Nobody seemed to notice; the tables around us were still empty, though the barstools were full of early-morning risers or late-night lingerers, like us.
“Nobody. Damn it, Benny. Shut up. Nobody. Forget about it.” He set his cup down and tossed his napkin over the spill. “Let’s go.”
I tucked the pictures into my breast pocket and threw some money on the table. Pop stood up, and I followed him out of the diner, shoving my hat on my head as I shrugged into my coat. We both needed to go to bed.
“So . . . Thursday? You’re going back on Thursday?” he asked, talking around his cigar.
“Thursday.” I sighed.
“Can I come with you?”
“Yeah, Pop. You can come with me.”
The Barry Gray Show
WMCA Radio
Guest: Benny Lament
December 30, 1969
“Folks, if you’re just joining us, you’re listening to WMCA in New York and The Barry Gray Show. Tonight I’m talking to Benny Lament, singer, songwriter, producer, and entertainer. He’s sitting at the piano, ready to play, and we’ve got him for the full three hours.”
“What would you like to hear, Mr. Gray?” Benny asks.
“Well, that is the question! You’ve got quite a few I could choose from. How many songs have you written, Benny?”
“Hundreds. But most of those never made it on the radio.”
“But so many have. How many hits do you have under your belt?”
“I don’t keep track. If I don’t pay attention to how much I’ve drawn from the well, then I won’t worry about it going dry.”
“Why don’t you play us one of them, one from the early years.”
“Well. There’s this one. Do you know who sang this?” Benny plays a few bars and sings a line. His voice is guttural and distinct, like a barge signaling its arrival. “I don’t want to love you, but I do. I do. I do.”
“The McGuire Sisters,” Barry Gray says. “I love that song.”
“That’s right.” Benny immediately transitions into another tune and sings, “I tried to cut you out. Now I’m bleedin’ to death.”
“That’s Izzy McQueen!” Barry Gray exclaims. “I didn’t even know you wrote that one, and I’ve done my homework.”
“Sounds better with Izzy on his horn, but yeah, it’s mine. Your audience will probably remember this one too.” Benny proceeds to play a medley of hits, singing a line here and there, and Barry guesses the titles and artists as he goes.
“All of those hits came before Minefield,” Barry Gray says. “Let’s talk about the hits that came after.”
“All right.”
“Minefield’s song ‘I Don’t Need Any Man’ hit the Top 40 in December 1960. Less than two months after you met. We played it first here on WMCA. Some called it race music. I called it a hit. Tell me about the song. How did it come about? I think everyone wants to know this story.”
5
ANY MAN
When I was nineteen, I met a girl I could have loved. Her father, a guy named Mario Bondi, was a business associate of Sal’s. He had interests in Cuba too, but I never saw him with a woman besides his wife, which made me think he might be a cut above some of the other guys that were in and out of La Vita. He imported Cuban cigars, the good ones, the kind Pop and Sal liked. I don’t know what other businesses he had, but he had homes in Cuba and Miami and one not far from Sal’s on Long Island. Sal threw a big Fourth of July barbecue and the Bondis came. Margaret and I hit it off. I saw her at several other family gatherings that summer. Over Labor Day, I asked her to a dance on Manhattan Beach. Sal let me take one of his cars, and though I don’t think he liked me, Margaret’s father let her go. I think he was afraid of offending my uncle, but her mother smiled at me like Margaret had landed Sinatra.
I kept her close when we danced and held her hand all night, but I brought her home early, knowing I wouldn’t be seeing her again. When I walked her to the door, she smiled at me shyly, a pretty turn to her painted lips, and I said good night and walked back to Uncle Sal’s car. I rejected her. Purposefully, painfully. I was cruel though I didn’t mean to be. I knew she liked me. And I liked her. But she would want things from me. The kind of things a young girl wants. Someone to be sweet and doting. Someone who would