Laverne turned off the radio. “The d.j.’s aren’t playing it in the East,” she said. “I think we’re in trouble.”
“It’s a fine tune, Laverne. Did you do the words and the music?”
“What? Oh. Yeah.”
“Which do you write first, dear, the lyric or the melody?”
“The lyric, the melody. It doesn’t make any difference.”
“You certainly are an ambitious little girl. I don’t think I ever met anyone like you.”
“What’s wrong with ambition?”
“Nothing, dear.”
“Do they give concerts at your school, Professor? Do they ever bring in singers from the outside?”
“Well, they do, Laverne, but I’m afraid I have no influence with the Concert Committee.”
“What did you think of the song?”
“I enjoyed it very much.”
“Do you think it will be a hit?”
“A scholar doesn’t really have much knowledge about these things. Is that very important, Laverne?”
“Well, they don’t give out gold records for duds, kiddo.”
“Is that what you want out of life, Laverne? A gold record?”
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: You talked about life with a ten-year-old? Life?
JACK PATTERSON: Yes, sir.
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Go on.
JACK PATTERSON: “Of course I want a gold record,” Laverne said. “That’s one of the things I want. Most of the others will have to wait. They don’t write leading roles for ten-year-old girls. What can a person like myself expect on Broadway? One of the brats in Sound of Music? ‘Do a deer, a female deer, re a drop of golden sun.’”
“Why are you in such a hurry, Laverne?”
“‘Cause I’m dying of cancer, kiddo. I’ve got twenty-seven minutes to live.”
“Laverne!”
“Pour yourself another scotch, Professor.”
“Well, thank you very much, Laverne. I think I will. I just wish there were some ice.”
“Take it out of my root beer.”
“Well, that’s very sweet of you, Laverne, but if I do your root beer will be warm.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a broken heart for every light on Broadway.”
“I think I’m getting a little tipsy, Laverne dear.”
“The schmuck didn’t even tell them I’m ten years old.”
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
“He didn’t even announce the label I’m with.”
“What grade are you in?”
“The Hartford market is one of the biggest in New England. I think I’m a dead duck. What are you giggling about?”
“This is the way I talk to the baby-sitter.”
“You’re married, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s Miss Tabisco, your chauffeur?”
“Miss Tabisco is one of my pupils. She’s one of the scholars here at HCC.”
Laverne shrugged. “Listen, I’ve got to make some phone calls,” she said. “Just hand me that little address book, would you, the one on the desk.” I gave her her book. It was opened to her page on Hartford. In it she had written down the names and phone numbers of about two dozen people here — the editors of the high-school and junior-high-school newspapers, chairmen of dance committees, even the entertainment editors on the Courant and the Intelligencer. I lay back on her bed and listened to her on the phone. “Hi,” she’d say, “this is Laverne Luftig, the ten-year-old singer. I sent you a letter about two weeks ago, and I’m calling to remind you about my press conference tomorrow morning. Don’t forget now, I’m looking forward to meeting you personally and presenting you with an autographed copy of my new recording.” Then when she finished with the list, she called the manager of the hotel to double-check the arrangements for the hospitality suite for the press conference. She was wonderful.
“What do your parents think about your career?” I asked her. Then it suddenly occurred to me that her song might be autobiographical. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, “are your parents living, Laverne?”
“Yeah,” she said, “but my manager died. Listen, it was sweet of you to pick me up and fill me in about tonight, but don’t you think you ought to be getting back? I mean, won’t Miss Tabisco and your wife be wondering what’s happened to you?”
“Shall I tell you a little secret, Laverne?”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve checked into the hotel. My room is just below yours.”
It was time for station identification and a commercial. During the break Bernie Perk told Jack Patterson that he thought he’d better not go on with his story, but Jack didn’t seem even to hear him. He had stopped obediently for the commercial break and now seemed as remote as when he had slumped in his chair earlier. Then, two seconds before being given their cue, Behr-Bleibtreau said again that someone in the studio was carrying a gun.
DICK: What was that? What did you just say?
JACK PATTERSON: “Look, Professor—” Laverne said.
“Don’t send me away, Laverne. I just want to look at you. Make some more calls. I like to watch your face when you’re on the phone.”
DICK: Professor Behr-Bleibtreau, what was that you said?
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: A ten-year-old girl? A ten-year-old girl’s face? Is that what you’re telling us?
JACK PATTERSON: Yes, sir.
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Go on.
JACK PATTERSON: “Yeah, well, it’s time for my nap.”
“Don’t give me that, Laverne.”
“I’m ten years old, for God’s sake.”
“Juliet was thirteen.”
“I may be hip but I’m just a kid.”
“Dante fell in love with Beatrice when she was only eleven.”
“Just because I’m in show business, don’t think I’m loose.”
“Lord Byron loved Haidée when she was barely twelve.”
“I’m ten.”
“You’re ten and a half.” “You’re mussing my hair.”
“Helen of Troy was nine. So was Héloïse when Abelard fell for her. Psyche was six, Laverne. And what about Little Red Riding Hood? When you come right down to it, how old could Eve have been — a day, two days?”
“My dress, you’re mussing me. My dress is all the way up.”
PEPPER STEEP: This is incredible. You — you—
JACK PATTERSON: All I did was kiss her, I tell you. It was her face. This wasn’t adultery. I swear, Annette. I swear, Miss Tabisco. It was her face. I mean, she wasn’t even well developed. Where was the sex? She had no bust, no hips. I never even looked at her legs. All I did was kiss her. The bones and intelligence and beauty. My tongue like a red ribbon in her mouth.
PEPPER STEEP: Disgusting!
MEL SON: Where were your hands?
JACK PATTERSON: In her hair, in her ears. Vaulting her teeth. In her syrups and salivas.
BERNIE PERK: Oh, Jack.
PEPPER STEEP: What did she say after all this?
JACK PATTERSON: That I couldn’t come to her press conference.
PEPPER STEEP: Now I’ve heard everything.
MEL SON: I think so.
BERNIE PERK: Jack, you shouldn’t have told that story on yourself. Why did you tell such a story?
DICK: I would have stopped him, but he said it would be all right.
PEPPER STEEP: The man’s a slime.
BERNIE PERK: What’s the matter with you, Pepper? It was a joke. Ladies and gentlemen, I knew Professor Patterson since he first moved into the Hartford area, and believe me he is not the type of person he describes in this story.