“Why, what a great way to kick off our project,” she murmured. “Like beginning a piano recital with a forty-eight-bar rest. Or attacking the enemy with a truce.” She studied my face, seriously and searchingly, and continued, “Look, I know I act kind of flip, and we both know some of it is to try to charm you into doing this immense job for me, and if along the way I’m finding myself more than a little charmed by you, that much the better. . . . But look at me now, Ray. This composition of mine, its performance at the fair—this means more to me than heaven and earth and all the rice in China. You’re not going to let me down, are you? You don’t know how important Swing is to me or how much I’m counting on you to make it happen. I’m not as tough as I look, you know.”

Yeah, she looked so tough. I mussed with her hair because her hair was perfectly suited for such activity. “I won’t let you down. I have a pretty good sense of how much time our work will take. Believe me, I’ve had my ration of stupidity for the year.” I indicated the bump on my head. “I’ll be smart from here on out.”

Chapter 27

27

Lake Merritt

In addition to knowing how to build an island, it seemed Oakland had equal success in building a lake. They did this by damming an inlet of the San Francisco Bay and surrounding its banks with apartments and government buildings, so that it now sat like a huge, flat amethyst gripped in a formal triangular setting.

Our “motor launch” wasn’t quite what I’d envisioned when I’d seen a sign near the Lake Merritt boathouse listing hourly rental rates. It was just an electric-powered dinghy with two seats side by side. But look who was at my side.

There was a grassy border on the narrow southwest bank of the lake. I noticed a double flash of light coming from it and aimed our way. It took me a moment to realize it was sunlight reflecting off someone’s binoculars. Enjoy the view of Gail, lucky bystander, I thought. I sure was doing the same.

I’d been pretty excited that the boats were billed as “radio equipped.” I’d pictured ship-to-shore communication, but as I searched for the microphone, Gail pointed to the dashboard, where there was a simple Philco car-radio tuner. Thirty seconds later, “Sunrise Serenade,” with Glenn Miller’s reed section playing in cheerfully octaved thirds, drifted up from below our knees out of a speaker planted somewhere under the dash.