125

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I don't rise early, about three in the afternoon is a good time to start the day. A shave at the barber shop on the corner and eat ham and eggs at the Diner. I sit over my second coffee and scan the wanted list in the Times. If you read between the lines, you get a feel of the underbelly of the Town. Half way down the collumn is a box with a black border, in which are a telephone number and a graphic of a piano keyboard. Have the compositors missed out the rest of the information, or is it something else?

It's intriguing, but no so intriguing that I want to rush over to the kiosk and call the number. I file it for future reference. Mo slips into the seat beside me and gives me a thank you smile. Mick sits opposite.

'Does your generosity stretch to breakfast?' asks Mo, her leg touching mine with slight pressure. 'I could eat for Ireland.'

I pick the menue out from it's position between the ketchups and hand it to her. As the waitress stands pencil poised, they order the lot. Ham, eggs, hash brown,s flapjacks, maple syrup, muffins and a side order of fries.'

'You forgot the horse,' I say.

Mo smiles her baby smile, and Mick looks embarrassed.

'We've only had bar snacks since we landed.' He says.

'Eat your fill, I know what it's like to go hungry.' I say. This of course is a big lie. I have no idea what it's like to go hungry, as Joe Koolz, Martian, but as Joe Koolz Liverpudlian, I would know. Best stay in character. For all their poverty, they know how to eat properly. Knife and fork in the correct hands, none of this American inefficiecy of cutting the meat then swopping hands with the fork, to put it into the mouth. Even high society dudes eat like peasants.

'Talk me through this Hells Kitchen,' says Mick.

It's the area within 34th. and 59th St. and 8th Av. and the Hudson, an Irish ghetto. In the past there was always a fight going on. Sean and Pat, two Irish cops were standing there watching it all happen, this is a long time age mind, anyway, Sean says to Pat,

'This place is Hell.' Pat say's,' Hell is balmy compared to this place. This is Hell's Kitchen.'

'Ah you'll believe any tale, us Irish are peacable folk.'

Mick mops up the last of the ketchup and grease with half a muffin on the end of his fork.

'It must be the other reason then.' I say

'Go ahead, so.' says Mo.

'A German immigrant named Heil owned a Diner popular with the Irish stevadors, named his Diner Heil's Kitchen. Take your pick.'

'Shure it'll be the German's fault.'

'Just take the Metro to Penn Station, or Times Square, and walk into any bar, you'll be at home.'

Mo squeezes my knee. 'Wish us luck, me Darlin.'

'You'll knock em dead', I say

*************

The rain has turned to snow, a minor blizzard hits my face with stinging points of ice, as I leave the Diner. I think of Mo in her thin summer dress and shudder. I run over to the Victoria Hotel dodging the honking cars in the slush. Mme Victoria is in the lobby, hair piled up into her official receptionist beehive, wearing a severe two piece and low healed pumps.

'Lovely weezzer for les canards.' she says in her pronounced accent. 'I ave an oilskin for you, if you wizz.

I do wish and hope I don't have to pay her back in kind, as I have other ideas about who to favour with my body.

Suitably attired in oil skin and galoshers I walk to the corner looking for a cab. In this weather taxis are as rare as uncooked chicken. I stand around for about ten minutes with no luck, feet like blocks of ice and snow gathering on my shoulders. I have no plan for tonight as I am without a gig, I thought I might go to a Broadway show, Porgy and Bess has had rave reviews, but the idea is fast loosing it's appeal. I retrace my steps and head for the Cat House.

I am greeted by the familiar fug of cigar smoke and perfume. Saul is talking to Mo and Mick. That didn't take him long. Saul waves me over. I am more than a little disappointed to think Mo has been seduced by the glamorous life of a hooker.

'Meet my new stars.' says Saul.

'We've met.'

'I have an idea for a musical.' Says Saul. 'Featuring,' pointing at Mo, 'The new Fred and Ginger.'

'Are you serious. A Broadway show will take millions to put on. Do you have any backers?

'We can use my club during the day for rehearsals. Then when we are ready, book a Theatre. I may even buy one.'

I ask him if he has a name for this show, and any songs.

He takes a toke on his cigar and blows a long stream upwards.

'I'm sure George and Ira will write some for a fee.'I'll call it, 'Hells Kitchen-The Musical. Perfect for two Irish hoofers'

I realise this is my big chance to make a name for myself, in 1935.and be close to Mo.

'Why don't I write the musical numbers?'

'Better make 'em good', says Saul.

*************

The snow is still falling in thick white blankets.. The cars sneak past in muffled convoys, a few kids are making snowballs and aiming them at anything moving. But inside the cat house the girls are scantily dressed, and the Johns are relaxing over highballs and beers, in front of a roaring fire. All is well with the world. I take my seat at the piano and just noodle away. Thoughts elsewhere, mainly who is Veronica. I can't get it out of mind that someone as perfect as her is not a humanoid. Perfect skin, even white teeth and glossy hair. It takes hours of preparation to look that good if you are human. And her powers of recovery are sensational. Mars in the 40.000^th century, can work medical wonders, but fuck, she's a miracle. I for one will be very disappointed if she is a humanoid, not that I have anything against having sex with them. They are very good at it. But you don't fall in love with a humanoid, especially if you want children, and there could be many more in the box, just waiting to emerge and be fucking someone else whilst an exact copy is writhing on top of you.

Saul says I should come up to his club to hear Monk do his stuff, but it's cold outside and I'm comfortable, in the warmth of the Cat House. Johns leave John's come money changes hands and the flesh is serviced. As Tony Bennet will sing, 'It's the good life.'

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