Part 5

Phosphorus Dreams lost, of course. If the race had been for hurdles, he'd have done all right, since he tossed his jockey, jumped the rail, and cantered off into racing history. If he'd just run a straight course, he might have won. The bastard certainly could move. They never did catch him. Rumor has it that he settled down to stud in Ohio. I wish him well.

That pretty much set the tone of how things were going to be with Joe and me. We'd work, scrape up some cash. He'd have a 'sure thing', or at least 'a hunch', and I'd eventually fork over, against my better judgement. Sometimes he won, usually he lost. Either way we'd fuck our brains out. He'd either be celebrating, or trying to distract me from my snit. I could live with it, though I preferred the celebrating.

I didn't really try to change him. I could tell that was a sure way to push him off. If there's one thing I know, it's that you don't try to change someone you love. Then they wouldn't be the person you fell in love with, would they?

We were together constantly for the next three years. The flops changed, but only in location, really. When we were flush, there'd be a couple of days at a nice hotel, maybe. With room service, even, as Feivel would say. But it never lasted long. Another long shot always came along, and it was back to the mouse mansions.

I cared about Joe, but, well... You know how it is. After any couple has been together for awhile, sometimes one of them starts taking things a little for granted. I was never Joe's one and only, I knew that. There was a steady stream of guys and dolls, but they never lasted more than a week or two. He always came home to me. I guess I was the cheated on spouse who decides that they're better off with the louse than without him.

It was never hearts and flowers with Joe and me to start with, so I kind of liked someone making a little fuss over me, treating me like I was special. I got very well acquainted with Feivel and Yani. If it wasn't for them, we most likely would have starved at one point or another. Feivel really had too soft a heart to be a businessman. All he ever wanted in return for stuffing my face was the chance to flirt with me, and hell, I enjoyed it.

Luckily Yani knew it was harmless. Thank God, because he could have broken me over his knee without disturbing the crease in his pants.

Anyway, it was the beginning of 1929, middle of February, and we finally had another gig. Things had been rough. It had been four months since the last time we could count on a paycheck. Well, perhaps counting on a paycheck was a little strong... May of the places we worked at didn't make it from one week to the next. I suspected that a few of the owners arranged to have themselves raided so they didn't have to fork over back pay for the staff.

I've worked some weird places in my time, but this...

It was a funeral parlor. No, I'm not kidding. Mozerrella's Funeral Parlor, 24 hour service. Only in Chicago, huh?

I can hear you now. "Jerry, I can imagine you playing the bass in some sad, slow dirge. You can get that sad, hound dog look on your face that would suit. But Joe? And the sax? Not really funereal material."

I gotta agree. Given any funeral, Joe would most likely be trying to chat up the widow. Or with Joe, the widower. But Mozerrella's wasn't you typical stiff crating emporium.

You came in the front, and Mozerrella himself, a grey, respectable looking stiff, greeted you with that smooth, sad way all the corpse handlers cultivate. If you were wearing a black crepe armband, and happened to mention that you were there for Grandma's funeral, and you were shown to the 'chapel'. I guess that's what the place was named, The Chapel. Tell 'em that you were a pallbearer, and you were guaranteed a ringside pew.

Anyway, the organist twiddled a knob, a panel slid back, and you could step into either heaven, or hell. It depended on whether your personal politics were wet, or dry.

The Chapel wasn't very big, but oh, boy was it lively. Grandma must've been a hell of a gal, because her wake was jumpin' every night. We did the biggest business in coffee you ever saw. That was rye coffee, scotch coffee, Canadian coffee, sour-mash coffee... You catch my drift. All served in the loveliest little demitasse cups. The real owner, Spats Colombo, was too damn cheap to provide mugs.

There was a postage stamp sized dance floor, a short chorus line of nice enough, leggy blondes, and the band, which included us. For the past week, anyway.

That night we were working our way through Sweet Georgia Brown while the girls did their little tap-and-shake-that-fringe bit for the yahoos. The place was as noisy, smokey, and crowded as I'd ever seen it. That's why I didn't notice Mulligan right away.

See, with all the time I'd worked in the speakeasies, I'd gotten sort of a nose for law enforcement types. If I hadn't been distracted by several things, I'd have noticed him right away, and maybe we wouldn't have gotten caught up in the mess that followed. But then, I never would have met... I'll get into that later.

In any case, I was distracted. Thoughts of our outstanding debts were upper most, as usual, but the lost filling in one of my teeth was taking a close second. I was hoping to salvage enough of my paycheck to have it taken care of. Just a little inlay, didn't even have to be gold. But we owed back rent, Yani's deli (hey, Feivel couldn't cover for us forever, but he tried), three Chinese lawyers were suing us for a bounced check at the laundry (and I still say they were the reason those damn tuxes were so threadbare), and we'd borrowed money from every girl in the chorus line. Well, Joe had. We needed those checks.

I noticed a few things. The big guy in the cheap suit was trying to get the waiter to seat him at the table that was 'reserved for the immediate family', read: Spats Colombo and whatever goons he brought along. There was a drunk calling for another cup of coffer, unable to get a waiter's attention for some reason. He made the mistake of waving his cup...

...and sloshed sour-mash coffee on Spats Colombo's spats.

Oh, brother.

That little section of the room got real quiet. You did not smudge, stain, dirty, smear, or in any way disrespect Spats' spats. Spats jerked his head at the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse who made up his current entourage. They hustled the protesting drunk away toward the exit. Hm, he was still breathing. Spats must be in a good mood.

Colombo made his was to the 'reserved' table, sat down, pulled out an immaculate hankie, and carefully wiped his spats clean. The big guy was watching all this with a great deal of interest. I felt a little twinge when the waiter brought him his coffee and soda, and he said maybe he should have the check, in case the place got raided. Brrr. Bad luck, mentioning things like that. The waiter shrugged it off. Who was going to raid a funeral? But I decided to watch the guy a little more closely.

I tried to talk to Joe about the upcoming paychecks, and my filling. He, of course, was appalled that I'd want to spend our first dough in months on something so frivolous. He had his eye on a dog at the track tomorrow: Greased Lightening. Sounded promising. But then, all of Joe's 'sure things' sounded promising. This time a waiter's brother-in-law was in charge of setting the electric rabbit that led the dogs around the track. I could almost see that. After all, Joe had been leading me in circles for three years.

So, Joe was planning on putting the whole bundle on Greased Lightening, at ten-to-one. And he would probably include whatever cash he could sweet talk tonight out of the chorus girl he was currently winking at.

I tried to talk sense to him. "We should pay some on account."

"On account of what? When this comes in, we can pay everybody off."

"But what if he loses? What if this joint closes and we don't have any more coming in?"

"What if, what if. This place is gonna stay open a long time. Why do you have to paint everything so black, Jer? What if we get raided? What if you got hit by a truck? What if the stock market crashed? It ain't gonna happen."

I kinda quit paying attention right about then, because the big guy was poking a hole in the end of his damp cigar to let some air in. He was doing it with the pin of a Federal Agent's badge.

Joe continued. "Suppose Mary Pickford divorces Douglas Fairbanks? Suppose Lake Michigan over flows?"

I poked Joe, hard. "Don't look now, Joe, but the whole town is underwater." I pointed. He looked. He looked at me. Without a word we both started to pack up our instruments. Hey, some couples eventually develop ESP.

The big guy checked his watch, and said, "Four, three, two, one..."

...and police axes crashed through the wall.

I've heard that a fire in a circus tent causes the worst pandemonium known to man. I'd stack that raid up against it any day. Customers, chorus girls, and waiters flew in every direction, screaming. The ones running for the side exits fell back into the mob as axes, then burly cops, crashed through them, too.

The big guy stood up and roared, "All right, everybody--this is a raid! The name's Mulligan. I'm a federal agent, and you're all under arrest." Somehow, this didn't seem to calm anyone's nerves. Joe and I kept packing.

Once we got our instruments stowed, we began to fight our way through the crowd toward some stairs. It wasn't easy, going against the flow of people (who included the recently ousted drunk, in one piece and still hollering for another cup of coffee), but the cases helped.

Mulligan approached the table where Spats sat with his four henchmen, all with glasses of white stuff in front of them. Spats and Mulligan apparently knew each other. Spats expressed surprise that Mulligan thought he was taking him in. Mulligan offered him membership at an 'exclusive county country club, for retired bootleggers', even saying he'd have a special pair of striped spats made for him.

As we sneaked up the stairs, Mulligan was telling him that the rap was for selling eighty-proof coffee, and Spats protested that he was only a customer, and not even drinking, at that. The glasses held buttermilk. Boy, the sacrifices a business man will go to. Then he asked who had so misinformed Agent Mulligan. Could it be, perhaps, Toothpick Charlie? Mulligan, bland as unsalted butter, said, "Toothpick Charlie? Never met him." I suddenly wished I could send some flowers to Toothpick Charlie, whoever he was.

There may have been more to the conversation, but we didn't hear it. We made our way up to the second floor, then out onto the fire escape. The cops were so busy loading patrons and staff into the big, black squad cars that they didn't notice two little musicians sneaking down the escape and, well, escaping. We snuck down the alley, leaving the chaos behind.

As we paused at the other end of the alley to put on our coats, I groused. "Well, that solves the problem of who to pay first. The landlady's gonna lock us out, and Yani won't let Feivel slip un any more knackwurst, even if Feivel threatens to stop letting Yani slip him his knackwurst. And you can't borrow any more from the girls because they're all in jail." Joe shushed me, saying he was thinking. Always a dangerous prospect.

"We can't go to Yani, as much as we owe. I wonder how much Sam the Bookie will give us for our coats?"

I exploded. "Sam the Bookie? Our coats?? Are you nuts? You're not putting my coat on that dog."

"But I told you, it's a sure thing."

"It's below zero, we'll freeze. We'll catch pneumonia."

"It's ten-to-one! You'll be able to buy twenty overcoats."

I glared at him sternly.

...so the next day we're walking down the street, shivering. The only reason my blood wasn't frozen in my veins was that it was boiling over. I finally couldn't hold it in any more. "Greased Lightening! Why do I listen to you? I should have my head examined."

Joe cut a look at me. "I thought you weren't speaking to me."

"Look at the bull fiddle. It's dressed warmer than I am."

We came to the music building, where I had first met Joe. You'd think I'd have learned that the place was no good for me, wouldn't you? We passed fellow shivering, starving musicians on the sidewalk.

As usual, the place was a cacophony of music and voices. We made our way down the corridor, checking each agent's office. KEYNOTE MUSICAL AGENCY. "Anything today?"

"No."

"Thank you."

On to JULES STEIN-MUSICAL CORPORATION OF AMERICA, a little crumbier than the first. "Anything today?"

"No."

"Thank you." On to Sig Poliakoff's, where we'd first met, and chummiest of the lot. "Anything today?"

"Oh, it's you. You've got a lot of nerve..."

"Thank you."

He closed the door and tried to move off, but from inside we heard Nellie call, "Joe! Get back here." He shrugged at me helplessly, and we went in.

Nellie was tapping her foot, arms crossed, and the second secretary had paused in her typing. This was going to be better than a Pearl Pureheart cliffhanger.

Joe started, "Look, Nellie, if it's about last Saturday night, I can explain..."

Nellie looked at me. She wasn't interested in me, except as someone she knew had to also put up with Joe's bull shit. "What a heel! I spend four dollars to get my hair marcelled, I buy me a new negligee, I bake him a great big pizza pie…" She glared at Joe. "...and where were you?"

I was curious about this, too. "Yeah, where were you?"

Joe gave me The Look. "With you."

"With me?"

He rolled his eyes. "Don't you remember?" He turned a sincere look on Nellie. "He has this bad tooth. It got impacted--his whole jaw swole up."

This was news to me. "It did?" Again the look. "Boy, did it ever!"

"I had to rush him to the hospital and give him a transfusion. We have the same blood type."

"Type O." I supplied.

Nellie arched a pencilled eyebrow. "Oh?"

Joe used his wheedling tone of voice. "Nellie, baby, I'll make it up to you."

Nellie pursed bee-stung lips. "You're making it up pretty good so far." Nellie was no dope.

"I swear, Nellie. The minute I get a job I'll make it up to you. I'll take you to the swellest restaurant."

I jumped in. "So, how about it, Nellie? Polliakoff got anything for us? We're desperate."

Nellie smiled slowly. I should have known. That smile was as sly as a skulk of foxes (skulk, another word I learned from my newspaper vocabulary column. I run across rancorous or mordacious yet. Anyway, I didn't consider that she wanted to get back at Joe, and didn't care who got caught in the fall out.

"Well, it just so happens that he is looking for a bass and a sax..."