What's Better Than Money (6 page)

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll think it over.”

He gave me his cool white hand as if he was conferring a favour on me, then I was ushered out by the nurse.

On my way back to the rooming-house, I thought about what he had said, and for the first time in my life I really felt the urge for some money. But what hope had I of laying my hands on five thousand dollars? If I could raise that sum by some miracle, if I could get Rima cured, I was absolutely certain she would go to the top and I would go with her.

As I was walking along, brooding, I passed a big store that sold gramophone and radio equipment. I paused to look at the brightly coloured sleeves of the long play discs, imagining how Rima’s photograph would look on one of those sleeves.

A notice in the window caught my attention.

Record Your Voice on Tape. A three minute recording for only $2.50. Take your voice home in your pocket and surprise your friends.

That gave me an idea.

If I could get Rima’s voice recorded, I wouldn’t have the worry of wondering when I got her an audition that she would blow up as she had done at the Blue Rose. I could hawk the tape around, and maybe get someone interested enough to advance the money for her cure.

I hurried back to the rooming-house.

Rima was up and dressed when I walked into her room. She was sitting by the window, smoking. She turned and looked expectantly at me.

“Dr. Klinzi says he can cure you,” I said, sitting on the bed, “but it costs. He wants five thousand bucks.”

She wrinkled her nose, then shrugging, she turned back to stare out of the window.

“Nothing is impossible,” I said. “I have an idea. We’re going to record your voice. There’s a chance someone in the business will put up the money if he hears what you can do. Come on, let’s go.”

“You’re crazy. No one will pay out that kind of money.”

“Leave me to worry about that. Let’s go.”

On the way to the store, I said, “We’ll do
Some of these Days.
Do you know it?”

She said she knew it.

“As loud and as fast as you can.”

The salesman who took us into the recording room was supercilious and bored. It was pretty obvious he looked on us as a couple of bums with nothing better to do than to squander two dollars fifty and waste his time.

“We’ll have a run through first,” I said, sitting down at the piano. “Loud and fast.”

The salesman switched on the recorder.

“We don’t reckon to have rehearsals,” he said. “I’ll fix it as she goes.”

“We’ll have a run through first,” I said. “This may not be important to you, but it is to us.”

I began to play, keeping the tempo a shade faster than it is usually taken. Rima came in loud and fast. I looked across at the salesman. Her clear silver notes seemed to have stunned him. He stood motionless, gaping at her.

I’ve never heard her sing better. It was really something to hear.

We did a verse and a chorus, then I stopped her.

“Sweet grief!” the salesman said in a hushed whisper. “I’ve never heard anything like it!”

Rima looked at him indifferently and said nothing.

“Now we’ll record it. Okay for sound?” I said.

“Go ahead,” the salesman said, adjusting the recording knob. “Ready when you are,” and he started the tape running through the recording head.

Rima, if anything, was a shade better this time. She certainly had all the professional tricks, but that didn’t matter. What counted was her tone. The notes came out of her throat with the clearness of a silver bell.

When the recording was finished, the salesman offered to play it back over an electrostatic speaker.

We sat down and listened.

With the volume right up and the filters on to cut out the valve hiss, her voice sounded larger than life and terrific. It was the most exciting recording I have ever listened to.

“Phew!” the salesman said as he took off the tape, “how you can sing! You should let Al Shirely hear this recording. He would go crazy about it.”

“Al Shirely? Who is he?” I asked.

“Shirely?” The salesman looked amazed. “Why, he’s the boss of the Californian Recording Company. He’s the guy who discovered Joy Miller. Last year she made five discs. Know what she made from them? A half a million! And let me tell you something! She doesn’t know how to sing if you compare her with this kid, I’m telling you! I’ve been in the business for years. I’ve never heard anyone to touch this kid. You talk to Shirely. He’ll fix her when he hears this tape.”

I thanked him. When I offered him the two dollars fifty for the recording, he waved it aside.

“Forget it. If s been an experience and a pleasure. You talk to Shirely. It would give me a big bang if he took her up.” He shook hands with me. “Good luck. You can’t fail to go places.”

I was pretty worked up as we walked back along the waterfront to the rooming-house. If Rima was a better singer than Joy Miller, and this salesman should know what he was talking about then she could earn enormous money. Suppose in her first year she did click, and made half a million! Ten per cent of half a million sounded pretty good to me.

I looked at her as we walked along, side by side. She moved listlessly, her hands deep in the pockets of her jeans.

“This afternoon I’ll talk to Shirely,” I said. “Maybe he’ll spring the five thousand for your cure. You heard what the guy said. You could go right to the top.”

“I’m hungry,” she said sullenly. “Can’t I have something to eat?”

“Are you listening to what I’m saying?” I stopped and pulled her around so she faced me. “You could make a fortune with that voice of yours. All you want is a cure.”

“You’re kidding yourself,” she said, jerking free. “I’ve had a cure. It doesn’t work. How about something to eat?”

“Dr. Klinzi could fix you. Maybe Shirely would advance the money when he hears the recording.”

“Maybe I’ll grow wings and fly away. No one is going to lend us that kind of money.”

Around three o’clock that afternoon, I borrowed Rusty’s car and drove over to Hollywood. I had the tape in my pocket and I was really worked up.

I knew it would be fatal to tell Shirely that Rima was a junky. I felt sure, if he knew, he wouldn’t touch her.

Somehow I had to persuade him to part with a five thousand dollar advance. I had no idea how I was going to do it. Everything depended on how he reacted to the tape. If he was really enthusiastic, then I might get him to part with the money.

The Californian Recording Company was housed within a stone’s throw of the M.G.M. Studios. It was a two-storey building that covered practically an acre of ground. There was the usual reception office outside the gates with two tough-looking, uniformed guards to take care of the unwelcomed visitors.

It was when I saw the size of the place, I realised what I was up against. This was big-time, and I had an abrupt loss of confidence. I was suddenly aware of my shabby suit and my scruffy shoes.

One of the guards moved forward as I came up. He looked me over, decided I was of no importance and asked in a rough-tough voice what I wanted.

I said I wanted to talk to Mr. Shirely.

That seemed to kill him.

“So do twenty million others. You gotta appointment?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t see him.”

This was the moment for a bluff. I was desperate enough to swear my father had been a negro.

“Well, okay. I’ll tell him how efficient you are,” I said. “He told me to look in when I was passing, but if you won’t let me in, that’s his loss, not mine.”

He did a quick double-take.

“He said that?”

“Why not? He and my father were at college together.”

He lost his aggressive look.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Jeff Gordon.”

“Just hang on a moment.”

He went into the reception office and talked on the telephone. He came out after a while, unlocked the gates and waved me in.

“Ask for Miss Weseen.”

At least that was one step forward.

Dry mouthed and with my heart thumping, I walked up the drive to the imposing entrance hall where a boy in a sky blue uniform and brass buttons that glittered like diamonds, conducted me along a corridor lined on either side by polished mahogany doors to a door marked with a brass plate:

Mr. Harry Knight and Miss Henrietta Weseen.

The boy opened the door and waved me in.

I walked into a large room decorated in dove grey where about fifteen people sat around in lounging chairs looking like the legion of the lost.

I had no time to concentrate on them before I found myself staring into emerald green eyes that were as hard as glass and just as expressionless.

The owner of the eyes was a girl of about twenty four, a red-head with a Munro bust, a Bardot hip line and an expression that would have frozen an Eskimo.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Shirely, please.”

She patted her hair and regarded me as if I were something out of a zoo.

“Mr. Shirely never sees anyone. Mr. Knight is engaged. All these people are waiting for him.” She waved a languid hand at the lost legion. “If you will give me your name and tell me your business I’ll try to fit you in at the end of the week.”

I could see the lie I had told the guard wouldn’t cut any ice with her. She was smart, wise and lie-proof.

If I couldn’t bluff her I was fixed.

I said carelessly, “A week? Too late. If Knight can’t see me right now, he’s going to lose money and Mr. Shirely will be annoyed with him.”

Feeble stuff, but it was the best I could do.

At least everyone in the room was listening, leaning forward and pointing like gundogs.

If they were impressed, Miss Weseen wasn’t. She gave me a small, bored smile.

“Perhaps you would write in. If Mr. Knight is interested he’ll let you know.”

At that moment the door opened behind her and a fat man, balding, nudging forty, in a fawn coloured seersucker suit, looked around the room with a hostile air and said, “Next,” the way a dentist’s nurse calls to the flock.

I was right by him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a tall youth with Elvis Presley sideboards drag himself out of an armchair, clutching a guitar, but he was much too late.

I walked forward, driving the fat man back into his office, giving him a wide, confident smile.

“Hello, there, Mr. Knight,” I said. “I have something for you to listen to, and when you’ve heard it, you’ll want Mr. Shirely to hear it too.”

By then I was inside the room and had shut the door with my heel.

On his desk was a tape recorder. Moving around him, I put the tape on the machine and turned the machine on.

“This is something you’ll be glad to listen to,” I said, talking hard, and fast. “Of course, it isn’t going to sound so hot on a machine like this, but hear it on an electrostatic speaker and you’ll hit the ceiling.”

He stood watching me, a startled expression on his fat face.

I pushed down the start button and Rima’s voice came out of the speaker and hit him.

I was watching him and I saw the muscles of his face tighten as the first notes filled the room.

He heard the tape right through, then as I pressed the re-wind button, he said, “Who is she?”

“My client,” I said. “How about Mr. Shirely hearing her?”

He looked me over.

“And who are you?”

“Jeff Gordon’s the name. I’m in a hurry to do a deal. It’s either Mr. Shirely or R.C.A. Please yourself. I came here first because R.C.A. is just that much further away.”

But he was too old a hand for that kind of bluff. He grinned, and sat down behind his desk.

“Don’t get so intense, Mr. Gordon,” he said. “I’m not saying she isn’t good. She is, but I’ve heard better voices. We might be interested. Bring her around towards the end of the week. We’ll give her an audition.”

“She’s not available, and she is under contract to me.”

“Well, all right, then when she is available.”

“The idea was for me to get a contract from you right away,” I said. “If you don’t want her, I’ll try R.C.A.”

“I didn’t say we don’t want her,” Knight said. “I said we want to hear her in person.”

“Sorry.” I tried to sound tough and business-like, but I knew I was making a poor show of it. “The fact is she isn’t well. She needs toning up. If you don’t want her, say so and I’ll get out of here.”

The door opened on the far side of the room and a small, white haired Jewish gentleman wandered in.

Knight got hurriedly to his feet.

“I won’t be one moment, Mr. Shirely. . .”

There was my cue and I didn’t miss it. I pressed the play back button on the recorder and turned the volume up.

Rima’s voice filled the room.

Knight made to turn the recorder off, but Shirely waved him away. He stood listening, his head cocked on one side, his dark little eyes moved from me to Knight and then to the recorder.

When the tape finished and I had stopped the machine, Shirely said, “Exceptionally good. Who is she?”

“Just an unknown,” I said. “You wouldn’t know her name. I want a contract for her.”

“I’ll give you one. Have her here tomorrow morning. She could be a valuable property,” and he started for the door.

“Mr. Shirely. . .”

He paused to look over his shoulder.

“This girl isn’t well,” I said, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. “I need five thousand dollars to get her fit. When she is fit, she’ll sing even better than that record. I’ll guarantee it. She could be the sensation of the year, but she has to be got fit. Is her voice, as it is, good enough for you to gamble on a five thousand advance?”

He stared at me, his small eyes going glassy.

“What’s the matter with her?”

“Nothing a good doctor can’t fix.”

“Did you say five thousand?”

The sweat was running down my face as I said, “She needs special treatment.”

“From Dr. Klinzi?”

There seemed no point in lying to him. He wasn’t the kind of man you could lie to.

“Yes.”

He shook his head.