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shots and try to figure a way out. But the juke-box kept playing one song over
and over.
The odd thing was that nobody else heard that particular song. Foster
discovered that quite by accident. To Austin's ears, the juke-box was going
through an ordinary repertoire of modern popular stuff.
After that, Foster listened more closely. The song was a haunting duet,
plaintive and curiously tender. It had overtones hi it that made Foster's
spine tingle.
"Who wrote that thing?" he.asked Austin.
"Wasn't it Hoagy Carmichael?"
But they were talking at cross-purposes. The juke-box suddenly sang "I Dood
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It," and then relapsed into the duet.
"No," Austin said. "I guess it wasn't Hoagy. That's an old one. 'Dardanella.'"
But it wasn't "Dardanella."
Foster saw a piano at the back. He went to it and got out his notebook. First
he wrote the lyrics.
Then he tried to get the notes down, but they were beyond him, even with the
piano as a guide. The best he could achieve was a sort of shorthand. His own
voice was true and good, and he thought he might be able to sing the piece
ao-curately, if he could find someone to put down the notes for him.
When he finished, he studied the juke-box more closely. The broken panel had
been repaired. He patted the gadget in a friendly way and went away thinking
hard.
His secretary's name was Lois Kennedy. She came into his office the next day
while Foster was tapping at the piano
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and helplessly endeavoring to write down the score.
"Let me help you, Mr. Foster," she said competently, casting a practised eye
over the messy pages.
"I-no, thanks^' Foster said.
"Are you bad on scores?" she asked as she smiled. "A lot of composers are that
way. They play by ear, but they don't know G sharp from A flat." "They don't,
eh?" Foster murmured. The girl eyed him intently. "Suppose you run through it,
and I'll mark down a rough scoring."
Foster hit a few chords. "Phooey!" he said at last, and picked up the lyrics.
Those were readable, anyway. He began to hum.
"Swell," Lois said. "Just sing it. I'll catch the melody." Foster's voice was
true, and he found it surprisingly easy to remember the love song the juke-box
had played. He sang it, and Lois presently played it on the piano, while
Foster corrected and revised. At least he could tell what was wrong and what
was right. And, since Lois had h'ved music since her childhood, she had little
difficulty in recording the song on paper.
Afterwards she was enthusiastic. "It's swell," she said. "Something really
new! Mr. Foster, you're good. And you're not lifting from Mozart, either. I'll
shoot this right over to the big boy.
Usually it's smart not to be hi too much of a hurry, but since this is your
first job here, we'll chance it."
Taliaferro liked the song. He made a few useless suggestions, which Foster,
with Lois's aid, incorporated, and sent down a list of what else was needed
for the super-musical. He also called a conclave of the song-writers to listen
to Foster's opus.
"I want you to hear what's good," Taliaferro told them. "This new find of mine
is showing you up.
I think we need new blood," he finished darkly, eying the wretched
song-writers with ominous intensity.
But Foster quaked in his boots. For all he knew, his song might have been
plagiarized. He expected someone in the audience to spring up and shout: "That
new find of yours swiped his song from
Berlin!" Or Gershwin or Porter or Hammerstein, as the case might be.
Nobody exposed him. The song was new. It established Foster as a double-threat
man, since he had done both melody and lyrics himself.
235
He was a success.
Every night he had his ritual. Alone, he visited a certain downtown bar. When
necessary, the juke-
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box helped him with his songs. It seemed to know exactly what was needed. It
asked little in return. It served him with the unquestioning fidelity of
'Cigarette' in "Under Two Flags." And sometimes it played love songs aimed at
Foster's ears and hlaft. It serenaded him. Sometimes, too, Foster thought he
was going crazy.
Weeks passed. .Foster got all his assignments done at the little downtown bar,
and later whipped them into suitable shape with his secretary's assistance. He
had begun to notice that she was a strikingly pretty girl, with attractive
eyes and lips. Lois seemed amenable, but so far Foster had held back from any
definite commitment. He felt unsure of his new triumphs.
But he blossomed like the rose. His bank account grew fat, he looked sleeker
and drank much less, and he visited the downtown bar every night. Once he
asked Austin about it.
"That juke-box. Where'd it come from?"
"I don't know," Austin said. "It was here before I came."
"Well, who puts new records in it?"
"The company, I suppose."
"Ever see 'em do it?"
Austin thought. "Can't say I have. I guess the man conies around when the
other bartender's on duty. It's got a new set of records on every day, though.
That's good service."
Foster made a note to ask the other bartender about it. But there was no tune.
For, the next day, he kissed Lois Kennedy.
That was a mistake. It was the booster charge. The next thing Jerry Foster
knew, he was making the rounds with Lois, and it was after dark, and they were
driving unsteadily along the Sunset Strip, discussing life and music.
"I'm going places," Foster said, dodging an oddly ambulatory telephone pole.
"We're going places together."
"Oh, honey!" Lois said.
Foster stopped the car and kissed her.
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