by Fiona Davis
Rose studied Jason’s face, trying to figure out her next move. One side of his mouth curled upward and he looked amused, entertained even. But when their eyes met, he blinked once, and she knew he was covering his dismay, putting up a front.
She hadn’t meant to hurt him; she’d been joking with Maddy, trying to get her off her back about the Griff ordeal. But her joke was nasty.
“You hungry?” Jason asked. “Because I have an apple back at my desk.”
She leaned forward in her chair, hands gripping the edge of the seat. “I’m sorry, that was awful. It’s my friend Maddy. I didn’t mean . . .” She trailed off, hoping he’d say something to stop her from groveling. But he just stood there.
“Just checking in to see if you need me today. I finished another piece early and have the rest of the morning free.”
She had to find a way to make this up to him, to smooth things over. Especially if they were going to work together for the next few weeks. “I was going to head downtown, check out the location of that old jazz club, the one with the menu tucked into the book of spices.”
“The Flatted Fifth?”
“Yes, exactly. It shut down in the seventies. But I wanted to see the building it was in. You could film it and we could use before and after footage.” The idea was lame, but she hoped he’d say yes.
“Not very dynamic.”
“No. But it’s all I have for now. Will you come?”
He nodded. “I’ll get my equipment and meet you in the lobby.”
They took a taxi down. The cabbie drove like mad, braking suddenly and accelerating aggressively, which didn’t allow for much conversation. Rose gripped the hand strap above the window to avoid careening into Jason, all while filling him in on her visit to the button shop.
“This young girl might be Darby’s only real friend, from what I can tell. I’d love to find her.”
Jason raised his eyebrows. “Well, we know her name begins with an A. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
The taxi pulled up to a stop at a five-story building on Second Avenue. The gray stone facade was filthy, as if it had been rubbed with a giant piece of charcoal, and graffiti marred the front door. At ground level stood a French bistro.
She pointed to the restaurant, which had a CLOSED sign in the window. “That’s where the club used to be.”
Jason shot some exteriors, then knocked on the glass door.
A young woman appeared, looking harried and tired. “We’re not open until five tonight.”
Rose explained who they were, adding that they were researching the location of an old jazz club from the fifties. The minute she said WordMerge, the woman’s face lit up. “Of course, I love WordMerge. If you want, come on in and look around. The shell of the place is the same, but everything else has been renovated.”
The brick walls had been recently whitewashed and big windows looked out onto the street, making the space seem larger than it actually was. Jason pulled up a black-and-white photo on his phone, showing the interior of the club during a show. Men in suits and ties and women with coifed hairdos were tightly packed into the space, practically on top of one another, while a sax player stood at the edge of a low stage. Without the windows and whitewashing, the space had been dark and seedy.
“It looks like the stage was here, and the entrance around here.” Jason pointed out the locations. “I can take some interiors if you want.”
“Sure, why not.” Rose turned to the woman. “Do you know if anyone in the building has lived here a long time? They’d have to be pretty old by now, in their eighties.” It was a stretch.
“There’s Mr. B. He comes in for a steak frites every Wednesday, before it gets too crowded. Nice guy, talks about the old days. He’s the one you want to talk to.”
“Do you happen to have his contact info?”
“No, but he lives in apartment 5D. If you buzz him and tell him that Nicole said he should talk to you, he might let you up. Or you can come back on Wednesday and catch him here.”
The name on the buzzer for 5D said BUCKLEY.
Jackpot. Maybe Sam had been living a ten-minute taxi ride from Darby the past fifty years. A rush of adrenaline surged through her.
Rose hit the buzzer and waited. Nothing. “He’s got to be an old guy; we’ll give him time.”
“You’re the boss.”
She turned to him. “Look, I’m really sorry about what I said before. I don’t think I’m Snow White, I assure you of that. And you’re not . . .”
Again, she couldn’t finish the sentence.
He did. “A dwarf?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Most dwarfs would take offense at the comment, by the way. They like to be called little people.”
“It was just an expression.” Sweat prickled her neck. She really didn’t want to have this conversation. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Whatever you say.”
God, he was frustrating, always with that stupid smile. “But you do smirk.” She couldn’t help herself. “You’re smirking now.”
“No, I’m not. I’m smiling. You’re getting all bent out of shape and I’m enjoying it immensely.”
“That’s the definition of smirking.”
He laughed. “Point taken. Am I smirking now?”
She couldn’t help grinning. “Yes! You are.”
“Hello?”
The voice was crackly, although it was hard to tell if it was from the intercom or the person speaking.
Rose leaned in. “Mr. Buckley? Nicole downstairs suggested we try to reach you. We’re doing research on a news story about the Flatted Fifth and she said you might be able to help. My name is Rose Lewin and I’m with my colleague, Jason Wolf. Would you be interested in coming down and talking for a moment? We’d be happy to take you out to coffee nearby.”
“I can’t come down there. You come up here.”
Rose looked at Jason and he nodded. “Let’s go.”
The stuccoed hallway smelled of rotting vegetables, and the once colorful tile floors were edged with brown grout. When Mr. Buckley finally opened the door to his apartment, Rose was shocked at the contrast from the building’s public spaces. Sunlight streamed through the windows and the place was inviting and well kept.
“Come on in. You’re reporters, you say?” Mr. Buckley walked with a cane. He’d once been a tall man, but now his spine curved painfully forward. He had a gray beard and wore thick-framed glasses that overpowered the sharp angles of his face. He looked them both up and down before leading them to the sitting room.
“We are; we appreciate your time. We’re interested in finding out more about the people who frequented the Flatted Fifth in the early 1950s.” Rose sat on a scarlet couch dotted with garish saffron-colored pillows. Jason sat beside her and took out his camera.
“Do you mind if I record the interview?” he asked.
Mr. Buckley eased himself into a rail-back armchair upholstered in a nubby green fabric and nodded. “Fine with me.”
Jason nudged Rose and she followed his gaze. The entire wall of a hallway was filled with shelves of vinyl records, thousands of them.
“Can I take a look?” Jason asked Mr. Buckley.
“Go right ahead. My collection. Pretty much everything you need to know about the bebop era of jazz. The library at Lincoln Center asked me to leave my collection to them when I go. Nice to think of all those Juilliard kids getting a taste of what real music is like.”
“Are you Mr. Sam Buckley?” Rose couldn’t help herself.
“Sam?” His face clouded over. “No. I’m Malcolm.”
Rose silently kicked herself. If she pushed him too hard, she might very well scare him, as she’d done with Darby.
“This is your album.” Jason held a cover with black graphics over a photo of a drum kit.
Mr. Buc
kley grinned. “That it is. I toured and played with the best of them. Until I got hooked on the hard stuff. Not an easy life, when you’re always on the road. Easy to turn to whatever makes you feel good.”
Rose took out her notebook. “Heroin?”
“You got it. Went down the same path as Monk and Parker. I didn’t die, so I’m not famous. Could’ve been, though. Later, I found steady work as an arranger.”
“Maybe it’s better to be unknown and alive than famous and dead?” she said.
“Not so sure of that.” He looked down at the thick, arthritic joints on his hands. “It’s tough getting old when everyone else is gone. What’s your report about?”
“It’s an article, with some video as well. It’s basically about the Barbizon Hotel for Women and what it was like to be in New York City in the fifties and sixties.”
“How did you hear about the club?”
“One of the women who lives at the Barbizon has a menu from the Flatted Fifth. I understand the club was once owned by a Mr. Cornelius Buckley. I assume you’re related?”
“Cornelius was my dad. My older brother, Sam, was the cook.”
Rose tried to stifle her excitement. “Sam Buckley. Right. We found a book he compiled, of various spices and recipes. Dated from 1952.”
“Not surprising. He learned about that from his time in the war, all those fancy spices and things. My dad always put him down, didn’t want a cook for a son; he wanted a musician. My asthma kept me from being drafted, which meant I could focus on the drums. For a time I was the golden child. Until I washed out.”
“Can I put this record on?” asked Jason.
“Sure thing.”
She shot Jason a look, annoyed he’d changed the subject, but his back was turned to her as he fiddled with the stereo. The drums came loud and fast, the beat hard.
Malcolm’s face lit up. “You picked a good one. Dizzy and Charlie Parker at Birdland in 1951. Classic bebop.”
Rose listened carefully. From the look on his face, music was the key to getting Malcolm to open up. Jason had already figured that out.
“What makes it bebop?” she asked.
Malcolm laughed. “Bebop was all about speed and virtuosity. Back then, everyone was used to swing, right?” He waved his arms in the air. “Dancing around, all that. The greats, like Thelonious Monk, Dizzy, Max Roach, they started exploring a different take on the music. Listen here.”
The trumpet solo screeched up into the higher register, and although it always found its way back to the chord, at times the sound seemed strident, off-key.
Rose said so out loud and Malcolm nodded. “Yup. Not what you expect. It’s aggressive.”
Jason spoke up. “Bebop made what sounded like the wrong notes the right notes.”
“You’ve got it, kid. That’s it exactly.”
Score one for Jason. Maybe he wasn’t so annoying after all.
Rose could hardly wait for the song to finish to ask her next question, but she did, so that the noise wouldn’t interfere with the taping. “Is Sam still alive?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t heard from him in years.” He didn’t look at her while he spoke. “Where did you get his spice book?”
“From a Miss Darby McLaughlin. Is that name familiar?”
He blinked a couple of times before answering. “Nope. But why don’t you just ask her how she knew my brother?”
“She’s incapacitated at the moment.”
“Huh.”
“The notebook is a work of art, full of information and drawings. Sam wrote in the front that he gave it to her for safekeeping, as proof of his love. The message implies they were in danger. I’m curious to know more.”
“Can’t help you there. I was touring most of the time; didn’t make it back much until Sam had taken off.”
“Do you know why he took off?”
“My dad said he ran into trouble and had to leave town fast. Last I heard, he was out in California.” He pulled at his earlobe. “Anyway, he’s a private guy.”
The use of present tense was interesting. How did he know, if he hadn’t seen him in years? “Do you know anyone named Esme Castillo?”
He squinted his eyes as if he were conjuring up a vision. “Esme. She was the hatcheck girl at the club before I went on tour. Good voice. Pretty, too.”
Esme was the missing link between Darby and Sam. She worked in the hotel and at the Flatted Fifth. “Do you know what happened to her?”
“Who, Darby?”
“No. Esme.”
“Right. They say she fell off a building and died. But I don’t know much else.”
They continued talking for another twenty minutes, as Malcolm told story after story about his life as a jazz musician at that time. But whenever Rose tried to get him to tell her more about Sam, he clammed up.
Malcolm knew more than he was saying. He was protecting his brother for some reason. She was sure of that.
Outside, she let Jason carry on for a while about Malcolm’s extensive music knowledge. “He’s like a walking encyclopedia about bebop and hard bop and that entire era.”
“He really is. But I wish we’d found out more about Sam. Was it just me, or did you get the impression he knows where Sam is?”
“Definitely. He wouldn’t look at you when he answered. We’ll have to circle back to him, gently nudge him into opening up to us.”
“Hopefully, by our deadline. Thanks for diverting him when he was about to clam up.”
“Hey, I’m just the guy behind the camera. You were great with him, by the way, once I saved your ass.”
A jolt of pleasure ran through her at his praise, along with a spark of guilt for what she’d said about him earlier. “That means something, coming from someone who’s covered wars. Thank you.”
“It’s just the truth, Rose. You should think so, too.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
New York City, 1952
Darby vowed to avoid the Flatted Fifth after the strange spice expedition with Sam. She still cringed with embarrassment each time she remembered the sight of her disheveled face in that mirror. Before she’d gotten a glimpse of herself, she’d imagined they were a pair in one of the romantic movies that played in Times Square, dashing around town breathlessly together. But instead of Natalie Wood, she’d looked like a drowned rat.
In an effort to wipe her memory clean, she threw herself into her classes at Katie Gibbs, making sure to show up on time and well rested. Once, she forgot her gloves on the way there, but she ran into Maureen outside the building, who gave her one of hers. They walked past the monitor, each clutching a folder with one gloved hand, the bare one buried deep in a coat pocket, and sailed through. Even if Darby had gotten off to a rocky start, she still had months left to prove to her teachers that she would make an excellent secretary. And she would.
She’d also successfully steered clear of Esme for nearly a week. But this morning, her friend was back on elevator duty and she’d talked Darby into meeting for lunch at Hector’s Cafeteria on Fiftieth Street. The restaurant was packed when she walked in, and Esme waved at her from the back of the buffet line.
“You made it.” Esme handed her a tray and they shuffled along the stainless steel counter, which ran almost the entire length of the restaurant. Esme took a bowl of pea soup and a grilled cheese sandwich and Darby did the same.
The line ground to a halt while the servers refreshed the desserts.
“Where have you been?” Esme cocked her head at Darby. “Sam was asking about you.”
“I’ve been too busy with school. Mother wants me to stay focused.”
“Come on. You gotta whoop it up once in a while; otherwise you’ll end up miserable, working for a boss who makes passes at you but won’t leave his wife, and spending every Christmas and Valentine’s Day alone. Is that what you want?”
“Why, because Sam is after you?”
Her heart jumped every time Esme mentioned his name. She remembered the way he’d looked at her after she’d bitten into the steak, the way his finger tasted on her tongue.
“Sam’s not after me. He’s excited about his cooking, that’s all. He was happy to have someone to share it with since his father doesn’t approve.”
Esme looked about the room, holding up the line even further. Darby nudged her forward. They picked up two éclairs for dessert and paid, then made their way to a table in a corner. Esme took the chair facing the restaurant. “A friend of mine might be stopping by. I have to keep an eye out for him.”
Darby accidentally bumped into the table next to them, earning dirty looks from the older ladies seated there. “What friend?”
“Someone from acting class.” Esme put her napkin on her lap and dug into the soup. “Delish, right?”
“Very.”
“Listen up, I have a way for both of us to make some extra money. You interested?”
Perhaps she meant the extra “customer service” jobs they’d discussed at the Flatted Fifth, ones that promised greater tips.
Esme laughed. “Don’t worry, I know what you’re thinking and I’m not talking about that. Next Thursday night, Annie Ross is playing and they need two backup singers. People liked it when we sang together, and Mr. Buckley says we’ve got the gig if we want it. We each get twenty dollars. What do you say?”
“I couldn’t. I’d be too scared.”
“What’s there to be scared of? We’ll rehearse together. I’ll be standing right next to you for the gig, and then we go home richer. You’ve got to do it.”
“What about Tanya?”
“Disappeared. She was just a junkie anyway.”
“But I have to focus on my schoolwork.”
“You’ll have all weekend to do your schoolwork. This is my stepping-stone to fame and fortune. Without you, it’ll be a disaster. We work so well together, everyone noticed.”