small voice, BIG MAN

Car 43 cruised slowly up Eighth Avenue. At the wheel, Patrolman Vince Ferraro thought mixed thoughts about Patricia Ann Burke. Beside him, Sergeant Gus Kleiber watched the city in a bored and automatic way, his mind on Augustus Junior, about to take his bar exams. The radio crackled in a low key. The evening traffic was light, few people were on the streets.

The Sergeant turned heavily in his seat. "You hear that?"

"What?"

"A guy singing. Over the radio."

Ferraro shook his head. He pulled over and they listened. Routine police calls squawked from the speaker. Kleiber frowned. "No, this was singing. It—there!" Faintly behind the official monotone they heard a man's voice singing. "You know who that sounds like? Van Richie."

"Van Richie? Come on. He's dead."

"Could be a record. Anyway, he ain't dead. He made a movie here a while back."

"Ten years ago."

"Yeah, but he ain't dead."

"He isn't singing on the radio, either."

Kleiber stared at the radio. The singing had faded out. Ferraro eased the car back into the stream of traffic and his thoughts back to Patricia Ann. They were interrupted again as he drove past the Garden. "I tell you," Kleiber said, "that was Van Richie ."

Oh, great, Ferraro thought. Now he won't be able to let up on that for a week.

"It's cold in here," the girl said. The man at the easel didn't answer. She hugged herself and tucked her feet under her, frowning petulantly. "Alex?"

"Put a sweater on," the man said without looking away from his painting. His voice echoed in the huge loft.

"I've got one on."

"There's a blanket there."

With a sigh, the girl lay back on the bed, pulling the blanket around her. She draped one arm over her eyes, shielding them from the banks of fluorescent lights. Under her ear, on the not-very-clean pillow, she tucked a tiny pocket radio.

In the corner, water dripped from a tap into the chipped basin. Dimly the sounds of the traffic on Tenth Avenue floated up to them. Almost an hour passed. When she looked up, the man was standing back, frowning at the canvas.

"That's enough for now," she said gently.

He dropped the brushes on the taboret and wiped his hands absently, his eyes on the half-finished painting.

"Alex?"

"Hmm?"

"Keep me warm."

Only then did he look at her. He came and stood over the bed, faintly smiling. She lifted a corner of the blanket like a tent flap.

They lay watching the lopsided moon inching over the edge of the streaked and gritty skylight. In the dark, she giggled.

"What's so funny?"

"I just heard Van Richie. Right in the middle of the news."

"Get that thing out of here."

"He just came right in while the man was talking."

"Give it to—"

"Listen." She held the radio to his ear. He listened briefly, then turned the radio off and put it on the table.

Later, when he got up for a cigarette, he saw it in the light of the match. "How did you know that was him? You weren't even born then."

But she was asleep.

Harry Freed locked up on the dot of nine. He left a night light over the rear counter, connected the alarm, and walked wearily to the car.

The traffic was lighter tonight. Thank God. He was exhausted. Waiting for the light at Seventh Avenue, he leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. It would be nice if Edith had a cup of hot cocoa ready for him. But tonight was Perry Como. She'd be glued to the set.

A horn honked behind him. He started, jerked forward and stalled the car. The light changed back to red before he could get it started again. People at the crosswalk stared at him. He felt himself blushing. Edith was right. They should have bought her brother's car last spring and got rid of this one.

The pavements were still wet, repeating the lights of Times Square in blurred patches of color. The rain had killed the day's receipts. He dreaded telling Edith. They said tomorrow would be better. He switched on the radio to get the news and weather.

The traffic moved slower now. He looked nervously at his watch. Even with Perry Como, she didn't like it when he was late.

Why hadn't Saul made both deliveries today? Why only one? Reminder: see Hodges at the bank tomorrow. And write Ruth; ask about his nephew's broken arm.

Horns again. A cop waving him on. God, he was tired. His eyes. Edith wanted him to get glasses.

"... clearing, with some cloudiness. Wind from the north ..." Van Richie singing.

Why are they always digging up Ninth Avenue? Maybe Eleventh would be better. Crazy taxis. Look at that nut, cutting in and out.

Van Richie?

He twisted the dial. "Wheat was off but cotton was higher...." "Our love came much too soo-oo-oon!" "Next news at 10:30...." "Real, unfiltered tobacco flavor...."

He had heard him, though. He was sure of it. He told Edith about it when he got home. She said he was crazy. Van Richie had retired long ago.

The book had pictures of things he knew, with the English names beneath them. Each word was spelled the way it was pronounced. With the rug wrapped around him and the book spread on top of the radiator, Gabriel Sangre said the word aloud, slowly, trying to remember what Miss Alvirez had said: where the mark was, was louder.

He was hungry. But he did not eat. What was left in the window-sill box had to last until Friday.

" Chay -r." " Tay -bel." " Kow -ch." He shivered, forcing his knees between the uprights of the radiator. In bed, he knew, he would be warmer. But also he would fall asleep. He wanted to finish the lesson. He did not want to disappoint Miss Alvirez.

Tomorrow would be hard again. A long day, with the stacks of trays and the heavy dishes and the miles of running around the big kitchen, with the old Italian barking at him and the waiters pushing him and cursing him. But he could not go to bed.

He rested his forehead on the book. The heat bathed his face. It felt good. It made him forget the cold wind outside and the grey and gritty buildings. It felt like the sun. The island sun that warmed him as he worked with his father in the fields. Down the long rows side by side, with the sound of the sea far away and the shrill voices of his sisters coming faintly across the valley.

The tears came again. He could not stop them. But this time as they came, he heard music. Singing. A man singing. Faintly, like the sound of his sisters far away. It was in English. It was not a song he had ever heard on the Sebastiano's radio. It was not one from the juke box at El Puerto, uptown. It was a small voice, a gentle voice, and he liked it. Once or twice he caught a word he knew.

He sat there with his head bowed forward, the rug wrapped around him, crying for the sun and listening to the singing in his head.

The secretary was nice to him. He could tell she had heard of him. Not heard him. She was too young. But heard of him. Well, small favors. She called him Mr. Richie, which nobody in Hollywood would have done.

Feldt was nice, too. Up from his chair, hand out. Some of them just sat there and let you come to them. But he had that same quick, searching look as they shook hands.

"Sixty-three," Van Richie said.

Feldt smiled but did not quite blush. "I figured it had to be around that. For what it's worth, you don't look it."

"Thanks." Richie sat down. Feldt returned to his chair behind the desk.

"I talked to Marvin on the coast last night. You're it for us, he says."

"Good. I hope so."

"Yeah, we do, too. It's been a while." Feldt looked at the paper in front of him. "1941."

"I did some stock out there after the war."

"Yeah. But the last feature was '41. And you were still a, you know...."

"A crooner." Richie smiled with one corner of his mouth.

Feldt smiled, too. "Yeah, a crooner. This one's only got two songs, y'know."

"I know."

"It's mostly light comedy."

"Marv explained all that."

"Yeah, well...." Feldt carefully squared the paper with the corner of his blotter. "1941, y'know that's sort of a while ago."

"Yes, it is," Richie said evenly. "Look, Mr. Feldt, if you're trying to tell me I'll have to read for it, just say so."

"Okay, I just said so."

Richie fitted a cigarette into his holder. His lighter failed and Feldt held a match for him. "Thanks." He exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Who for?"

"Oh, Abe. Me. Probably the producing team."

"It's always a team today, they just don't have a producer any more, do they?"

"Just a few of us. Six people, maybe. Seven."

"Just lines?"

"Well, mostly, yeah. We may have a piano there."

The corner of Richie's mouth turned up again. "I can carry a tune, you know."

Feldt laughed. "Sure, sure. But just to see how it sounds and all." Richie stared at him, not smiling. Feldt turned off his own laughter. He shrugged. "What the hell, Van, 1941. We got a bundle in this one. We're taking no chances. None."

Outside, the secretary's typewriter chattered unevenly. Richie blew a smoke ring. "Okay," he said, feeling suddenly tired, "Any time you say."

Feldt walked to the elevators with him. "Incidentally, Van, I hate to ask, but what's with the sauce problem these days?"

Richie shook his head. "Seven years. Eight now, in fact."

"Oh, great. That's great."

"And for your information, it never was what you'd call a problem."

"Well, the papers and all, y'know. We couldn't tell." The elevator doors hissed open. "Thanks for coming up, fella. See you tomorrow."

Halfway down, the only other man in the car looked up, startled. "Pardon?"

"I said 'son of a bitch'," Van Richie said. "With feeling."

"Good God, you can't even hear him!" one of the men whispered.

Someone else in the darkened theatre called, "Hold it! Can you give it a little more, Van? We can't hear it out here."

Van Richie squinted toward the seats. "Are the mikes up?"

"All the way. You're going to have to push it."

The piano resumed. Richie's voice was true but small. The whisperer groaned. "He could use that old megaphone right about now."

When the number was over, Richie came down from the stage and joined them. "You need help, Van," Feldt said bluntly.

"What about it, Ben?" They all turned to a man sitting alone, several rows back.

"You don't want a lapel mike?" Ben asked, coming slowly down the aisle.

"Too much cable trailing around. There'll be dancers all over that stage."

"Lavalier the same thing?"

"The same thing."

"Look, why hide it?" asked the man who'd mentioned the megaphone. "Just fly a pencil mike. When he's ready, drop it down."

"It breaks the mood," one of the writers said.

"Nuts, the mood. You can't hear him."

"There's one thing we can do...."

"A microphone out of the sky?" the writer groaned.

"Awright, a floor mike, then."

"There is one thing," the electrician began again.

"What's that, Ben?"

"Well, it isn't cheap."

"Of course not," the senior member of the producing team said.

"You mind if you look a little fat, Mr. Richie?"

"Not if they can hear me, Ben. What's the gimmick?"

They listened grimly to the electrician's plan. Feldt glanced at Richie. He looked old and tired and small. God, Feldt thought, I hope we haven't pulled a rock.

"For your information," Sergeant Kleiber said, "Van Richie hasn't made a record in 26 years. 1936."

"Fine. Great," Ferraro answered. Inwardly, he groaned. It was weeks now.

"And he sure ain't dead."

"Okay, you looked it up and he's alive." Ferraro moved the car skillfully through the traffic. "Fine. I'm glad to hear it."

"Looked it up nothing. He just opened in a show right here on 46th! That's him in person we been hearing. I told you. I know that voice."

"Yeah, you told me."

"Look, why don't you admit you were wrong for once?"

"The hell do you mean? I heard the singing. I said that."

"All you said was he was dead or it was a record or something."

"All I said was I never heard him sing those songs. Where'd you get all this about he's in a show?"

"Drive by! Turn in 46th! It's right on the sign! Turn in!"

Oh, nuts, thought Ferraro, what do I care if the guy is in a show?

"There. See? Slow down."

"I can see it."

They moved on down the block, past the other theatres. Ferraro shrugged. "Okay, he's still around."

"Sure is. And that's him we hear singing."

"But at night. How can he be on the radio if he's in a show? They wouldn't be doing a broadcast from the stage every night."

Typical, thought Kleiber. In the wrong, so now he attacks. He couldn't say I was wrong or you were right or sorry or anything. "Okay, he's still around." Big deal. And now boring in about the broadcasting. Well, the hell with him. They were getting too many of his kind from the Academy nowadays. The know-it-all, you-heard-it-here-first type. He was coming up for an advance in pay-grade on the first of the month. He had big plans to get married. Well, let him stay in the barrel a while longer. It wouldn't hurt him. Pat or Peg or whatever her name was could wait. He made a mental note to get Ferraro's fitness report form from the clerk when they got back to the precinct house.

"Can you turn that down a little?"

The girl shrugged and turned the volume control on the tiny radio. A sudden blare of sound crashed and echoed in the quiet studio. "Sorry," she called, hastily twisting the knob the other way.

"Damn it, Nell, you do that every time. You've had that thing a year now."

"Every time! You always exaggerate when you're mad. The other one was just the opposite, is all."

He didn't answer. He turned back to the canvas and worked silently for several minutes. It was not going well but he kept at it doggedly, frowning in concentration, his lower lip trapped between his teeth.

Suddenly he whirled. "Nell, turn that thing down or get it out of here!"

"It is down! I can't get it any softer."

"Then shut it off."

"Why should I? I want to—"

"I said shut it off!"

"I want to hear if Van Richie comes on with the news again."

"What kind of foolishness—?"

"Ye Gods, can't a person even breathe around here any more? You're so mad about that lousy painting—"

"Nell." His voice was taut but he didn't shout.

"It is . It's lousy and you know it. That's what makes you so—"

"Nell." He started across the room toward her.

"You're not going to take it out on me. It's not my fault if you can't paint. I don't think— Alex! "

She only partially blocked the blow. Holding his wrist, she tried to bite his arm. He flung her off, sending her reeling against the bed. "Lousy painting!" she screamed. She threw the radio at the canvas. "It stinks! It's so bad it makes me sick! It's awful!" Her face was twisted and flushed and her body jerked with the violence of her shouting.

She tried to run then but he caught her and spun her around. He hit her with his fist and knocked her down. He stood above her, breathing in great gulps, his eyes blazing.

She didn't cry. She got to her feet slowly, stumbling once when she was erect. She walked behind him and he heard the water running in the basin. He didn't turn around. Her footsteps crossed the room. "That's the last time, Alex," she said in a small, lifeless voice. He heard the door close.

It was a miracle, Gabriel decided. The singing was a miracle. It was to tell him to go on, to keep studying, to stay in New York and make Miss Alvirez proud of him. And when he could speak and read English well, then he would get a better job. A job in an office, maybe, where it was quiet and people were kind and he could go home at five o'clock. He would have enough money to go to the movies every night.

And so he worked hard at the words and the sentences, while the radiator and the singing in his head kept him warm. Every night at the same time he heard the singing. He understood more and more of the words.

But it was not the words that helped him through the cold and loneliness. It was the voice. It seemed to be singing just for him. It was inside his head. Nobody else heard it. It was like a friend, a friend he didn't have to share with anyone.

When the tests came, he got the second highest mark in the class. Only one girl scored better. Miss Alvirez shook his hand and was glad for him.

Later, he told her about the singing. She looked at him curiously but she didn't laugh. He even sang the parts he could remember. She did not know the songs.

It wasn't until he'd been working in the travel office almost six months that she came by and told him they were from one of the big plays downtown. She had seen it and had come all the way to his office to tell him. That made him feel very good.

"Listen, if you don't get a clerk in there. You're all jumpy. That's why you keep hearing that singing."

"Edie, I told you—that's got nothing to do with it," Harry Freed said.

"The man said there was absolutely nothing wrong with the radio. Nobody else hears any singing. I never get it on the set upstairs."

"I know what I heard, that's all. Four times now."

"You're just getting sicker, that's all that proves."

"Honey, I don't think you should say things like that."

"Yeah? Well, I don't think you should hear voices either. Why don't you see a doctor? My God, consider somebody else's feelings for a change. How do you think it would make me feel, having a husband everybody knew was mentally ill? Around this town? That never occurred to you, did it? You're too busy thinking of yourself. I try to get you to go to a doctor. I worry about it until I'm practically sick myself. But, oh no, you're all right. You just hear voices, that's all. So you don't care what anybody else is going through. Not you."

Harry sat very still. Then slowly he stood up. "Put your coat on," he said.

"What do you mean, put—?"

"Just what I said. Put your coat on."

"Oh, Harry, stop. I don't like to be talked to like that and you know it."

"Edith." He walked across the room until he was standing very close to her. "Edith, put your coat on and get in the car. We're going into New York and you're going to hear Van Richie on that radio if I have to tie you to the seat."

"You're out of your mind. You must be out of your mind! Have you been drinking or something?"

He stepped closer. Instinctively she stepped back. They stared at each other. After a moment, she went over to the closet. "Well, if that's the way you're going to be," she said, taking down her hat and coat. "I still say it's the silliest thing...."

He found the corners of his mouth were dry. His knees felt watery. But he drove steadily and surely through the heavy traffic. She kept repeating how silly it was.

He showed her the theatre with Van Richie's name out front. They drove back and forth along his homeward route. Three times they heard Van Richie sing.

On the way back, she began talking again. "Shut up," he said, without raising his voice, without looking at her. She gasped. But she knew enough to remain silent.

The critics called it the best musical since My Fair Lady . They had special praise for Van Richie: "He has made the transition from crooner to comedian with grace and style ... the years have left the familiar voice intact."

"Bless our boy Ben," Feldt said. He sat on the bed, the newspapers strewn on the floor at his feet. The cast party crashed and roared in the next room.

"Van Richie and His Electric Voice," Richie said, dropping the phone back in the cradle. He'd been trying to call California since midnight.

"Now, listen," Feldt said.

"I know, I know. It's a hit. Sure." Richie was looking out the window. The senior producer's apartment commanded a view of two-thirds of Manhattan. The blinking signals of a plane headed for Idlewild. A set of lights far downtown told him it was 1:57. Seconds later it told him the temperature was 39 degrees.

"What now?" Feldt asked.

"What?"

"The big sigh."

"Oh, I was just thinking. How it's all different this time."

"We're all thirty years older, dad."

"No. Something else, too. The—what would you call it—the immediacy?"

"You want to call it that, you call it that. Only what the hell are you talking about?"

"Well, back with the band in the old days, you were right there. They were right there. Swaying there right in front of the stand and you were singing right to them. I saw kids falling in love right in front of me. Maybe they got married after that. Maybe they didn't get married. But I was reaching them, I was communicating."

"When I hear an actor use the word 'communicate', I leave the room."

"This time around I can't get any feeling that I'm reaching anybody, that it makes any difference."

The party sounds burst in on them. The producer stood in the doorway. "What, are you memorizing those reviews? Come on, everybody's asking where you are."

"Here we are."

"Yeah, but come on. They want you, Van. Sibi's at the piano. You're on."

"Sing Melancholy Baby ," Van Richie said. But, he went out into the bright, crowded room and over to the piano.

In a corner of the room, Ben listened, smiling and tapping his foot to the rhythm of the song. The room had quieted down while Van Richie was singing. There was a crash of applause when he finished.

"Such a little voice," a woman said to Ben. He recognized her as one of the writers' wives. "What did you do for it, Ben? Arthur said you did something perfectly amazing."

Ben shrugged. "Not so amazing. We had a little belt made. About—" he stretched the thumb and middle finger of one hand "—six inches high, maybe an inch-and-a-half thick. It was a transmitter, actually—a miniature radio station."

"But I never saw any wires. What did he have, batteries?"

"Transistors. Like the astronauts in the space capsules. He wore the whole thing under his clothes. We had an amplifier in the wings to pick up the signal and beam it out to the house speakers." Ben laughed. "It probably loused up a few radios in the neighborhood but it worked."

"I think it's just incredible. That little voice!"

Years later, when the New York dentist replaced Gabriel's old steel fillings, he explained to him about the music. Gabriel had been receiving radio signals in the bits of metal in his head, he said. He was very scientific about it, even drawing a little diagram to show him how the radiator had helped ground him. Gabriel listened politely and smiled but said nothing. To him it was still a miracle.

THE END