A Conversation with the Mann (23 page)

T
OMMY SAID TO ME:
“I've met a man.”

Rednecks with their boards with nails and their brass knuckles couldn't have hurt me more. What Tommy delivered was a hit
to the heart.

Right away Tommy saw my ache and clarified herself. “No, no. I don't mean I've met another man. I met a man, an A&R man for
a record company. Small label. New one. That's all I'm saying, baby.” She took my hand in hers, squeezed it, let me know through
strong physical contact that our relationship was just as solid. Tommy was giving me extra sensitivity that morning. She knew
I'd had a rough time of things my last week on the road—the proof in the bandaged cut on my face—but not the details of why.
I spared her those. It spared myself from having to relive events.

With her touch my pain died off. But the memory of the moment of having “lost” my girl was a fear that wouldn't fade.

Tommy said: “I really want you to meet him, Jackie. This company, they've got some really good ideas about music. I don't
mean just about a record. About putting together a look and a sound, a whole presentation.”

“Slow up a tick. Where did you meet this guy? Through an agent?”

“At the Vanguard. He just came up to me, told me he liked what he saw, and wanted to work with me.”

Call me Charlie Green-Eyes. I got real skeptical real fast. Maybe I didn't exactly have years in the entertainment business
behind me, but I'd put in enough time to whiff the stink of a player when he was stepping to my girl: some Harvey rolls up
on her at a club, tells her he's in the record business, tells her he can help her out, tells her all she has to do is come
back to his office, or hotel suite, or—what the hell—let's just go out to the alley behind the club and … talk about the future.

I said, and I said plainly and obviously: “I don't dig this character.”

“You haven't even met Lamont.”

“Lamont? I don't need to meet
Lamont
to not dig
Lamont
. Coming around telling tales, trying to talk you out of your slacks.”

“He's not like that. The man is all business. The only thing he cares about is my voice.”

“Yeah, your voice and how high he can make it go.”

“You're jealous.”

“I'm not—”

“You are. You're jealous.” Tommy smiled with that, thinking me cute.

I wasn't trying to be cute. I was trying to be serious.

“Yeah. Okay. I'm jealous,” I admitted. “How am I not going to be jealous when some low-rent Harry Belafonte is trying to load
his banana in your boat?”

Smiling more, thinking me cuter, Tommy dipped her head, looked up at me with her doe eyes. Her teeth separated a little. Her
tongue darted out and wet her lips.

I felt my blood rushing from one end of my body to the other.

Tommy said: “I'm not a little girl, Jackie.”

Young, sweet. Possessing an innocence without being innocent; no, she wasn't a little girl. Tommy was nothing but woman.

“Don't you think I'd know if a man was trying to romance me?”

“I … probab …” The look Tommy tossed me made concentrating a full-on chore.

“And don't you think if I thought a man—a man besides you— was trying to romance me, I would send him walking?”

“… Yes …”

“So you've got nothing to worry about, do you?”

“… No.”

“No.” Tommy moved her hand, cupped her small fist in my palm. The fit was nearly perfect. “Jackie, I want you to meet him.
I think … I think he could be really good for me. Not just for my career, but for my singing, for the kind of music I want
to do. I want you to be okay with it. I want you to be part of it. Would you please? Would you meet him?”

Walking over hot coals. Sucking on broken glass. Was there anything for any reason that I could have ever refused Tommy?

No.

“You know I will. If it's that important to you, I'll have a sit-down.”

She leaned over and touched me with her lips.

How long had we been steady? How many times had I kissed her? I still needed a moment to recover.

When I had: “You didn't tell me.”

“What's that?” Tommy's eyebrows popped up.

“The label?”

“It's new. Small.”

“You said. What's it called?”

“Motown.”

“I'
M NOT TRYING TO MAKE YOU NERVOUS
or anything, but this is huge; this is the next step for you. The Copacabana.”

Sid was talking, up and animated, moving around his office. I was listening but looking out the window at Manhattan—the buildings,
the skyscrapers. The people. One point seven million people shoved onto an island two and a half miles by twelve and a half.
We worked among each other. We lived among each other. We were anonymous to each other. We were all just background and extras
to someone else's life. Every other person in this city had their own concerns. I had mine. My hand into my jacket pocket:
I felt my concern.

I let my attention drift back to Sid….

“… Hard as Hades for an act to get into the joint, especially … they're not exactly Negro friendly. But after the shows you
put on at the Fontainebleau, the word's out, from Mel, from Buddy. Emmis: You're one of the hottest openers around.”

But I couldn't stop thinking about Tommy.

“Tell me about your wife.”

After a second of not doing or saying a thing, Sid went behind his desk, fell into a chair as much as sat down.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to—”

His hand came up and swatted down. “Let me tell you about Amy. Amy is the most beautiful woman I ever met. What man doesn't
say that about the woman he loves? But as far as I care, you'll never meet a sweeter, kinder woman than Amy is.

“I remember a week—we were still just dating—I'd been working late. Two, three o'clock in the morning every night, going to
clubs, watching acts. By the time I got home, got to bed, got up, and got to the office, I didn't have time enough to sleep,
let alone eat a decent meal. So I come back to my apartment one morning, open the door … Jackie, there is this smell, this
gorgeous smell: eggs, toast, coffee. All hot and ready to eat.” Sid's smile was resurrected by good memories. “Amy had the
super let her in, cooked all that up for me, and didn't even stick around for a thank-you kiss.” His smile went Vegas bright.
“But don't think I didn't track her down and give her one. That's just the kind of woman she is.”

“You keep saying … is.”

“I know I do. And I know she's passed. I'm not trying to trick myself into thinking she's still alive, but … but you know
something, Jackie. She is. She is alive right here.” He tapped his middle finger to his head. “And here.” His finger went
to his heart. “There isn't a day that goes by I don't remember something about her, or I walk by this corner or that and don't
recall something she'd said or something we'd …”

His smile went away. His color left him.

“I lied to her, Jackie.” Sid sounded like he was making a death-house confession. His eyes got slick. “She told me she was
going to a picture with a friend, and I told her … A pipe.” The wet in Sid's eyes turned to running water. He was hurting.
I didn't know if I should cut him off, or if this was the kind of hurt that every once and again a man forever mourning needed
to allow himself, so full with his own pain, if he didn't let it out, misery would pull him under. Drown him. I let him go
on. “That's the thing that makes it so … If it was a drunk driver, a crazy with a gun, but a pipe falls off a building from
thirty stories up, who are you supposed to get mad at? Where are you supposed to put your anger? Just a pipe falling off a
building. If she'd left five minutes earlier, ten minutes later … I lied to her, Jackie; that day she went to the picture.
I told her that I'd see her later … and I lied,”

I turned my head some to give Sid a bit of privacy to compose himself. And to brush away my own tears.

The point of my question-asking hadn't been to drag Sid to the verge of breaking down. But in that breakdown I found the solution
to my concerns.

I said: “I'm going to marry Tommy.”

As quick as it had gone, a smile came back to Sid. Not on purpose, I was making him do emotional acrobatics. He pulled off
every one of them. “Oh, Jackie, that's … that's great. I can't tell you happy I am to hear it. You have a date? And don't
tell me you're doing a Vegas job. The girl deserves big, and you've got to give me a chance to lose a little weight so I can
fit back into my cutaway.”

“There's no, uh, there're a couple of things I have to do first.”

“Do? Whadaya need to do? You're getting married, not landing on the moon. Get a church, reception hall …”

“I need to ask Tommy.”

“… Yeah, well, that you need to do.” Sid took a minute to chew around a question, come up with the best way to spit it out.
“Look, Jackie, I'm not trying to be a dark cloud, but what if—
if
mind you— but what if she's not as hot on the idea as you are?”

From my coat pocket I pulled out what my hand was clutching: my concern. A box. I popped it open.

Sid gave a low whistle.

Sid said: “Holy cow. Get a load of that rock.” He took the engagement ring from the box, held it up, admired it. In the setting
was as big a stone as a guy pulling in three hundred a week most weeks could buy. And back when most families were making
less than five grand a year, that kind of green could buy a lot.

“You think it's too big?” I asked.

“Depends. If you're Elizabeth Taylor, no.”

I was so deep in my anxiety, I couldn't figure if Sid was joking or trying to hip me to my overdoingitness. “I can take it
back. The guy at the jewelry store said if there's any reason I—”

“Forget the ring, would ya? It's nice and all. It's beautiful. But it's not the ring Tommy's yes or no-ing.” That got punctuated
by Sid putting the ring back in the box, handing the box to me. He tossed off: “But if she doesn't, I'll marry you.” A beat.
“I'm happy for you. I really am. I think about the times I had with Amy, the good and the bad.” Another beat. “They were all
good. You look back, they were all good. All good, and all too—” Abruptly Sid quit the thought he was working on and went
back to another. “Okay. The Copa.” He stared at the contract on his desk, used it to help him focus. “It's one week opening
for Tony Bennett— yeah, Tony Bennett—Tuesday through Sunday. Two shows Friday and Saturday. Same rate as Miami. Not a bump,
but it's good in-town money. Ah, heck, it's the best in town—” As quick as he started, he stopped.

Sid brought his head up from the paperwork. He looked at me, looked at me with eyes trying to communicate the most dire thing
any one man ever shared with another. “You love somebody, Jackie—you love somebody, then you grab them up with both hands,
hold on tight, and you don't ever let go. Not for nothing, and not for nobody. And if you love somebody, if you truly … pray
you die before they do.”

A
LITTLE BETTER THAN A FURNISHED ROOM
—a single with a bathroom. Shower, no tub. A kitchenette. A window that opened without too much sticking and gave me a decent
view of the alley below. That's it. Nothing more, nothing special. The cubby I was moving to was less than six blocks from
my then current apartment. Three blocks east, two and a half south. But those almost six blocks would be a world away from
my father. He had devolved into a hermit, never went 'round the neighborhood, hardly even left the apartment. His two states
of being were high or unconscious. I could've relocated to the stairwell of our building and never seen him. Five and a half
blocks? I might as well have been moving to China.