ONE

Atlantic City • New York City, 1993

 

'From the legendary Pharaoh's Palace Resort and Casino here on the world-famous Boardwalk in Atlantic City,' boomed the slick professional announcer, 'it's the annual forty-eight-hour Children's Relief Year-Round All-Star Telethon! And now, introducing your host and hostess for the first six-hour portion of the CRY telethon, won't you please help me welcome those superstars of stage, screen, and television - heeeeeere're Shanna Parker and Joe Belmotti!'

The live audience in the Cleopatra Auditorium applauded wildly as the first orchestral stanzas of 'On the Boardwalk' started up and two spotlights clicked on. Bathed in one, Shanna Parker strode perkily out from stage left, all aglitter in a figure-hugging gown of silver-and-blue sequins. Joe Belmotti, tanned as a nut in his formal black tie, entered smoothly from stage right in the second spot.

'Thank you, Jack,' Shanna purred into her hand-held microphone. Then, porcelain smiles beaming, she and Joe Belmotti called out, 'Hello, America!' in unison while spreading their arms wide to encompass everybody.

'Hello, Shanna and Joe!' the audience roared back, bursting into a fresh round of frenzied applause.

'What a nice audience!' Shanna told them warmly. 'Let's hear it for all of you!' And tucking their microphones under their arms, she and Joe began to clap enthusiastically.

'And now, what do you say we hear it for the good cause we're all here for?' Joe Belmotti added once the applause died down.

More wild clapping followed.

'Isn't it wonderful to be here, Joe?' Shanna asked him excitedly. 'I wouldn't have missed this for anything in the world! You wouldn't believe the guests we've got lined up! But first, why don't you tell all those viewers out there who are not familiar with CRY what this wonderful organisation is all about, and how much good it is doing each and every day?'

Joe Belmotti picked up without missing a beat.

'And wonderful it is, the good CRY is doing, Shanna. Did you know that every single day, millions upon millions of children around the world are going to bed hungry or dying of treatable diseases? That's why CRY

'Which stands for Children's Relief Year-Round,' Shanna interjected quickly.

' - feeds and clothes millions of children, and sends doctors and nurses out into Third World countries - and even to pockets of poverty right here at home.'

'And, since CRY is a nonprofit agency,' Shanna added, 'it's the pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, and dollars which you, the good sponsors, pledge and send in which finance all these good deeds. Without your tax-deductible contributions, all those millions of children we're helping would suffer. Not only that, but there are so many millions more crying out for help right now. Now, why don't we show our friends all across America the Pledge Room, where the first shift of two hundred and fifty volunteers - who, I might mention, have generously donated their time - are manning the telephones for our pledge number, which will appear on the screen from time to time.'

And in the Pledge Room, spurred on by the two celebrities, the switchboard for the phone-in number suddenly lit up like a Christmas tree.

 

 

'God, but that woman has a voice!' Sammy Kafka rhapsodised as the two men let themselves be swept out of Lincoln Center by the formally dressed crowd. 'Like an angel she sings!' He kissed his fingertips noisily. 'Ah, but to spend a lifetime with her and be privileged to hear her practice! That would be heaven, dear boy! Sheer blissful heaven!'

'But I thought you didn't like fat women,' Carleton Merlin observed with a smile.

'Fat?' Sammy Kafka looked up at his friend sharply. 'Who says she's fat? She's zaftig! He clenched his liver-spotted hands and shook his fists robustly. 'Zaftig! he repeated with a boyish gleam in his eye.

Carleton Merlin laughed and clapped Sammy gently on the back. He was long since used to the foibles of Sammy Kafka, his oldest and dearest friend. One perfect high C, and Sammy inevitably fell rapturously, instantaneously, head-over-heels in love. It never failed.

'That way,' Sammy said quickly, and pointed to the right. Carleton, much the taller of the two, craned his head and looked. Sure enough, there was an opening in the crowd.

Wisely, Sammy held onto Carleton's arm so they wouldn't get separated in the crush. For Sammy Kafka was very, very short, and could easily be swallowed up in a crowd. He was also exquisite - a darling old man with tufts of snowy-white hair who was forever dapper - a dandy in his late seventies. Carleton had never once seen Sammy looking anything less than perfect - and perfection in Sammy Kafka's case included a fresh red carnation in his lapel, a perfectly tied bow of polka-dot silk at his neck, and a high-gloss shine on his shoes.

Something about Sammy that gave an impression of perpetual youth. Perhaps it was the way his crinkly gazelle eyes smiled out at the world in wonder, as if every day was his first. Or it could simply have been his vim and vigour, his sprightly step, or the jaunty, youthful tilt of his head. Whatever the case, he looked so endearingly cute that no matter what eccentricities he displayed, they were instantly forgiven with a friendly smile - a response not shared by those who worked in the world of music and knew him better. World-class composers, conductors, musicians, singers - even set-designers - for them the darling little man meant sheer unmitigated terror.

For Sammy Kafka was the most eminent classical music critic in America. Some said the entire world.

Carleton Merlin was younger than his seventy-seven-year-old friend: he'd recently turned a chipper sixty-eight. But in his own way, he was just as different from the rest of mankind as Sammy Kafka.

People tended to forget that Carleton Merlin had been born in Boston - he looked the very picture of southern aristocracy. He was a hospitable mint-julep of a gentleman. Whereas Sammy was tiny, he was tall and imposing; whereas Sammy looked like a gust of wind could blow him away, Carleton wore his paunch with pride. He tended towards white tropical suits, Panama hats, and thin black string ties - which, together with his white goatee and hair, made him a dead ringer for a plantation colonel. His silver-headed cane was no affectation: an accident many years ago had left him with a pronounced limp.

'Just look at them!' Sammy growled. 'You'd think King Kong was on the rampage!' He gestured angrily at the crowd which surged across the plaza and on down the steps to the street. 'Inside, it's all "Brava! Brava!", and now they have left it all behind them already! Where are they rushing off to in such a hurry? Little egg-carton rooms? After-theatre suppers? PeopleV he snorted. 'Sometimes they don't deserve the beauty their money buys them.' Malevolently he eyed the crowd that still poured by.'Dilettantes! he shouted. In his mind, it was the worst thing he could call anyone.

Carleton had to laugh. Sammy had never had any patience with people who ate and ran. And what is opera? he could almost hear Sammy expound. Why, it's the finest damn feast on earth -food for the soul! So how can they listen and just run, dammit?

'Come, let's wait for these lemmings to thin out,' Carleton said in disgust, and steered his friend to the water fountain in the middle of the plaza. It had become a tradition for them to sit there and savour the performance they had just heard - if, indeed, it was justified. Tonight that was happily the case, and they both felt elevated and electrified - too elevated and far too electrified to scurry off into the glittering late spring night. Such a perfectly staged opera deserved to be savoured, to be allowed to linger on the senses like a fine wine singing on the palate.

For long minutes they just sat there, Sammy with his head tilted to one side and his hands folded precisely on his lap, Carleton with his large-boned gnarled hands resting atop the silver knob of his ebony cane.

A shift in the breeze enveloped them in a thin mist of cool spray.

'So ... ' Sammy said. 'Are you planning to stay in town long this time?'

Carleton didn't hear him. The 'Ombra Leggera' from Meyerbeer's Dinorah still filled his mind with the rich, resonant notes of the first-rate soprano.

'I said,' Sammy repeated a little testily, 'now that you're back, are you planning to stay in town for a while?'

'For the next few days, yes,' Carleton nodded. 'Then I have to fly back to London, and from there on to Vienna.'

'Still researching that damn Schneider biography, I see,' Sammy said with a disgruntled grumble. 'You and Lili Schneider! You've spent how many years on research now? Two and a half? Three?'

Carleton glanced at him with an amused smile. 'Closer to five.'

'Five years!' Sammy sighed, and shook his head morosely. 'At our age, that could be the remainder of our lifetimes.'

Carleton shrugged. 'Lili warrants a definitive biography. So far, everything published about her has been either thoroughly sanitised or else totally scandalous.'

'And you've found out something new? Something earth- shattering, I suppose?' Sammy was careful to sound cynical and vaguely disinterested. He knew only too well that Carleton guarded his biographical discoveries as jealously as a miser his gold, and that asking him specific questions was the quickest road to nowhere. A roundabout little song-and-dance number would achieve far more.

'Oh, I guess you could say I've been making some progress,' Carleton said offhandedly, and nodded.

'That's good,' Sammy nodded. 'That's good.'

'I like to think so.' Carleton stared at the five soaring glass arches of the Metropolitan Opera House which, with its modern chandeliers and Chagall's dreamy murals, never failed to depress him. The stark modernity made him long for the gilded confections of the grand old opera houses of Europe.

'And when your research is all said and done,' Sammy went on in that same disinterested tone, 'we will find out that Lili had a passion for Swiss chocolate, or that she didn't pay her couturier bill on time, or bartered her body in exchange for diamonds or some such?'

'Well . . . something to that effect, I suppose,' Carleton said solemnly, as though such minutiae weighed heavymost on his mind.

'And, judging from your past biographies, I assume you will also wait until right before publication, and then call a press conference where you will announce some earth-shaking information that will jolt the public to its very toes?' His line cast, Sammy squinted sideways at him and waited.

But Carleton didn't bite; he swam blithely past the bait. 'A news conference . . . hmmm.' He frowned thoughtfully and nodded slowly. 'Yes. My publisher would like that, I think. A titbit . . . something tasty ... a morsel to whet everyone's appetite ... I must remember that. Tends to sell a lot of copies, you know.'

Sammy stifled a growl of disgust. Trying to get solid information out of Carleton could be like prying open a clam that had been welded shut.

'And this titbit you will share with so much fanfare ... I suppose you already know what it is?'

'Well, I have given it some thought,' Carleton admitted, 'yes.'

'And it will be earth-shattering?'

'That too.' Carleton managed to look bored, as if it was the furthest thing from his mind - a sure indication to Sammy that he was not only holding back, but sitting on a doozie.

What could it be? 'A lost recording?' Sammy ventured slyly. 'A hitherto undiscovered studio tape?'

'I'm always on the lookout for one.' Carleton seemed totally blas6. You're putting me to sleep, his droopy eyes communicated.

Sammy felt like shaking him and screaming.

'You've dug up an illegitimate child?' Sammy was grasping for any straw.

'A child of Lili's would be news, yes,' Carleton agreed.

'But it isn't a recording and it isn't a child, is it, Carleton?' Sammy sounded very vexed.

But it was as if Carleton hadn't heard. 'Of course, I'm leaving no stone unturned. With biographies, one has to dig deep and keep digging. You wouldn't believe the secrets the average human mind harbours, Sammy. So when it comes to a great dead genius, you can expect the secrets he or she took to the grave to be buried more deeply than most.'

'Carleton, you really are a first-class schmuck!' Sammy said in disgust. 'Don't forty years of friendship count for anything? You know I can keep a secret. But the way you're carrying on, well . . . one would think you'd discovered the cure for cancer!'

Carleton just smiled.

'You know how I hate mysteries,' Sammy moped.

'Ah, but this one, my friend, will be well worth waiting for. You shall see.'

'If you say so,' Sammy said peevishly, knowing it was futile to pry any further.

Which only proves one thing, Sammy thought. Whatever he's discovered, it's big. Really big. But what could it be?

They sat in silence a while longer. The departing opera buffs had thinned to a mere trickle; the plaza was nearly empty, giving it a slightly perilous, gloomy appearance.

Finally, Sammy sighed. 'It's time we got going,' he muttered, getting to his feet, 'or else we'll make perfect targets for muggers.' Looking down at himself, he adjusted the carnation in his lapel.

Leaning on his cane, Carleton pushed himself to his feet, and together the two friends strolled slowly to the steps and down to where Columbus Avenue crosses Broadway, where they embraced and parted company, promising to call each other soon. With his usual sprightliness, Sammy headed uptown, while Carleton, with his usual slow but steady, stately limp, made his way over to Seventh Avenue and down to Fifty-seventh Street.

He couldn't help but chuckle.

If only Sammy knew! he kept thinking with a surge of elation. But even if he'd told his friend what he was sitting on, Sammy wouldn't have believed him. Nobody would. Until recently, neither would I, he reminded himself.

It was a short walk to 205 West Fifty-seventh Street, and his apartment at the Osborne, the second-oldest luxury apartment building in the City. Reddish stone, symmetrically placed bay windows, and the style of a heavily rusticated Renaissance palazzo gave the building a dignity which even its grime and ground-floor storefronts could not entirely mar.

The night doorman greeted him with a smile. 'The opera again?' he guessed as he held the door.

Carleton laughed and waved his cane. 'You, my friend, should be a detective.'

And with a rare dance step which attested to his ebullient mood, Carleton made his way to the elevators doing an ungainly imitation of Fred Astaire.

He was still dancing clumsily when he let himself into the substantial splendour of his apartment. It was enormous for a lone man, especially a man whose wants decreased with every passing year. As far as he was concerned, there were altogether far too many rooms filled with far too many bibelots and dust- catchers - a lifetime's accumulation of well, just stuff. Funny, how the older one got, the less material things meant.

I pity Stephanie the day I kick the bucket, he thought. In fact, I pity anybody who has to clean this place out and get rid of all these tschotskes.

Humming the 'Ombra Leggera', he flipped his Panama hat at the coatstand; as usual, it landed perfectly on one of the hooks. Then, leaving his cane by the front door, he limped to the kitchen to rummage through the ancient refrigerator he'd never bothered replacing, and eyeing the shelves Pham Van Hau, his Vietnamese housekeeper-cum-handyman-cum-jack-of-all-trades extraordinaire kept stocked with food, decided to build himself a substantial sandwich. He got out the pumpernickel and Pham's speciality, a cold, cholesterol-rich pork roast which would have made his doctor blanch, and cut a two-inch-thick slice, put it between the bread, and added ketchup for good measure. Then, pouring himself a healthy jolt of red table wine, he munched and sipped contentedly as he limped his way to the room in which he spent nearly all of his time.

Like many a person who lived alone, he automatically flipped on the television for company. It happened to be set to one of the local independent stations.

' . . . Weren't they wonderful, Joe?' gushed the perky voice onscreen. 'And to think they haven't sung as a trio since 1968! This truly was history in the making! You know, just hearing them again took me right back to the heyday of Motown?'

'It did me, too, Shanna. Weren't those the days? Anyway, on to more serious matters. According to the note I was just handed, would you believe that in the last three hours we've raised a total of . . . twenty . . . three . . . million . . . dollars! Now isn't that something?'

Rousing applause greeted this news.

'It sure is, Joe. But as anyone out there who's been to a supermarket knows, money isn't worth what it used to be ... '

Carleton set down his sandwich and shot a scowl at the TV set. Then he went into the connecting bathroom, plopped his dentures into a glass, took a high blood pressure pill, and limped back out. He was still wide awake, too wide awake to go to sleep just yet. Maybe he'd work on the Schneider biography for a few more hours. Every hour is precious, he thought. And there's still so much to do.

' . . . And just so nobody gets the wrong idea, Joe, we've got to make our viewers understand that they shouldn't be fooled by what seems like a lot of money pouring in. It really isn't much, not for what CRY wants to do.'

'That's right, Shanna. We've got to make people understand that knowing someone else is calling in and pledging a donation just isn't enough. You know, CRY isn't just the sound of a child weeping, it's -'

' - A call for help,' Shanna finished smoothly for him.

'CRY needs help all right!' Carleton snarled, glowering as he snapped off the TV. 'Goddamn hypocrites!' he muttered.

Just then, from out in the hallway, he heard the doorbell.

Frowning, he cocked his head. It was nearly midnight.

'Now who the hell can that be?' he muttered to himself, before shuffling painfully off to see.