Come on, she wanted to shout at them. It's a stupid song. And those men are rude. They deserved what they got. But the silence in the theater had become a roar. And she remembered Ricky saying that the men in front produced a lot of Broadway shows and she mustn't make a bad impression. Lu's hands started shaking again—there was no way she could get her shoes on. Every eye was on her. With her head held high, clutching her magazine and her alligator pumps, she marched out of the theater barefoot.

The stage door opened onto an alley, and Lu slumped against the side of the theater. She'd failed. Her career was over before it had started. Now she had to hail a cab, get back on the train, and go home to face Mama. And Ricky. It was hard to decide which was going to be worse.

Behind her, the stage door opened and closed. She heard the sound of laughter—shrieking, out-of-control laughter. She turned to see the accompanist doubled up and grasping a trash barrel for support. His eyes were streaming.

“Oh God,” he gasped. “Oh God, I've been playing that idiot song for three days straight and I thought it was going to be in my nightmares for the rest of my life. Then you come along and … Oh God!”

Being laughed at was more than Lu could bear. She crammed her feet into the pumps and started down the alley.

“Hold on. Where are you going?” the accompanist called out.

“I'm glad you thought it was funny to watch me die in front of the most important men in show business,” she said. “At least one of us got something out of it.”

“What ‘most important men in show business’?” he demanded. “You mean Larry, Moe, and Curly in there? Those guys haven't had a hit since the twenties. God knows where they got the backers for that old warhorse they're putting on.”

For the first time, she really looked at him. He was probably a couple of years older than she was, tall—well over six feet—and a little chubby. His hair was blond and so curly, no amount of brushing was going to keep it off his face. His eyes were blue and he wore thick glasses with black frames. But what was most remarkable about him was the way he was dressed. Because of the war, everyone—men and women—wore fitted clothes to conserve precious cloth, but the accompanist was wearing a zoot suit with an oversize jacket, wide lapels, and baggy pants that narrowed at the ankles. It was an old-fashioned look, but given his size Lu felt it was a good choice.

“You didn't want that job.” He'd stopped laughing and now he clapped one hand dramatically over his chest and held the other up to the sky. “Believe me.”