along ever so slowly as the train rattled its way downtown. Then at long last they were in the heart of magical Times Square.
Armed with their precious slip of paper, they soon found themselves standing before an old brownstone building. Up several flights of wooden stairs they climbed, to the third floor.
From inside a succession of closed glass-paneled doors, streamed a bedlam of sound—pianos thumping, banjos strumming, and sudden snatches of song reverberating down the length of the corridor. Ella knocked on the door marked Foster Music Co.
“We might as well go in,” Mama said after a few minutes of waiting. “Nobody can hear us in all this racket.”
Timidly Ella turned the doorknob.
They entered a fairly large room, rather bare-looking. In one corner stood an upright piano piled high with sheet music. A man in shirt sleeves, a cigarette dangling from his lips, was tinkling the keys, his eyes intent on some music before him. Beside the piano, a thin longish-legged individual, wearing a cap tipped toward his nose, teetered on the hind legs of a cane chair. Near one of the long windows overlooking the street, a short, somewhat stocky man and a group of pretty girls were chatting and laughing familiarly. No one paid any attention to the newcomers.
For a few moments, Ella and Mama looked around uncertainly. Then Ella approached the group at the window.
“Mr. Trent?” she ventured.
The man turned. “Yep. I’m Mr. Trent,” he said, glancing down at her. “What is it, little girl?”
Now all the girls were staring at her. Hastily, Ella introduced herself and Mama. “Your friend heard me sing in Albany.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah.” He motioned toward the piano player. “Just tell him what you want to sing and give him the key.”
“I brought my music with me,” Ella began. “Can I …”
“Sure, kid,” he replied, his tone indifferent.
Ella unrolled her music. “It’s ‘The Flower Song’ from
Faust.
Is that all right?”
Mr. Trent raised a quizzical eyebrow. Out of the corner of her eye, Ella could see some of the girls exchanging amused glances. Is there something wrong with my choice? she wondered. It’s gay and charming. And I can sing it well. Her head lifted resolutely.
Mr. Trent pulled out a chair for Mama, then waved his hand matter-of-factly to Ella. “Okay, kid, let’s hear it.”
The pianist struck the opening chords and Ella started to sing. As her voice resounded through the room, she suddenly became aware of how quiet everyone had grown.
The thin man in the cane chair ceased his rocking. He pushed his cap back on his head. He leaned forward and his penetrating gaze seemed to be probing her very being.
Ella felt momentarily unnerved by his scrutiny but she kept herself in hand. You’re not going to upset me, she challenged the ogling stranger. Who do you think you are anyway? Just you wait, and I’ll show you…!
In a way his attention was flattering. To respond was irresistible. Soon she found herself singing especially for his benefit. She smiled, gestured coquettishly, the melody all the while lilting forth with ease and gaiety. At the finish, she curtsied, and stood waiting expectantly.
Without a word, the thin man rose, grabbed her by the arm and led her toward the door.
“My music …”
“Get it, Mother, and come along,” he ordered.
Ella hung back. “But Mr. Trent,” she appealed over her shoulder.
“It’s okay, kid,” Mr. Trent assured her with a broad smile. “That’s Mr. Woods,” as if the mere mention of the name was sufficient.
Before she knew it, she was out the door, down the stairs, and in the street. Up Broadway they raced, Ella running to keep up with Mr. Woods’s long-legged stride, with Mama following in bewildered pursuit.
Mr. Woods led them down the block into another building. They rode up in an elevator and were ushered into an office. Ella had just time enough to read the gold letteringon the door—Joe Woods, Theatrical Agent. So
Armed with their precious slip of paper, they soon found themselves standing before an old brownstone building. Up several flights of wooden stairs they climbed, to the third floor.
From inside a succession of closed glass-paneled doors, streamed a bedlam of sound—pianos thumping, banjos strumming, and sudden snatches of song reverberating down the length of the corridor. Ella knocked on the door marked Foster Music Co.
“We might as well go in,” Mama said after a few minutes of waiting. “Nobody can hear us in all this racket.”
Timidly Ella turned the doorknob.
They entered a fairly large room, rather bare-looking. In one corner stood an upright piano piled high with sheet music. A man in shirt sleeves, a cigarette dangling from his lips, was tinkling the keys, his eyes intent on some music before him. Beside the piano, a thin longish-legged individual, wearing a cap tipped toward his nose, teetered on the hind legs of a cane chair. Near one of the long windows overlooking the street, a short, somewhat stocky man and a group of pretty girls were chatting and laughing familiarly. No one paid any attention to the newcomers.
For a few moments, Ella and Mama looked around uncertainly. Then Ella approached the group at the window.
“Mr. Trent?” she ventured.
The man turned. “Yep. I’m Mr. Trent,” he said, glancing down at her. “What is it, little girl?”
Now all the girls were staring at her. Hastily, Ella introduced herself and Mama. “Your friend heard me sing in Albany.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah.” He motioned toward the piano player. “Just tell him what you want to sing and give him the key.”
“I brought my music with me,” Ella began. “Can I …”
“Sure, kid,” he replied, his tone indifferent.
Ella unrolled her music. “It’s ‘The Flower Song’ from
Faust.
Is that all right?”
Mr. Trent raised a quizzical eyebrow. Out of the corner of her eye, Ella could see some of the girls exchanging amused glances. Is there something wrong with my choice? she wondered. It’s gay and charming. And I can sing it well. Her head lifted resolutely.
Mr. Trent pulled out a chair for Mama, then waved his hand matter-of-factly to Ella. “Okay, kid, let’s hear it.”
The pianist struck the opening chords and Ella started to sing. As her voice resounded through the room, she suddenly became aware of how quiet everyone had grown.
The thin man in the cane chair ceased his rocking. He pushed his cap back on his head. He leaned forward and his penetrating gaze seemed to be probing her very being.
Ella felt momentarily unnerved by his scrutiny but she kept herself in hand. You’re not going to upset me, she challenged the ogling stranger. Who do you think you are anyway? Just you wait, and I’ll show you…!
In a way his attention was flattering. To respond was irresistible. Soon she found herself singing especially for his benefit. She smiled, gestured coquettishly, the melody all the while lilting forth with ease and gaiety. At the finish, she curtsied, and stood waiting expectantly.
Without a word, the thin man rose, grabbed her by the arm and led her toward the door.
“My music …”
“Get it, Mother, and come along,” he ordered.
Ella hung back. “But Mr. Trent,” she appealed over her shoulder.
“It’s okay, kid,” Mr. Trent assured her with a broad smile. “That’s Mr. Woods,” as if the mere mention of the name was sufficient.
Before she knew it, she was out the door, down the stairs, and in the street. Up Broadway they raced, Ella running to keep up with Mr. Woods’s long-legged stride, with Mama following in bewildered pursuit.
Mr. Woods led them down the block into another building. They rode up in an elevator and were ushered into an office. Ella had just time enough to read the gold letteringon the door—Joe Woods, Theatrical Agent. So
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