower crawl. Getting turned down for a look-see by the network, having my best friend walk away from an audition with a holding
deal; that sock popped the wind from me.

Sid did what he could to set me right, never trying to cheer me up by overselling my prospects or promising me the impossible.
With Sid it was strictly what he could get for me, why he thought I should take it, how it would help me down the line. Plain,
simple, and regular. Sometimes too plain, too regular, and I'd find myself wanting more. A lot of times I'd want more. More,
or bigger, or better: this club over that one. A theater over a club. A radio spot over both. And over all that I wanted Sullivan.

And when I got that way, my wanting in full bloom, Sid started up with his cautionary jazz: Don't get ahead of yourself. Don't
rush. You've got one shot at things while you're climbing the ladder, one chance to impress the bookers and talent guys at
each rung. If you slipped, down was the only destination. So don't do something to do something, do it when you're ready.

I listened to Sid.

Tried to.

But his counsel was no match for the rat of stagnancy that was making a meal of me and the sense that failure was creeping
close, ready to mug me from behind. The pair were becoming a constant of my life that were wearing me out, wearing me down.
Twin abuses filling me with a fear of my future: at best a life sentence of coffeehouses and Village clubs. At worst—at the
very worst—back to carting furniture by day, back to carting home the high of choice for my father at night.

“We need to get you on the road.” Sid talking. “Get you in some clubs in big markets. You're getting strong. I think you can
handle it, opening for a few names. These aren't one-nighters I'm talking. You go out, you're going to be out for a while.
I got ins in Chicago, Philly. Hell, we haven't even had you in Jersey yet. I can put you in the Five Hundred easy. They're
all class houses, pay top dollar. Three hundred a week for starters. Most'll throw in a meal.”

Three a week. Three and food. By far the most I'd ever made to that point. But Money was starting to seem lonely without sister
Fame.

Sid could tell the talk of the road work was doing nothing to prop me up. He started to do a hard sell for what would end
up being the last leg of the tour, a stand at the Fontainebleau in Miami Beach. It was class, it was good pay, it was a hot
house, it wasuzuzuzuzuzuzuzuzuzuz …

Sid talked. I drifted, let my gaze travel out the window. Hazy. Ugly. Raining. Below, an intersection. Water had puddled around
a clogged sewer drain. A guy—gray suited, anonymous like the man in the Sloan Wilson book—tried to leap over it. Didn't make
it. He landed right in the puddle, much deeper than it looked, and ended up splashing water all over himself. He stood where
he was, sour, wet, and getting wetter. All around, people pushed by him, past him. They couldn't care less he'd messed hisself,
that maybe he had some important meeting or maybe a first date he was going to miss for looking like a rag. All the people
cared about was that the soaked, gray-suited man was in their way.

They were New Yorkers.

They had places to be.

I jerked around, breath held. Something Sid'd said snagged me, spun me. Exhilarated me. Almost. The blisters from the last
time I'd been burned by premature enthusiasm were fresh enough I was shy of letting myself get jazzed on the quick again.

I asked him: “What did you say?”

“I'm not making any promises. But if things go right—”

“What did you say, Sid?”

“The guys at the Fontainebleau, they have an in. You do well there, they told me they'll talk to Jules.”

Jules. That's all the more he had to say, and I dug his meaning exactly. Jules. Jules Podell. Jules ran the hottest nightspot
in town. What Sid was saying, just by saying his name, was that if I went over in Miami, if I did right, I had an in at the
Copacabana.

W
HAT'S THE OPPOSITE OF
I
NDIAN SUMMER
? Did it have a fancy name, or was it just early fall? No leaves turning yet, many weeks from an icy chill, not even October
but the air was going crisp. The climate being cool, the sun being bright, made for a special kind of weather that juiced
you with some Mother Nature–made menthol. Taking a deep breath was taking in a lungful of tingly vitality. Days like that,
the city begged to be walked around in, leisurely enjoyed at a stroll's pace: Get out there, boy. Don't let life pass you
by. Days like that, New York City seemed just about perfect.

Still, beautiful as the day was, it held a creeping frost.

“All you care about is money.”

We were having the conversation. We were having the conversation
again
—the one about which was more important, art or commerce. Show or business. Whether it was better to be good or make it big.