on her last nerve.
She lifted a compact from her purse and inspected her reflection. Eyes a bit swollen. Nose chapped. Ritzi patted powder onto her cheeks and applied another coat of lipstick. “So this show is a big deal?”
“Jimmy Durante is the lead.” Shorty swerved into traffic, and she had to grasp the door handle so she wouldn’t tip over.
“The chorus line will be big, then? Twenty or thirty?”
He flashed a look in the rearview mirror. “This ain’t for the chorus line. Owney set you up for a solo. You knew that, right?”
If Owney had bothered to relay that information, it had gotten lost in the chaos of the last twenty-four hours. She would have missed theaudition altogether if not for Vivian dragging her out of bed. “Of course,” she lied.
All her other auditions had been for kickers in the chorus line. She made for a pretty face in the crowd, a good set of legs in the background. But this was something else entirely. She’d begged Owney for three years to give her a shot like this. Had worked hard for it. Done things she would never admit to in the light of day. But after last night, she wanted nothing to do with him ever again. Three years of ambition erased by one night listening to the agonized shrieks of Joseph Crater.
The Broadway Theater was a short drive from her apartment, and Shorty reached it in record time—he loved gunning the engine when Owney wasn’t around. He parked illegally and walked her right into the lobby. A crowd of large-busted girls stood with glossy lips, each waiting her turn.
Shorty took her elbow and pushed through the crowd toward a man with a clipboard.
“Name,” he asked, not bothering to look up.
“She’s on the reserved list,” Shorty said.
A murmur of dissent rose around them. Angry whispers. Protests. Someone shouted, “This is an open audition. No reserves. That’s what my agent said!”
“Name,” the man with the clipboard repeated.
“Sally Lou Ritz,” she said.
He flipped a few pages and scanned his list. “Right through there.”
Shorty walked her down a side passage. Once they were out of earshot, he said, “You’re auditioning for the part of May, a prostitute.”
“Fitting.”
He pinched her arm. “You’ve got a solo. It’s perfect for your range, but tricky. There’s only a piano accompaniment. That’s what’s messing up the other girls. No orchestra to hide the sour notes. Sing it clear and you’ll be fine. The rest has been arranged.”
The hallway merged left and emptied them into the area backstage. Shorty took her purse and gave her a little shove.
An assistant waved her forward. “This way.” He held back the curtain and led her onstage.
A nameless, faceless voice called out from the dark mouth of the theater, “Are you ready, Miss … Ritz?” He sounded bored, as though he’d sat there listening to one performer after another butcher the song.
“Yes.” She searched for a face but could see nothing past the yellow spotlight in which she stood.
“That’s Cole Porter on the piano to your left. He wrote the musical.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her voice raised an octave. She cleared her throat. Swallowed.
Porter looked amused at her discomfort. He leaned away from the piano, all eyes and receding hairline. “I’ll go through it once so you catch the melody. You’ll come in on the third measure.”
Ritzi scanned the sheet music as he played. Shorty gave me a way out of this , she thought. Everything was arranged, as long as she sang well. She couldn’t flub it completely—Owney would know better. Ritzi was consistent. But she could try too hard. Put a little too much emotion into it. That certainly wouldn’t be much of a stretch today. Would Owney let her be if she didn’t land this gig? One way to find out.
After several minutes, Porter’s fingers came to a rest on the piano keys. “Got it?”
Ritzi nodded and he began again. She waited, marking each beat with a gentle tap
She lifted a compact from her purse and inspected her reflection. Eyes a bit swollen. Nose chapped. Ritzi patted powder onto her cheeks and applied another coat of lipstick. “So this show is a big deal?”
“Jimmy Durante is the lead.” Shorty swerved into traffic, and she had to grasp the door handle so she wouldn’t tip over.
“The chorus line will be big, then? Twenty or thirty?”
He flashed a look in the rearview mirror. “This ain’t for the chorus line. Owney set you up for a solo. You knew that, right?”
If Owney had bothered to relay that information, it had gotten lost in the chaos of the last twenty-four hours. She would have missed theaudition altogether if not for Vivian dragging her out of bed. “Of course,” she lied.
All her other auditions had been for kickers in the chorus line. She made for a pretty face in the crowd, a good set of legs in the background. But this was something else entirely. She’d begged Owney for three years to give her a shot like this. Had worked hard for it. Done things she would never admit to in the light of day. But after last night, she wanted nothing to do with him ever again. Three years of ambition erased by one night listening to the agonized shrieks of Joseph Crater.
The Broadway Theater was a short drive from her apartment, and Shorty reached it in record time—he loved gunning the engine when Owney wasn’t around. He parked illegally and walked her right into the lobby. A crowd of large-busted girls stood with glossy lips, each waiting her turn.
Shorty took her elbow and pushed through the crowd toward a man with a clipboard.
“Name,” he asked, not bothering to look up.
“She’s on the reserved list,” Shorty said.
A murmur of dissent rose around them. Angry whispers. Protests. Someone shouted, “This is an open audition. No reserves. That’s what my agent said!”
“Name,” the man with the clipboard repeated.
“Sally Lou Ritz,” she said.
He flipped a few pages and scanned his list. “Right through there.”
Shorty walked her down a side passage. Once they were out of earshot, he said, “You’re auditioning for the part of May, a prostitute.”
“Fitting.”
He pinched her arm. “You’ve got a solo. It’s perfect for your range, but tricky. There’s only a piano accompaniment. That’s what’s messing up the other girls. No orchestra to hide the sour notes. Sing it clear and you’ll be fine. The rest has been arranged.”
The hallway merged left and emptied them into the area backstage. Shorty took her purse and gave her a little shove.
An assistant waved her forward. “This way.” He held back the curtain and led her onstage.
A nameless, faceless voice called out from the dark mouth of the theater, “Are you ready, Miss … Ritz?” He sounded bored, as though he’d sat there listening to one performer after another butcher the song.
“Yes.” She searched for a face but could see nothing past the yellow spotlight in which she stood.
“That’s Cole Porter on the piano to your left. He wrote the musical.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her voice raised an octave. She cleared her throat. Swallowed.
Porter looked amused at her discomfort. He leaned away from the piano, all eyes and receding hairline. “I’ll go through it once so you catch the melody. You’ll come in on the third measure.”
Ritzi scanned the sheet music as he played. Shorty gave me a way out of this , she thought. Everything was arranged, as long as she sang well. She couldn’t flub it completely—Owney would know better. Ritzi was consistent. But she could try too hard. Put a little too much emotion into it. That certainly wouldn’t be much of a stretch today. Would Owney let her be if she didn’t land this gig? One way to find out.
After several minutes, Porter’s fingers came to a rest on the piano keys. “Got it?”
Ritzi nodded and he began again. She waited, marking each beat with a gentle tap
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