Bobby Dews takes you on an unforgettable baseball road trip.
Unpublished Poets
By Bobby DewsAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Bobby Dews
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4567-4190-7 Chapter One
(1920's)
Arm in arm they crossed 44th Street in the light snow, snow tinted red, sometimes greenish-blue falling against the glow of Christmas lights lining the sidewalks, lights vying for attention with the glaring neon of the small specialty shops so famous and close to Broadway. The three young people, a woman and two men, had their eyes on the Algonquin Hotel and maybe a nightcap while Contessa played blues. No holiday standards in the Blue Bar. Sometimes there they got a glimpse of Faulkner in town for a book signing, or maybe Hemingway tucked in a far corner as if daring a tourist to come near, only enough pale light on his face to be noticed by café society. Once, the woman had talked briefly with Max Perkins, the only editor to ever understand modern writers. Nobody ever said they understood Max. Some said he drank too much, others said they'd never seen him have more than two, possibly three. And family? If he had one, they must have missed him. He was always in the city, out and about near Broadway, once in a while with a showgirl type, usually an older diva making a comeback. He was also seen every now and then with younger actresses, dancers, and singers, but more often with writers, fiction writers; he liked to help them with their manuscripts, help them celebrate new contracts with Scribner, liked to watch them bask in glory when books sold big, when they got a literary prize, especially then.
The lady with two escorts wanted to write fiction. So far, she'd not been so good. Not that it would matter or change her lifestyle really. Her family had built great ships for more than a hundred years, and she was an only child. She'd self-published once and now lived in a townhouse near Central Park where she entertained but always after they'd dropped by the Algonquin. Someday she'd have the nerve to ask Maxwell Perkins, and he might ask F. Scott Fitzgerald, or maybe even Hemingway. Anything was possible in the Blue Bar at midnight.
Between horn blasts and the screeching brakes of a taxicab, the tall woman said, "I love to stop traffic."
Her escorts hurried her away as the driver yelled. "Hey, ya dumb hicks, whadaya tink dose lights are for down at da endah da street?"
"Aren't dose lights bootiful down at da endah da street, fellas?" the lady said, making even the cabbie smile as he wheeled away.
The doorman asked, "Staying here at the hotel?"
As they brushed by, the taller escort answered brusquely, "Must be his first night." He spoke in that affected British style as so many following World War I, a faddish manner of the more snobbish universities in the northeast, a manner made popular by Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald, their ploy to attract publishers still suffering from an English-style hangover. A carefree dialogue, far removed from any hint of anything other than pure Anglo Saxon. The relentless doorman followed the trio in and considered giving them a word or two concerning their manners but changed his mind as he was handed a ten. In the better light now, he recognized the man giving him the tip. "Certainly, Mr. Berg," he said. "Would you prefer the lobby for coffee or perhaps the Blue Bar?" He glanced at the young lady, recognized her as another regular, always on schedule after curtain call.
"Lounge, by all means." She didn't wait for the others. The doorman's smile for her was sort of sad. She drank too much, like so many of the younger rich these days, he thought, as he returned to the cold night.
"Mr. Berg?" the younger man said. He felt he was losing ground to the larger man, although he'd known Arquetta far longer. This had happened before with her, but he knew how the evening would likely end. Very few days passed when he didn't think about dropping her, and very few days passed when he didn't think about being with her forever.
They entered the Blue Bar, and the black-and-white-striped piano was the first thing in view. For years Contessa had played a solid white baby grand, and before settling full time at The Algonquin she'd been a legend in New Orleans, playing and singing for Caucasian customers who didn't exactly connect with the music but felt it stylish to act as though they did. She would have preferred to play the black clubs, but "white money was the only money talking loud back then," she would say. That was before Mr. Taggler went to Mardi Gras in 1914 and about two one morning ambled down Royal Street into the lounge of The Vieux Carre Hotel and discovered Contessa banging the blues like he'd never heard the blues banged before and like he knew he wouldn't hear again unless he took the lady back to New York. She could not refuse his offer. Years later Contessa admitted just about on a nightly basis near closing time, when she'd had a few with a lingering customer or two and was poring over her problems and theirs as well, how fast she'd accepted the offer, which included a suite on the seventh floor of her—"Heaven sent," as she put it—employer's hotel, The Algonquin. No doubt, the suite was an enticing part of the deal, "but the thirty grand a year wasn't all that damned bad either, honey," she'd say, maybe with a slight slur, depending on the hour.
Once she was established in New York, the story was Ernest Hemingway brought her a zebra hide from one of his safaris and, as was his way, presented it to Contessa the evening A Farewell to Arms hit the bookstores. Then F. Scott Fitzgerald, as was his way where Hemingway was involved (the fate of one-way friendships), bought Contessa a zebra-striped baby grand and presented it on the night of the day he'd signed his contract with Scribner for The Great Gatsby. As the crowd applauded, Maxwell Perkins, Manhattan's star-like editor, mentioned Hemingway wasn't feeling well and might make an appearance later.
From that evening on, the gold bench with zebra-hide cushion and the garish piano were the talk of the café crowd. Joseph Mitchell, pulse of the city, gave the two writers ample praise in The New Yorker, and suddenly the Blue Bar was the only place to be, and although almost too crowded from time to time, there always seemed to be enough room for a couple's intimate conversation—this the charm of the room, even now.
They were seated near the piano, close enough so the spotlight caught half their table. Morris "Moe" Berg had called ahead. Moe didn't live like a second-tier player; he considered himself too popular, apart and above any society assigned role, and although his style depended on his well-known ability to have someone else pay the tab, it was also well-known he was an extravagant tipper and fantastic at keeping a conversation going, especially if he remained the central theme.
Arquetta loved Moe and adored the way he appeared to live on the wind. She also loved her other escort, Carl Thorpe, the shy, young pilot, war hero, and now aspiring poet—but, of course, it wasn't time for him to know.
She listened to Contessa's soft blues, studied her suitors, wondered how long it would be before they'd figure her out. It really was very simple. Bergy was handsome, a graduate of Princeton, a major league baseball player who spoke six languages, quoted Shakespeare applicable to almost any conversation, and even found time to study law between baseball seasons and around an enormous social life, including invitations to estates on the Hudson and out on Long Island. Many women envied...
