Tony's Wife

by Adriana Trigiani

  She had to think. Tony? “Oh, Saverio. Hi.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “Not at all. I was waiting to hear from Lee.”

  “No word on that yet. There’s still a few more singers for Paul and the team to audition.”

  “I’ll bet. It’s like they took the five boroughs, turned them upside down and shook out every twenty-one-year-old girl, and sent her in to audition for the band. I haven’t got a chance. Do I?”

  “It’s not that hopeless.”

  “You’re not a girl, so you wouldn’t know.”

  “How about I take you out to get your mind off things?”

  Chi Chi looked down the long hallway. The thought of sitting in the room all night depressed her. “Sure. That would be great.”

  “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

  * * *

  Chi Chi brushed her hair in the reflection of the window glass. She dabbed on some lipstick, straightened the blouse underneath her suit jacket, and lined up the seams on her stockings. She checked her wristwatch again. She was surprised to feel her heart racing. She inhaled deep breaths and exhaled slowly as she did whenever her nerves got the best of her.

  Chi Chi took the steps down from the third floor to the lobby. Saverio sat in one of the two Windsor chairs facing the check-in desk. His coat was unbuttoned, his custom Homburg rested on his lap, and his hands gripped the arms of the chair as he watched the comings and goings of the hotel guests with interest.

  “Tony,” Chi Chi said as she approached him. “That’s going to be odd for a while. May I still call you Saverio?”

  “How about you always call me Saverio?”

  Chi Chi took Tony’s arm in the street. The air was crisp and cold; the scents of tobacco smoke, wood-burning fires, and the perfume of fancy women as they swirled through the air. Three autumn leaves fell from the spindly chestnut tree in front of Manhattan’s Downbeat Club on West Fifty-Second Street as Chi Chi and Tony approached the entrance. The chalkboard on the sidewalk announced the sold-out appearance of trumpeter Sy Oliver, in New York City for an exclusive week-long engagement.

  Chi Chi leaned in and read a review from the New York Herald Tribune that had been pinned in the glass box next to the stairs that led down into the club:

  Sy Oliver is the unspoken heir to the great Jimmie Lunceford, performing and arranging jazz standards for orchestras across the country and around the world with a keen sense of history coupled with a hip, forward-thinking style that packs venues wherever he appears.

  Tony led her to a small café table near the stage.

  “This close?” Chi Chi said enthusiastically.

  “You’ll see Mr. Oliver blow his trumpet to high heaven.” Tony turned and ordered their drinks.

  “Where do you live?” Chi Chi asked him.

  “On the road.”

  “You don’t have an apartment somewhere?”

  “No need.”

  “Where do you go when you have a week off?”

  Tony smiled. “I find a place.”

  There was always a new Gladys Overby for the Tony Armas of the big-band circuit. He didn’t need a permanent address when he had temporary digs. Chi Chi understood his meaning. “Oh. Okay.” She turned, noticed Lee Bowman at the back of the club, and waved her over. Lee wove through the patrons seated at the café tables to join them.

  “What’s the verdict?” Tony asked.

  “I’m not sure I want to know,” Chi Chi said. “But tell me.”

  “Don’t lose heart,” Lee began.

  “There’s the wind-up for rejection,” Chi Chi said to Tony.

  “It might be if you believe that the Paul Godfrey Orchestra is the only band in the world,” Lee said.

  “I didn’t get it.” Chi Chi put her head on the table.

  “No, you didn’t,” Lee said. “It went to a nice girl from Illinois with golden hair.”

  “They’re always from Illinois, and they’re always blond,” Chi Chi cracked. “Just like corn.”

  “That’s funny.” Lee laughed. “Save it for the act.”

  “What act? I didn’t get the gig.”

  “When you’re done here, I want you kids to meet me at the Automat on the corner of Forty-Third and Ninth. We’ll have a bite, and I’ve got an opportunity to float by you. Right now, I have to get Miss Illinois acclimated to the tour.”

  Chi Chi put her face in her hands as Lee left. “I should dye my hair.”

  “It wouldn’t suit you,” Tony said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m one of the few men who is not color-blind, and I know a good palette from a bad one. You’d be a terrible blonde.”

  “I’m listening.” Chi Chi sat back and folded her arms. “Make a decent argument, because I’m thinking about Helen Forrest and Marie Hillman Smith and Dinah Shore and Martha Tilton and Nita Leftwich, and there’s a new girl out of Kentucky named Rosemary Clooney. A lot of gold hair in that lineup.”

  “With your black hair and brown eyes, you’re every bit as lovely as a blonde with blue eyes or a redhead with green eyes.”

  “Unless they’re hiring blondes and redheads, and you’re a brunette.”

  “I’m not talking about jobs. I’m talking aesthetics.”

  Chi Chi took a sip of her Manhattan. “You spend an awful lot of time studying women.”

  “And matching socks for the boys in the band who can’t do it for themselves.”

  “So it’s a job when you look at women and compare them against one another in the light, like paint chips?”

  “Is it your job to call me on it?”

  “The way you are with women?”

  “I’m not talking about socks.”

  “Women line up like you’re the guy handing out candy canes on Christmas morning and they’re addicted to peppermint.”

  “It will pass.”

  “Not anytime soon. But what do I know about show business? I thought I was all right. I did my best this morning.”

  “They were looking for a girl who can look pretty and sing the standards.”

  “I could do that too.”

  “You would’ve been bored stiff with that gig. How many times can you begin the beguine before you want to kill the beguine and throw it off a cliff?”

  “As many times as Mr. Godfrey asks me,” Chi Chi assured him.

  The lights dimmed in the club, until the only flickers that remained in the dark came from the sputtering firefly tips of the patrons’ cigarettes. The musicians filed onto the stage in the blackout. Soon a glint of gold sparkled on the cabaret stage as a light pulled on slowly to reveal the polished brass horn belonging to Sy Oliver. He lifted the trumpet to his lips reverently and blew a note so sweet, the patrons began to whoop and holler with such ferocity, they practically drowned out the glorious sound of his horn.

  Sy was stylish, manicured, and genteel. He had an au courant pencil-thin mustache and bronze skin. His custom suit, cut from rich chocolate-brown Savile Row wool, was piped with delicate silver thread that gave it the patina of brushstrokes on a Renaissance painting.

  The musicians, a quartet of Sy’s favorite sidemen, fired up their instruments—a cello, saxophone, drums, and piano—and with one tip of the maestro’s finger, the Cotton Club’s finest artisans tore into Uptown Blues, rattling the joint until the folks at the tables were compelled to stand and move, despite the cramped space. The club was small, but the sound was big, and Chi Chi wondered if the walls could contain the sound. Chi Chi heard Sy Oliver’s trumpet as a revelry. After all, he and his fellow black artists had invented swing, and now everyone wanted in, including the Italian girl from the shore. Even though Paul Godfrey hadn’t hired her, she believed she belonged in their world. This was the right time, and the music would never be better. She let the music shore up her soul and ignite her determination anew.

  * * *

  Chi Chi took Tony’s arm as they walked from the club to the Automat to meet Lee Bowman. “That was like chur
ch,” she marveled.

  “You’re right. It was inspirational.”

  “Thank you for taking me to the show.”

  “You’re a nice date, Chi Chi.”

  “Well, you would know. You’ve certainly practiced.”

  “Is that a dig?”

  “Not at all. I appreciate wisdom and experience in all aspects of life. I’d probably know more about the world if I had a brother.” Chi Chi gave him a playful nudge. “You could be my brother. Of course, if you were, it’s obvious I got the better nose.”

  “If this is what it’s like to have a sister, you can keep it,” he teased, holding the door of the Automat open for Chi Chi.

  Lee waved them over to her table. “How was the show?”

  “Superb.” Chi Chi removed her gloves and coat and sat down next to Lee.

  “I wish I could quit and follow Sy Oliver around the country,” Tony admitted, taking a seat.

  “Sy isn’t hiring any Italian boys.”

  “And I’ve got a contract with Paul Godfrey anyway.”

  “Well, Tony, I want to talk to you about that. He wants to let you out of it,” Lee said gently.

  “He’s canceling my contract?” Tony was surprised. “The crust.”

  “Mr. Godfrey’s putting a theatrical show together. No more solo ‘stand and sing.’ He’s going from dance band to show band. Says there are too many dance bands out there, and he had to pull in front somehow. Maybe some burlesque.”

  “You’re serious.” Tony sat back in his chair. “Usually acts try to break out of Minsky’s, they don’t fall back in.”

  “Yeah, well, now they’re joining them. It’s called the fast buck. In the meantime, as of ten a.m. Monday morning, I have officially left the Godfrey organization and joined another.”

  “Did you leave in solidarity, Lee?” Tony joked. “Let me be the first to thank you.”

  “You’ll be glad I did. My new job is a doozy. I’m an agent with the William Morris Agency in the music department, which means I’m looking for clients to book, and I’d like to sign you two.”

  “Sign us?” Chi Chi was confused.

  “Sign you. Tony gave me Mama’s Rolling Pin, and I think it’s a hit. It’s funny, but it’s a great tune, too. It could sell. Now, one song isn’t going to cut it. You have to come up with an act.”

  “What kind of an act?” Chi Chi asked.

  “Are you two friends who like each other, are you a couple pretending to be romantic who bicker, or are you cousins who put on a show together? Figure out what you want to be. I’ll do the rest.”

  “No offense. I like to sing solo,” said Tony.

  “And you can. You remain a solo act, Tony, but there’s something extra to sell with a boy-girl duo and routine. Everybody wants pairs. They’re booking them in clubs, and the bands want in on the action. They don’t care about the configuration either. Two men comics who can sing. Two women playing singing sisters. A man and a woman, a married couple singing about their life together. I don’t know. You two come up with it. You can pose as brother and sister, for all I care. Chi Chi can write songs and play, and you can sing them. Or write them together. You’re always complaining about the material, Tony, how you don’t get offered good songs—so get together and create the material yourselves and see where they go. I will put your songs in the right hands. Like I did with Rolling Pin.”

  “What do you mean?” Chi Chi’s eyes widened.

  “I canvassed the radio stations. Somebody is bound to play it.”

  “You don’t even care about the Godfrey gig, do you?” Tony wondered.

  “Not really. I can get you more money with a hit record behind you.”

  “It’s always about the record.”

  “Afraid so. It turns out the ladies you sing with do better without you, Tony—which tells us something. You need an act. And it’s wise to put together what they’re looking for. Sell what they want to buy.”

  “I think Lee is saying you need me.” Chi Chi patted Saverio’s hand.

  “That’s what you heard in all that chatter?”

  “Not forever,” Lee said, “and you two don’t have to get married, professionally speaking, either. But Tony, you have to get over this hump. And I saw the solution—and it came in a jar of jelly beans.”

  “I saw the future too,” Chi Chi said. “The girls were all over Tony outside the club today.” Chi Chi turned to him. “You have a fan base already.”

  “Godfrey knows it, too,” Lee said, “but he’s more concerned about the survival of his band than his lead singer’s popularity. He thinks bobby-soxers are a passing fad.”

  “They might be,” Tony admitted. “What happens when those girls grow up?”

  “They get married,” Chi Chi offered.

  “And on the other side,” said Lee, “waiting for them, with a great act, is a man-and-woman team who sing together about home, babies, domestic bliss, and rolling pins. You’ll beat the crowd to the top of the charts if you listen to me. If you don’t, they’ll drop you for the next handsome crooner to come out of the auto plants of Ohio.”

  “Detroit.”

  “There too. Look, you get off course when you try to fit in. It’s the great conundrum of show business. You want to appeal to everyone, but the truth is, you should aim to be yourself, and cross your fingers. When you try to fit a mold, you’ll have to shape yourself to circumstances, and you whittle parts of yourself away to accommodate whatever is popular in the moment. In the process of whittling, sometimes you cut off some of the best parts of yourself, the most original edges and angles—for example: the trill in a phrase that says ‘Tony Arma.’ You know, the low hum you do at the end of a ballad that sounds like an afterthought. Or the one word sung in Italian that tells everybody within the sound of your voice on that radio transmitter that you’re from the Boot—and they’re also from the Boot, so you belong to them, and by God they’ll buy every vinyl you cut because you’re one of them.”

  “Our people are loyal,” Chi Chi agreed.

  “No cutting the coat to fit the other guy,” said Lee. “Tailor it to you, and emphasize the stuff that makes you who you are and different from the crowd. Trying to appeal is death to the artist. Sing what you sing the way you sing it. And sing it the way you sang in your mama’s kitchen. Whatever you two do together, make it about them, the people who buy the records and listen to the radio and show up to see you.”

  “The people who need a reprieve.” Tony lit a cigarette.

  “If you can make people remember a moment that mattered to them, if the music reminds them of when they were happy, you will sell records. Tony, if you can plant a fellow in his shoes the moment he first got a girl to kiss him, you got a hit. And if you’re smart, you will sing one about Mama, and you will be a star. Guaranteed. Mama is always the queen of everybody’s heart, and she has a built-in holiday every May that needs a theme song. Think about it.”

  “Give them what they want,” Tony said softly.

  “But give it to them in the way only you can deliver it. If you pump out a Bing Crosby imitation, they’ll be talking about Bing, and how the original can never be topped; they won’t be talking about Tony Arma and his new sound. Is this making sense?”

  Tony and Chi Chi nodded.

  “My job is to find the right band and tour for you whereby you can work on your act and Tony can sing the big solos. I like this new band.” Lee handed Tony a tear sheet. “They want to widen out their show with some comedy and strong soloists. They’re already on the road. The word is, they are tearing up the tour.”

  “Hmm. SRO Orchestra. That’s wishful thinking.”

  “Wishing made this one so. They are doing big business,” confirmed Lee.

  Jimmy Arena and the SRO Orchestra

  Minneapolis/St. Paul/Duluth/Chisholm/Hibbing: confirmed—Valentini Supper Club

  Elkhart/South Bend/Gary: confirmed—Morris Inn, Civic Center confirmed

  Gurnee/Chicago proper/Milwaukee: conf
irmed—The Drake, Pfister

  Champaign/Urbana/Indianapolis TBA

  Youngstown/Cleveland/Pittsburgh/Dayton: confirmed—Jungle Room, Lake Club confirmed, The Shoreby Club

  Lexington/Louisville/Bristol, VA/Knoxville, TN TBA

  Nashville TBA

  Florence/Birmingham/Mobile TBA

  Naples/Sarasota/Miami/Boca Raton/Palm Beach: confirmed—Fontainebleau

  Allentown/Easton/Stroudsburg: confirmed—Mount Airy Lodge, Saylor’s Lake Pavilion confirmed

  Stamford/New Haven/Long Island, NY: confirmed—Marine Theater Jones Beach

  Chi Chi studied the list of cities. “They’re in St. Paul, Minnesota, now. Sheesh.”

  “You’ll have to run to catch the train. It’s already moving,” Lee said. “But you can do it.”

  “I’ll give it some thought,” said Tony.

  “You do that. I’m starving. All that career advice took a piece out of me. Who wants pie?”

  “I’ve got it.” Tony stood.

  “Chi Chi, let’s get the coffee.”

  Lee and Chi Chi walked to the coffee station, Lee’s heels tapping in rhythmic clicks as she walked across the linoleum.

  “Are you wearing tap shoes?” Chi Chi asked.

  “Just the taps. I put them on all my shoes.”

  “Are you a tap dancer?”

  “Who isn’t, in this line of work? The truth is, I put taps on my shoes so people hear me coming. When I come into a club they hear the clicks, and it’s suddenly silent night. When you’re petite like me, you have to find a way to let them know you’ve arrived so you can be ferocious. How else can I make tough deals and make sure to get the band paid? As long as the club owners fear me, I get the purse. They don’t fear me if they can’t hear me. The day they don’t hear me coming, the bank envelope will be empty. That’s the day I take up knitting and head for my grandma’s screen porch in Susquehanna, Pennsylvania. I will be, as they say in the trade papers, irrelevant.”

  Carrying three cups of coffee, they joined Tony at the table.

  “Do you know anybody with a recording studio who might want to buy some recording equipment?” Chi Chi asked Lee.

  “What do you have?”

  “The entire kit that goes in a studio. The console. Speakers. Tape-recording machine. Microphones.”