Vivian In Red (15 page)

“’Course you could, and you will, and it’ll be a smash. I’m getting out of here before you change your mind.”

And with that, Allen hustled off into the night, slipping in the slush but somehow not losing his footing, as if his ebullient mood had wrung the booze right out of his body.

Milo shook his head. A Broadway show, with him as lyricist. He’d just agreed to do it—more or less, at least he’d stopped objecting, which Allen took as a victory—yet it seemed as likely as having dinner with Clark Gable.

His brother greeted him at the door, talking low to him. “What is the matter with that man?”

“Other than being a little tight? Nothing at all.”

“Was he offering you a job?”

“More or less.”

Max shook his head. “Madness. You got so lucky to have the job you do, and now he wants you to throw it away on the stage.”

“I’m not saying I would quit Harms.”

“No? Two jobs, then?”

The rest of the family had drawn into their conversation. Milo felt surrounded, so he stepped down into the sunken living room and allowed them all to gather around him. By the end of ten minutes, he had them convinced he’d keep his job at Harms during the day and work on the show at night, with Allen, over at the theater.

Leah was enraptured, demanding to know who would be starring. Max harrumphed and sewed Milo’s coat pocket. Yosef Schwartz nodded, and bent back over the ledger book.

Milo’s mother folded her arms across her chest. “With all this working and songs, don’t forget to eat.”

Milo chanted to her,

Forget to eat, how could I! The food you cook is so good I

“Can never stop ’til I’m stuffed to the brim

And so fat they say, ‘Why, it can’t be him!’

Perish the thought, I’ll never forget to eat your scrumptious…uh…”

Fish eye?” giggled Leah from her corner.

Max handed back Milo’s coat. “Your pocket’s fixed, genius.”

The next day at Harms, Milo was whistling the tune to “Hilarity” as he sauntered through the door and hung up his hat and coat. He’d been thinking up new verses all night, seeing how he couldn’t sleep anyway. He smiled broadly at the newest secretary, former Macy’s perfume salesgirl Vivian Adair, who’d turned up to visit Milo at the office after she had been well and truly canned. Vivian looked up from her book she’d half-hidden under some files, and cocked one slim eyebrow at him.

That day she stopped in at Harms, Milo had been shocked to see her, but delighted. His gratitude for her long-ago advice to the aspiring song plugger caused him to think of her warmly, and it’s not like her shapely legs and sparkling green eyes hurt her case. The other office girls had gaped at her suspiciously. Even the reserved Mrs. Smith had given her a long, appraising stare before looking down her nose again at her Corona.

Allen had been irritated at the disturbance when Milo brought Vivian into their little cubby of an office, and she didn’t help matters by sitting on the edge of his desk, messing up his papers. She crossed her legs and tapped one foot in the air, as if to a rhythm in her head. That’s when she explained her current jobless condition, and how she wondered if Milo had heard of any positions available? “I do so miss the music,” she’d sighed. They were standing close enough—of necessity, in that cramped space—that Milo could see a tiny brown mole above her collarbone, and smell her aura of roses and tobacco smoke.

“As it just so happens,” Milo replied, a grin spreading over his face, “a certain young typist just got herself hitched.”

Vivian could type fast as a speeding train, which warmed Mrs. Smith to her right off. She landed the job on the spot. Vivian had been starting Milo’s day on a pleasant note ever since.

Except today, when she regarded him with wide-eyed surprise, and shared glances with all the other secretaries.

Milo checked his reflection in the window in case he’d forgotten to put on clothes, or walked out with a face full of shaving lather. All normal.

He cast a sneaky look around for Allen, though he didn’t figure on seeing him before the sun came up over the skyline after a bender like last night’s.

“Milo!” bellowed Keenan, the manager, who’d blown through his office door like a typhoon. “You have nerve showing your face here now.”

“Nerve? Sir, I don’t have much nerve. In fact, I’m terrified right now. What gives?”

“I was under the impression that you and Allen are going to be big Broadway hotshots now and don’t need to work in a dump like this.”

Milo felt his blood rush right into his toes, and probably through his shoes and right out all over the floor. He looked down as if he thought he’d actually see it.

“Sir, there’s been a misunderstanding…”

“Damn right there has. I want people here plugging our own music, not out there trying to get all they can for themselves.”

“Hey, that’s not fair. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m all set to put in a good day’s work, same as I always do,” though Milo’s heart sank at having to work without Allen. They’d gotten such a good system going, even after Milo finally sprung for some better glasses. Playing by ear suited him, simple as that.

“So is Allen crazy, then, for saying you’re going to do this?”

“No, see… I want to keep both jobs. I’ll just work on the show songs at night, is all…”

An unpleasant smile curled into place across Keenan’s wide, pale head. “That so?” He pivoted on his heel, stomped back to his office and back out again, proffering a piece of manuscript out ahead of him as he walked, like a newsboy.
Extra, extra, read all about Milo Short’s career going up in flames….

It was a handwritten draft of “Let’s Live On Hilarity,” which they’d worked on in their office, during a slow, rainy afternoon.

“So,” Keenan drawled, “you did this on your own time, did you? And just happened to leave it lying around the office?”

“Well, yeah, as it happens. That’s exactly right.”

“Far as I’m concerned, you quit this morning. Beat it.”

“Wait, Mr. Keenan! I didn’t—”

The door slam cut him off, and Keenan yanked down the window shade on his office door for good measure.

Milo turned to the gawking office girls. Vivian was glaring with murderous fury at the closed door of Mr. Keenan. Mrs. Smith had her hand lightly on her chest, her eyes wide. “Where’s Allen?” Milo demanded.

Mrs. Smith just shook her head. “Oh, Milo,” she said.

Vivian grabbed her coat and pocketbook. “I bet I know where. I’m taking a coffee break, Mrs. Smith.”

Mrs. Smith protested, “Vivian, you can’t just—” but Miss Adair was already pushing through the door and clattering down the stairs.

Milo scurried after her. “Wait! Just tell me where, don’t get yourself in deep with Keenan, too…”

She banged open the door onto Broadway. “I’m so angry, I could spit. How dare they!”

She hadn’t bothered to button her coat, and a gust flapped it open, pushing her dress against her, outlining her legs up as far as they went. Milo rushed to stand in front of her, to shield her from the breeze. He took her coat lapels and pulled them together, trying to button them for her. “You’re gonna catch your death.”

She batted his hands away and did her buttons up herself. “I bet he went right to the theater. He was so disgustingly proud he crowed all the way out the door about it.”

“Which theater?”

In Milo’s shock of the previous night, he realized he’d never asked where this supposedly brilliant show was supposed to be mounted.

“The New Amsterdam, I’m pretty sure he said.”

She began to forge ahead through the crowd. “Vivian! I can get there myself. Please, go back upstairs. Keenan is in a firing mood and I don’t think they’ll take you back at the perfume counter. I’m begging you, kid, just go.”

“Kid? How young do you think I am?” The heat of her anger was burning off, and now she gave him a lopsided smile of sorts, one corner of her rouged lips tipped up like a crescent. “I bet I’m older than you.”

“Older than me or not, you look beautiful, now get upstairs, please, before I get you fired twice.”

She gazed up at the building. The wind mussed her neat curls. “You know, I didn’t want to come today at all.”

“Bet you want to eat, though. Are you going back in or what?”

“Fine, Mr. Short. I’ll go. Just pop Allen a good one for me, will you?”

Without waiting for an answer, she turned abruptly, causing two ladies with shopping bags behind her to cluck and shake their heads as she plunged between them.

Milo leaned against the building, putting his hands on his knees to stop them shaking. Leah had been up half the night coughing, and Chana Schwartz sat up with her, and Milo had listened to the cacophony, congratulating himself on not letting Allen talk him into quitting his job.

Milo pushed his hat firmly onto his head and sliced through the crowds as fast as he could manage without actually knocking people over. Over his shoulder he saw another theater that just last year had premiered a lavish musical revue, but now was a movie house showing
Tarzan and His Mate
for twenty-three cents a ticket.

He got to the front door of the place, and a great wash of stupid swamped him. He didn’t even know how to get into a theater this time of day. The box office wasn’t open. The front doors were locked, the lobby dark. How could Allen think he was capable of being a lyricist when he couldn’t even find the door?

He walked around the block until he saw a side door on 41st Street, opening and closing to let in people in dribs and drabs. He figured no one would know him from Adam, so he sauntered up the block, trying to time his arrival at the door with someone else’s entrance. This took him a few tries and he peered up and down the block for a policeman who might haul him off for loitering. But eventually a gal swung the door open hard enough, at the right time, that Milo caught it before it swung shut again.

He pulled his hat low as he snuck in, in case the girl should happen to look back over her shoulder. He braced himself for a scream if she discovered she’d been followed in by a stranger.

Soon enough, it was clear he needn’t have bothered. People were rushing this way and that, no one going any particular direction. It put him in mind of ants after you kick over their hill.

He stood in the winding halls of this theater, not having thought of a next step, feeling the stupid creeping up on him again, when he heard that voice, that booming laugh that he knew was Allen, knew even more when it was accompanied by the careless tinkering of piano keys.

“When I get my hands on that schmuck…” he muttered, following the sound, ignoring a “Buddy, you need something?”

His trail led him to the wings, and the quickest way to Allen, from what he could tell, was to go right onto the stage itself, so that’s just what he did. He burst out of the wings and onto the same stage where just last year, the lovely Tamara had performed “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”

Allen’s laugh cut off short, and he switched his light piano tinkling to villainous chords.

The house lights were dim, and the stage—while not lit for a show—was bright enough that Milo felt cornered by the dark, and confused. His bleary eyes finally sought out the stage’s edge, and he leapt off into the dark, teetering on landing.

“What do you mean by quitting my job for me?”

The men who’d been laughing with Allen, and a pretty little thing Milo assumed was a chorine in this lousy songless revue, scattered like bugs in the light.

Allen finally left the piano alone. He had just enough beard growth to make his face look dirty, and his hair was sticking up in odd points, mostly on one side of his head. He still smelled like drunk, though his eyes were clear and bright.

“Hey, I thought you were with me. Last night…”

“I’m surprised you remembered how to get home last night, much less what I said or didn’t say.”

“I didn’t remember. I mean, I probably coulda, but I slept in the office. That’s how I caught Keenan so early. Things were a bit frosty on the home front yesterday, anyhow.”

“I didn’t want to quit! I was gonna work on the songs after hours, but then you went and got him so mad that I’m out of a job now.”