The Magic Keys by Albert Murray (romantic story to read txt) 📕

Then he said, Hey, fella, you said I sounded like I had my fingers crossed just before I hung up that last time. Man, that was humility before an incredible possibility of good fortune. What I’m into now is anxiety.

And when I said, Hey, man, next time around. After all, I plan to be here for at least two years, he said, Hey, but that’s not what I really mean, fellow. This is something confidential that I really want to talk to you about as soon as we can find a corner to whisper in. Man, I’m calling to find out how fast I can get to you. This morning, if possible. I don’t know what you can do about this new situation. But since I was already looking forward to touching base with you, I decided that you’re the very one I should run this by. Even before I let anybody else know that I’m already in town.

So I said, Since I’m going to be up at the Forty-second Street library by midmorning, why not the Algonquin lounge at say ten-thirty? Not later than eleven.

And when I asked for a hint, he said, Hey come on, fellow. Why would I have my fingers crossed if it didn’t have anything to do with a woman? We’re talking heartthrobs here, fellow. Man, I don’t think I ever crossed my fingers in a boardroom full of wheelers and dealers, or even out at the track, win, lose, or place, or else. But when it comes to what I’m into now, it’s wishful thinking from the get-go.

Which was about as much of a hint as you could expect to get on the phone from somebody you already promised to meet as soon as you could get up to Forty-fourth Street from Eighth Street and Sixth Avenue by bus or subway. So I said, See you there, man.

And when I came in and spotted him in the lounge, before looking into the bar, he was at a table for two, being served coffee. He saw me and stood up and we slapped palms and bumped shoulders, and he said, Man, this is not quite the New York junket I had in mind when I said I’d probably already be in town when I called the next time.

So when I said, So what’s up? he began at the beginning. Her name was Celeste Delauny (as in Sonia and Charles Delauny, but of another family), a French fashion designer from New York, and he had met her at a party in Beverly Hills while she was in Hollywood on special assignment as a costume designer and consultant for a production that was in its early planning phase and for which he had also been offered a position as a special music consultant, arranger, composer, and combo leader. What was being planned was a high-budget comedy of manners showcasing clever dialogue, state-of-the-art furnishings, and high fashions that would also include after-hours combo music as well as hotel ballroom production numbers.

And guess what, fellow? A high-fashion expert turns out to be not only a Parisian but she’s also a jazz buff! Man, the very first thing she says when I’m taken over to be introduced was that she hopes that it won’t be too much of a bother for a professional like me to suggest some truly authentic spots for her to check out during the ten days that she was scheduled to be in town during this preliminary stage of the film. Which incidentally also just happens to be the biggest thing ever to come my way. I’ve been doing all right, but man, this is about as big as they come for this kind of slick flick.

But the production as such and the big breakthrough it represented for his career as an arranger/conductor was only incidental to what he had come to the Algonquin to tell me about as soon as possible that morning. Because, as he went on to say, as important as all of that was, the minute the producer who was taking him around the room introduced him to the French fashion designer from New York and he saw how she responded when she was told that his main interest as an arranger/conductor was jazz, he could hardly wait to get through the rest of the introductions and figure out a casual way to get back to her before some big-time glamour boy zeroed in on her.

And what happened was absolutely the biggest surprise he had ever been taken by. He made his way to the bar, and as he turned to sip his margarita and figure out an excuse to go back and say something to her in French, if only aimez-vous le jazz hot? the very first person he saw less than twelve feet away was her, obviously heading directly toward him. And before he could get his tourist guide French together she was apologizing in British English for intruding and was asking him if he could spare a few minutes and give her the list she had mentioned.

Man, what can I tell you? he said taking another sip of his tea. I told her in English that out of my longtime awareness of and respect that I had for French taste in jazz, I would not only supply her with a list of the best spots in and around town but would also be only too happy to serve as her personal tour guide. And when I saw that she was going for it, I said, Beginning as soon as you think it’s discreet to check out of the present festivities. To which she said, Fifteen minutes. So we separated to take leave of our host and acquaintances and then when we came outside, she said, My limousine or yours? I heard myself saying mine because that way I get to take you home.

Then he said, Now you