came. Eddie stared at her, his mouth half open. The rubber ball of nasal spray fell to the ground with a forlorn little bounce or two before it came to rest by the leg of the piano.
“Well?” Gabby panted. “Say something.”
“That … that was incredible,” he stammered finally. “Why can’t you just do
that
?”
Crabbily, Gabby tugged her unruly skirts back down over her newly sweat-dampened thighs. “One, because solo tap numbers look ridiculous from anyone who isn’t Fred Astaire. Two, I don’t have any tap shoes or a short dress. Three, even if I was willing to go out there with my skirt bunched up and dance around looking like some kind of swami who just dropped a load in his pants, the stage is about eight inches too high for anyone to see what I’m doing. Four—and finally—that song won’t do anything for either one of us.”
“What do you mean?” Eddie asked.
“I mean, I can sell a cutesy dance number, sure. You can takesome tired novelty number, jazz it up, and make it hip. And Leo Karp knows it.”
“Of course he does,” Eddie said smugly. “That’s probably why he signed me to a seven-year contract.”
“With a six-month option, right?” Gabby was getting irritated. “Olympus has five thousand people on the payroll. It’s no skin off Karp’s nose to pick a few extra horn players for what … one fifty a week?” Looking around the room, Gabby saw from the men’s faces that it was probably a whole lot less than that. “For all you know, he signed you just to make sure nobody else did. And then in six months, maybe a year, he’ll drop you again, and there won’t be any more contracts, or any more magazine covers, or any more checks waiting at the studio post office. Unless you show him you can do whatever Artie Shaw or Glenn Miller or Tommy Dorsey can do—or do it better.”
Eddie snorted. “I was asked to give a performance, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’m all through auditioning.”
“Oh, give me a break.” Gabby was getting mad. “Of course you’re auditioning. You’re never done auditioning. Never. I’m auditioning. You’re auditioning. Everybody upstairs who just lost one of those little gold men is auditioning to get one next time, and everyone who won one is auditioning for the part that will get them another. For God’s sake, even the studio bosses—
even Leo Karp
is auditioning.”
“Oh yeah? For who?”
“For the money guys in New York who could pull the plug on the whole operation at any minute!” Gabby was shouting now. “For Jock Whitney and Nick Schenck and Hunter Payne. For the new talent they need to attract, and the old talent they need to stay. You want to be in the picture business, you betterget used to auditioning every day.
Every single day
. Until you die, or you’re the last man on earth, whichever comes first. Otherwise, you can pack up your horns and go back to the Savoy to back whatever girl singer is coming up next.”
The room was silent. The only sound Gabby could hear was her own short breath. Eddie Sharp stared at her, his face hard, his lips white. Defiantly, she brushed a sweaty chestnut curl off her forehead and stared right back.
Go ahead
, she thought furiously.
Walk out. You know I’m right
.
It was Dexter who spoke first. “What do you think we should do?” he asked quietly.
It’s now or never
. “Do you know ‘I Cried for You’?”
“The Billie Holiday song?” Dexter said, stealing a glance at a stony-faced Eddie. “Sure.”
“Well,” Gabby said quickly, “it’s actually the Arthur Freed song. He wrote it. Arthur Freed, who is sitting out in the audience tonight. Arthur Freed, who has just been tapped to head up a new musical unit at MGM.”
Eddie frowned. “But we’re at Olympus.”
“Do I have to explain everything? These guys are only interested in having what they think somebody else wants. It’s the first rule of Hollywood! Why the hell do you think people get divorced so
“Well?” Gabby panted. “Say something.”
“That … that was incredible,” he stammered finally. “Why can’t you just do
that
?”
Crabbily, Gabby tugged her unruly skirts back down over her newly sweat-dampened thighs. “One, because solo tap numbers look ridiculous from anyone who isn’t Fred Astaire. Two, I don’t have any tap shoes or a short dress. Three, even if I was willing to go out there with my skirt bunched up and dance around looking like some kind of swami who just dropped a load in his pants, the stage is about eight inches too high for anyone to see what I’m doing. Four—and finally—that song won’t do anything for either one of us.”
“What do you mean?” Eddie asked.
“I mean, I can sell a cutesy dance number, sure. You can takesome tired novelty number, jazz it up, and make it hip. And Leo Karp knows it.”
“Of course he does,” Eddie said smugly. “That’s probably why he signed me to a seven-year contract.”
“With a six-month option, right?” Gabby was getting irritated. “Olympus has five thousand people on the payroll. It’s no skin off Karp’s nose to pick a few extra horn players for what … one fifty a week?” Looking around the room, Gabby saw from the men’s faces that it was probably a whole lot less than that. “For all you know, he signed you just to make sure nobody else did. And then in six months, maybe a year, he’ll drop you again, and there won’t be any more contracts, or any more magazine covers, or any more checks waiting at the studio post office. Unless you show him you can do whatever Artie Shaw or Glenn Miller or Tommy Dorsey can do—or do it better.”
Eddie snorted. “I was asked to give a performance, and that’s what I’m going to do. I’m all through auditioning.”
“Oh, give me a break.” Gabby was getting mad. “Of course you’re auditioning. You’re never done auditioning. Never. I’m auditioning. You’re auditioning. Everybody upstairs who just lost one of those little gold men is auditioning to get one next time, and everyone who won one is auditioning for the part that will get them another. For God’s sake, even the studio bosses—
even Leo Karp
is auditioning.”
“Oh yeah? For who?”
“For the money guys in New York who could pull the plug on the whole operation at any minute!” Gabby was shouting now. “For Jock Whitney and Nick Schenck and Hunter Payne. For the new talent they need to attract, and the old talent they need to stay. You want to be in the picture business, you betterget used to auditioning every day.
Every single day
. Until you die, or you’re the last man on earth, whichever comes first. Otherwise, you can pack up your horns and go back to the Savoy to back whatever girl singer is coming up next.”
The room was silent. The only sound Gabby could hear was her own short breath. Eddie Sharp stared at her, his face hard, his lips white. Defiantly, she brushed a sweaty chestnut curl off her forehead and stared right back.
Go ahead
, she thought furiously.
Walk out. You know I’m right
.
It was Dexter who spoke first. “What do you think we should do?” he asked quietly.
It’s now or never
. “Do you know ‘I Cried for You’?”
“The Billie Holiday song?” Dexter said, stealing a glance at a stony-faced Eddie. “Sure.”
“Well,” Gabby said quickly, “it’s actually the Arthur Freed song. He wrote it. Arthur Freed, who is sitting out in the audience tonight. Arthur Freed, who has just been tapped to head up a new musical unit at MGM.”
Eddie frowned. “But we’re at Olympus.”
“Do I have to explain everything? These guys are only interested in having what they think somebody else wants. It’s the first rule of Hollywood! Why the hell do you think people get divorced so
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