Marshall took a look over Margaret’s shoulder at Phil. “He’s smiling like nothing even happened.”

“See, Marshall, he’s a nice guy. Give him a break already. And listen, I invited those A&R people here to see you. A little thank-you for doing this favor for me.”

Marshall’s pockmarked face broke into a grin. Margaret stepped out of the way, and Marshall shook Phil’s hand and apologized, saying he was a little bit nervous because some A&R people had walked in just before the break. Phil said it was okay and they worked out the number one more time before Marshall returned to the stage.

Margaret walked Marshall downstairs. On her way back to the dressing room, she thought about how important this evening could be for Phil. The A&R people who were giving Marshall the jitters were actually there to see his guest trumpeter. She didn’t tell Phil this, because she wanted him to remain calm.

She had been selling Phil diligently and had prepared his look carefully and didn’t want his sound to spoil things. In fact she hadn’t mentioned his playing much to the record scouts. Not that Phil couldn’t play. But she knew from experience that from a record company’s point of view Phil had more important attributes in his favor than talent: he was white, from Britain, had a classical background, and lacked a mind of his own. She had worked very hard to set things up. Phone calls here, faxes there, long lunches, phony greetings. Finally, the time was ripe.

On her way back she paused at the top of the stairs and straightened her dress, a black crêpe mini with a plunging neckline and a single button holding it together in front. She opened the door and entered the smoky room, each step revealing a vista of high thigh. Phil was standing with his back to her, head bowed, shoulders hunched over, sketching his solos vaguely with the trumpet’s mute in place. Margaret quietly closed the door behind her, and watched him as he stood oblivious to her in the diffuse light, dressed in a three-button black suit like a mystery man in a fog … or a dream … or a fantasy … or, perhaps, in a smoky elevator at the Factory. As she watched him, she felt a quiver below her belly button as if a pouch had been punctured. She willed the man in the black suit to turn around … and close the distance between them … and ease away the curtain of her dress … and take a peek at her thighs … and ease them apart … and slip inside her with a thrust that would reach her heart.

Phil turned around and found her staring. He smiled at her, his newly grown mustache framing his mouth.

“Come here,” she said, “and touch my legs. Quickly, before they come to get you.”

When Marshall summoned him to the stage, Phil bowed politely. Holding his horn primly across his chest, he waited for the applause to drain out of the room, nodded at Marshall and the sidemen, then spoke softly into the microphone.