The Gutter and the Grave by Ed McBain Read Free Book Online Page B

Frank?”
    The piano player nodded and began fooling with the keyboard.
    “All right, knock it off,” Ryan said. “You set, Laraine?”
    Laraine walked to the microphone, an old one that had seen far better days and that the boys had probably picked up at a radio studio fire clearance. She lowered the head, tightened the knob on the bar, and said, “I’m ready.”
    It’s difficult to describe her voice exactly. She had an individual style that was Laraine Marsh, an immediate personal contact between singer and audience, no gimmicks, just a small emotional voice that sang the melody and sang it straight and managed to give it meaning. She wasn’t imitating anyone, and she wasn’t consciously striving for a unique style, but she didhave a unique style and its very ease revealed the hours of practice that had gone into its development.
    There was an audience of one in the room: me. And perhaps that’s why she fastened her eyes to my face and didn’t let go until the song was finished. But I had the feeling that if there were a thousand men in that small basement room, each and every one of them would believe the song was being delivered to him alone. If this girl vibrated across a table in a bar booth, she positively throbbed when she sang. And then the song ended, and she cut off the current by simply closing her eyes for an instant. When she opened them again, the music behind her had stopped.
    I felt like applauding, but I remembered Ryan’s warning. I sat on my hands instead.
    “Forty-seven,” Ryan called off. “ž‘Lisbon Antigua.’ Rest your tonsils, Laraine. That was juicy.”
    Laraine walked over to where I was sitting. Ryan called off the beat, and the band swung into motion. “Did you like me?” she whispered.
    “Very much.”
    “I get better,” she said. “That was just a warmup. Did you think I was singing to you?”
    “Yes, I did.”
    “I was, in a way. But not really. It’s a trick I learned from the strippers in Union City. They make every man in the audience think they’re undressing just for him alone.”
    “It’s very effective. How’s this Ryan kid? Any good?”
    “You heard him.”
    “I’m not an expert.”
    “Neither is he,” Laraine said. “He’ll probably get to be a big musician locally. Play all the weddings, all the picnics, play wherever they need a band. But he’s not in my league, and he’s not going where I’m going.”
    “Which is?”
    “The top.”
    “Plenty of room up there, I understand.”
    “If there isn’t, I’ll make some,” Laraine said, and she smiled. She lit a cigarette for herself and then belatedly offered me one. I took it. Ryan and the band struggled with “Lisbon Antigua” while we listened. They went at it for a good half-hour, and then he called a break and walked over to us.
    “How did you like the band?” he said. He picked Laraine’s purse from the chair, opened it, helped himself to a cigarette, and then closed it again. Laraine did not seem to mind what most other women might have considered an invasion of privacy.
    “Am I allowed to comment?” I said.
    “Sure.”
    “You sound pretty good,” I told him. I wasn’t lying. By the end of that half-hour, they had really whipped the arrangement into submission. They lacked the big-band sound, but they played with spirit and skill. Maybe they weren’t going where Laraine was going—if indeed she was—but they were damned good for a bunch of local kids.
    “You snowing me, or is this the goods?” he asked.
    “It’s from Straightsville,” I said.
    He smiled. “Gone.” He paused, sucked in smoke, released it, and asked, “What’s your dodge?”
    “I’m a bum,” I said.
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah.”
    He looked to Laraine questioningly. Her face remained noncommittal. “I could teach you to press clothes,” he said, half-seriously. “I’d teach you to blow trumpet, but that might take a little while.”
    “Neither profession seems to interest me,” I said.
    “Mr.