"I can't hear it."
"I know," he said impatiently, "that's the point. Guess from just seeing."
Paul frowned at the screen for a moment, tried to jiggle as the saxophonist jiggled, and to fit a song to the rhythm. Suddenly his mind clicked, and the tune was flowing in his imagination as surely as though the sound had been turned on. " 'Rosebud.' The song is 'Rosebud,' " said Paul.
The young man smiled quietly. " 'Rosebud,' eh? Just for laughs, want to put a little money on it? I'll say it's - um, ah, well - 'Paradise Moon,' maybe."
"How much?"
The young man studied Paul's jacket, and then, with slight surprise, his expensive trousers and shoes. "Ten?"
"Ten, by God. 'Rosebud'!"
"What's he say it is, Alfy?" called the bartender.
"He says 'Rosebud,' I say 'Paradise Moon.' Turn her on."
The last notes of "Paradise Moon" blared from the loudspeaker, the saxophonist grimaced and backed off the screen. The bartender winked admiringly at Alfy and turned down the volume again.
Paul handed Alfy the ten. "Congratulations."
Alfy sat down in the booth without being invited. He looked at the screen, blew smoke through his nose, and closed his eyes reflectively. "What you figure they're playing now?"
Paul decided to buckle down and get his money back. He looked hard at the screen, and took his time. The whole orchestra was in view now, and, once he thought he'd picked up the thread of a melody, he looked from musician to musician for confirmation. "An old, old one," he said. " 'stardust.' "
"For ten it's 'stardust'?"
"For ten."
"What is it, Alfy?" called the bartender.
Alfy jerked a thumb at Paul. "This kid's fair. He says 'stardust,' and I can see where he gets it. He's right about the oldy, but he picked the wrong one. 'mood Indigo' is the name." He looked sympathetically at Paul. "It's a tough one all right." He snapped his fingers.
The bartender twisted the volume knob, and "Mood Indigo" filled the air.
"Wonderful!" said Paul, and he turned to Finnerty for confirmation. Finnerty was lost in his own thoughts, and his lips moved slightly, as though in an imaginary conversation. Despite the noise and excitement of Alfy's performances, he apparently hadn't noticed them.
"A knack," said Alfy modestly. "Like anything else: you know, keep at it long enough, and you surprise yourself. Couldn't tell you - in real detail, you know - how I did it. Gets to be another sense - you kind of feel it."
The bartender, the waitress, and several other bystanders had fallen silent in order to hear Alfy's words.
"Oh, there's some tricks," said Alfy. "Watch the bass drum quiver instead of what the guy's doing with the traps. Get the basic beat that way. Lot of people watch the traps, see, and the guy may be going off on a tangent. Things like that you can learn. And, you gotta know instruments -how they make a high note, how they make a low one. But that ain't enough." His voice took on a respectful, almost reverent tone. "It's kind of spooky what else it takes."
"He does classical stuff too," said the bartender eagerly. "Oughta see him with the Boston Pops on Sunday nights."
Alfy ground out his cigarette impatiently. "Yeah, yeah - classics," he said, frowning, mercilessly airing his inner doubts about himself. "Yeah, I was lucky last Sunday when you saw me. But I ain't got the repertory for that. I'm over my head, and you can't pick up in the middle of the classics. And you play hell building a repertory of that stuff, when you gotta wait sometimes a year, two years, to see the thing twice." He rubbed his eyes, as though remembering hours of concentration before a video screen. "You gotta see 'em plugged and plugged and plugged. And all the time new ones - and lots of 'em steals from oldies."
"Tough, eh?" said Paul.
Alfy raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, it's tough - like anything else. Tough to be the best."
"There's punks trying to break in, but they can't touch Alfy," said the bartender.
"They're good in their specialties - usually the quick killings," said Alfy. "You know, the minute a new number's out, they try and cash in on it before everybody's seen it. But none of 'em's making a living at it, I'll tell you that. Got no repertory, and that's what it takes to keep going day in, day out."
"This is your living?" said Paul. He hadn't succeeded in keeping the sense of whimsey out of his voice, and quick resentment was all about him.
"Yeah," said Alfy coldly, "this is my living. A buck here, ten cents there -"
"Twenty bucks here," said Paul. This seemed to soften most of the expressions.
The bartender was anxious to maintain a friendly atmosphere. "Alfy started out as a pool shark, eh, Alfy?" he said briskly.
"Yeah. But the field's crowded. Maybe room for ten, twenty guys going at it steady. There must of been a couple of hundred of us trying to make a go of it with pool. The Army and the Reeks and Wrecks were on my tail, so I started looking around for something else. Funny, without thinking much about it, I'd been doing this since I was a kid. It's what I should of gone into right from the first. Reeks and Wrecks," he said contemptuously, apparently recalling how close he came to being drafted into the R and R Corps. "Army!" He spat.
A couple of soldiers and a large number of men from the Reeks and Wrecks heard him insult their organizations, and they did nothing but nod, sharing his contempt.
Alfy looked at the screen. " 'Baby, Dear Baby, Come Home With Me Now,' " he said. "A newy." He hurried to the bar to study the movements of the band more closely. The bartender rested his hand on the volume knob and watched anxiously for Alfy's signals. Alfy would raise an eyebrow, and the bartender would turn up the volume. It would be on for a few seconds, Alfy would nod, and off it would go again.
"What'll it be, boys?" said the waitress.
"Hmmm?" said Paul, still fascinated by Alfy. "Oh - bourbon and water." He was experimenting with his eyes, and finding that they didn't work too well.
"Irish and water," said Finnerty. "Hungry?"
"Yeah - give us a couple of hard-boiled eggs, please." Paul felt wonderful, at one with the saloon, and, by extension, with all humanity and the universe. He felt witty, and on the verge of a splendid discovery. Then he remembered. "Holy God! Anita!"
"Where?"
"At home - waiting." Unsteadily, mumbling cheery greetings to all he passed, Paul got to the telephone booth, which reeked with a previous occupant's cigar smoke. He called home.
"Look, Anita - I won't be home for supper. Finnerty and I got to talking, and -"
"It's all right, dear. Shepherd told me not to wait."
"Shepherd?"
"Yes - he saw you down there, and told me you didn't look like a man on his way home."
"When did you see him?"
"He's here now. He came to apologize for last night. Everything's all ironed out, and we're having a very nice time."
"Oh? You accepted his apology?"
"Let's say we arrived at an understanding. He's worried that you'll turn in a bad report on him to Kroner, and I did everything I could to make him think you were considering it seriously."
"Oh, now listen, I'm not going to turn in any bad report on that -"
"It's the way he plays. Fight fire with fire. I got him to agree not to spread any more tales about you. Aren't you proud of me?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Now you've got to keep working on him, keep him worried."
"Uh-huh."
"Now, you just go ahead and have a good time. It does you good to get away now and then."
"Yes'm."
"And please try to get Finnerty to move out."
"Yes'm."
"Do you think I nag you?"
"No'm."
"Paul! Would you like it if I didn't take an interest?"
"No'm."
"All right. You just go ahead and get drunk. It'll do you good. Eat something, though. I love you."