“Right. You'll pay off at track odds?”
He nodded.
I was so nervous during the day I kept going into Joe's office to nip at a bottle he kept in his desk, till he asked, “What you got the shakes about?”
“Nothing. I... eh... didn't sleep much last night.”
I had coffee and a sandwich for lunch at an orangeade stand, and at three I went into Jake Webster's office to learn if I had a thousand dollars.
The radio said Outsmarted had closed at 12 to 1. The horse didn't win, but showed, and if I had played the nag across the board I would have won about two hundred dollars. Now I was flat-busted and that was that. When I needed my luck it wasn't there, or maybe I had outsmarted myself again.
Jake asked, “Lose a big one, Mr. Jackson? Look sick.”
“I was playing a long shot.”
He grinned. “You got no kick, been booting them home for a long time. Got to expect a loss now and then. I remember once....”
I went back to my office and I felt lousy. There were about half a dozen ways I could raise money. I could easily borrow a thousand from any bank, only what would happen when that was gone and I had to pay off the bank and Lee? That would be a mess I couldn't get out of—there's no arguing with a bank. Of course I could go from bank to bank, kite a loan for about a year, only sooner or later they would catch up with me and that would mean the end of my job, and now the job seemed the only thing in life I had; I couldn't chance losing that. I might try asking for a raise. I was due one and I could certainly use the extra five or ten bucks each week, but at the moment I didn't feel up to buttering anybody.
Flo would lend me money, but somehow I couldn't ask her. She'd start prying, and even though it wasn't important at the moment, it would be the final defeat in our marital tiffs. I'd be in debt to her or, I suppose, beholden to her is the better phrase, for the rest of my life. And I didn't want to cast off Flo, I wanted her back. I wanted (and so badly) everything I had in my old life, even my monthly fights with Flo.
Joe would be good for a few hundred, he and Walt seemed to be prospering in their racket. But I already owed Joe nearly a hundred, borrowing a dollar or two, here and there. Besides, I'd have to explain too much to him, too.
Marion Keating might lend me money, but that would be embarrassing—I never had been that friendly with her.
Then there was Mr. Henderson, but I kept dismissing what I was thinking about him. It was an ugly thought.
(And the strange part was, that of all the ways I had of raising money, and I had to have more money, I was so afraid of offending convention, I finally tried the one, impossible, absolutely wrong way of raising the dough)
Not being able to dance left me restless as the devil and I suddenly wondered why I didn't try dancing for money? The idea excited me. I was sure my mixed dance routine was some-thing never seen before, something really different. In tails, with a band playing bebop, rumba, corn, and a dash of classical music, I would wow 'em with my combination tap, ballet, and ballroom dancing. I was tall and thin, looked sophisticated—on the style of Clifton Webb. With the right lighting, I had the sort of routine that would go over big in a smart night club. The first thing was to interest an agent. I went through my files. Before the war we'd held a big sales convention in New York and had booked a band and several acts through a Danny Alberts. I called him and he said of course he remembered me. (What he remembered was Sky Oil, Inc.) I told him, “This is a sort of personal favor. Friend of mine has a dance act, a high class single, and he's looking for an agent.”
“Be glad to give him a try-out, Mr. Jackson,” Alberts said, his voice friendly over the phone.
“I... eh... thought you might recommend somebody who books dancers exclusively. This is a serious type of dance, suitable only for a certain type of night spot.” I couldn't use Alberts, he might remember me.
“Gotcha, Mr. Jackson, only don't think I don't handle high class acts. I....”
“I'm sure you do, Mr. Alberts, but this fellow needs a dance specialist.”
“Know what you mean, perfectly. Tell you, there's a Dennis Coles up on 50th Street. He handles lots of long-haired stuff. I'll make an appointment. What's this guy's name?”
“Lee Henderson,” I said promptly.
“Swell. Call you back in a few minutes. You fellows having another convention here soon?”
“Nothing on the fire at the moment, but when we do, I'll know who to call,” I said.
He called me back within ten minutes and then I—or Lee Henderson—called Dennis Coles. I had heard of Coles and was pleased he was to handle me. I arranged to rent a studio and show him my dance that afternoon in Steinway Hall.
Borrowing ten bucks from Joe, I took a cab up to the house to get my dancing shoes and sweat suit. I rang and rang and didn't get any answer. Finally I let myself in, Lee wasn't home and the house was a mess, it actually stunk. My blue sheets were a dirty gray. It took me a moment to get my things and pick up a dozen records. I knew Lee must be out shopping and I wanted to be gone before she returned.
But that gave me another idea—one I should have had from the start.
I hailed a cab and had him wait across Park Avenue. I sat in the cab, watching the house and my watch. Exactly twelve minutes later Lee came swinging up the street, a bag of groceries in her arms. I grinned—to myself—and told the cabbie to drive to Steinway Hall.
I ran into trouble there—they didn't have an automatic phonograph. The slinky-looking blonde in the renting office was listening to a small portable radio, and for a few bucks I rented that.
Coles was a short slender man, with a homely, pointed, sensitive face, and an absolutely bald head. I explained that I usually danced to records but I'd have to use a disc jockey due to the lack of a phonograph. I explained how I'd dance in tails, with the proper lighting, the type of audience I was aiming for, and all that.
He listened patiently, and we talked about dancing for a while and I dropped a few names to tell him I knew my dancing. Then he lit a cigarette and sat down. I tuned in a couple of records shows and they were all playing corn. When I heard one of Duke's numbers I nodded to Coles and started dancing, and God it felt wonderful to be dancing again. I had expected to be a bit rusty, but I found myself dancing at my best, moving smoothly, my taps clean and clear. When the disc jockey read a commercial I did a soft shoe routine, and then I was in luck—they played an Afro-Cuban number I knew and I really went to town. I kept praying they wouldn't play any hill-billy numbers. The next record was a fast jazz number which I did as a modern dance, using my hands a lot. I was doing some tricky tap steps when I glanced at Coles. There was a faint smile on his face.
I stopped dancing and he merely shook his head. I turned off the radio, took it back to the blonde. When I returned, Coles was gone. I dressed quickly. That smile told me everything—I was a middle-aged man making a pitiful fool of himself.
I guess it was a bad blow, not only to my plans, but to my vanity. But I didn't take it hard, I was too full of my other plan, my new one, to be depressed. That night, after I had washed my socks and underwear, hung them on the line I'd rigged across my room, I took a pencil and paper and sat on the bed.