I looked a little shocked. “This isn’t Lincoln Center. C’mon. I’ll introduce you to Curly.”
He took my hand and led me between tables on the right to a corner table close to the piano. A short, heavyset bald man was sitting with another man, taller, tie-less but dressed in a dark-blue suit. He had light-brown hair, but it wasn’t curly. To my surprise, Buck turned to the bald-headed man.
“This is Emma, Curly.”
He gazed at me and nodded without smiling. “You’re pretty enough, but how old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
He looked skeptically at Buck.
“She is. I told you, Manning hired her. You know we serve alcohol. Manning’s not someone who plays with the rules, Curly.”
“Yeah, well, me neither.”
He looked at the other man at the table, who shrugged.
“Buck says you sang in bars in England.”
“Taverns, mostly in one in our city, the Three Bears.”
“Was Goldilocks there?” the other man joked. Both he and Curly laughed.
“What kind of music did you sing?” Curly asked.
“Songs sung by Jewel, Barbra Streisand, Mariah Carey. Show tunes and famous ballads, even some Irish songs. What would you like to hear?”
Curly looked at me a moment, at his patrons, and then shrugged.
“You choose what you think they’d like. They’re who you got to please,” he said. “The piano player’s name is Bruce. He probably knows something you know.”
He signaled to the piano player, who nodded and closed his eyes at the smoke from the cigarette he held between his lips. His black hair was slicked and shone under the lights.
“Go ahead,” Buck said. “Show ’em what a real singer can do, Emma.”
I gazed about at the buzzing crowd. At least the patrons of the Three Bears came in expecting to be entertained when I was advertised to be there. Surprising this audience was going to take a lot more energy, I thought, but if I could do it, I’d surely be hired.
“Hey,” Bruce said when I approached him. I thought he looked tired and bored and wondered how long he had been playing today. But when I looked closer and smelled the smoke, I could see he wasn’t just puffing on a cigarette. He was smoking pot. He looked relaxed enough to melt on the piano stool. “What’s your poison?”
“Do you know anything Jewel sings?”
He smirked. “Jewel? Who’s Jewel?”
“What about Mariah Carey?”
He sat back and took a better look at me. “Don’t you know this is a jazz joint?”
“What?”
“How about a standard oldie but goodie?”
He started to play some melody. I racked my brain but couldn’t recall it. He paused, grimacing.
“ ‘My Baby Just Cares for Me.’ Nina Simone,” he said, and I shook my head. “How old are you?”
“I’m eighteen.”
“You gotta know Sinatra, right?”
“Yes.”
“Can you do ‘Fly Me to the Moon’?”
I nodded. I had sung it a few times, but it wasn’t a top number in my repertoire. He started to play and then nodded at the microphone.
Hope I remember all the words, I thought, and began.
Some of the patrons stopped talking. Some looked my way a moment and then went back to their conversation.
“Slip into ‘One for My Baby,’ ” Bruce said, and just transitioned into the melody, but I didn’t know it. He played a little and muttered, “ ‘Mack the Knife’?” I shook my head. He stopped. “What, then?”
“ ‘Memories’?”
He grimaced. “ ‘Memories.’ Streisand?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “Go for it,” he said with obvious disinterest, and began playing.
I sang with everything I had, drawing on visions of the patrons at the Three Bears when I had sung it. Again, some people paused, but most kept talking. Also, he was rushing the song.
“You got to light a fire under this crowd,” Bruce said when I ended. “Come back when you learn some livelier stuff.”
“I can sing livelier songs.”
He looked at Curly, who was shaking his head.
“Go talk to Curly,” he said. “See if he wants you to keep going.”
“Thanks, honey,” Curly said, even before I reached his table. “We’re looking for a different sound here.” He turned to Buck. “Get her a burger or somethin’ on the house, Buck.” He turned to the other man to continue their conversation.
I hadn’t felt this dismissed even at the open theater auditions. It made me feel so diminished and unimportant.
“I’m sorry,” Buck said as we started away. “I shoulda asked you more about what kind of singing you did at that tavern in England. This gets to be a rowdy crowd some nights.”
“It’s all right. Thanks,” I said, heading for the door.