SquidgeWorld Archive

"One for My Baby (and One More for the Road)" Affair
by MJ
mjr91@aol.com

Manhattan is a city of many bars. The liquor flows at places of all stripes, from workingman's bar to the toniest of nightclubs, and at taverns of all varieties in between. Whether one chooses to go slumming in Harlem, or to dress in furs for the cocktail lounge at the Carlyle Hotel, the liquor still flows. Every bar features that central institution of New York life, the bartender, and many of the better and even a few of the worse establishments feature that other institution of bar and café society, the pianist.

Napoleon Solo was familiar with many kinds of Manhattan watering holes. Left to his own devices, however, he favored Verlucci's, a small restaurant and lounge near Sutton Place. Leaving the bustle of the hipper Village jazz clubs to his partner Illya Kuryakin, he preferred the peace of Verlucci's, the dryness of their martinis, and the talent of their regular pianist, who reigned over the room every weekend. Freely confessing that he had never understood the mathematical abstraction of Illya's beloved jazz, he enjoyed hearing Greg, the pianist and singer at Verlucci's, play Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Frankie Laine standards along with an occasional piece of Gershwin or Porter.

As usual when he was in town and without a date, Napoleon strolled into Verlucci's around eight o'clock on a Friday night. Greg played Wednesday through Saturday, and the lounge never got much attention until ten or ten-thirty, after the dinner crowd was over. That was fine with Napoleon. He ordered a table for one in the restaurant, near the door to the lounge so he could hear Greg play. There were other regulars and semi-regulars who came to hear Greg, along with a rotating selection of visitors from the East Side hotels. He would eat dinner quietly, he decided, and then listen to Greg play until his act ended at midnight. Greg usually had a drink or two with his regular listeners after the show; Solo decided that he would stay to have a drink with Greg and the others, and then go home.

How surprised, Napoleon thought, Illyosha would be to see him at Verlucci's—Illya, his partner, who thought that whenever Napoleon Solo was out of sight, a woman was with him. But Napoleon enjoyed Verlucci's—enjoyed Greg, the food, the solitude. He had never brought a woman here, never let a romance or the potential for one invade this turf, which was his alone. He had never brought Illya there, either. The blond Russian agent knew nothing of this hiding place, had no idea that one of Napoleon's chief joys was Tony the bartender's Beefeater martinis with an accompaniment of Greg's Dean Martin covers.

The Russian would probably sneer at Verlucci's, Napoleon decided. The décor, swank to the point of rococo. The drinks, large and cold, poured generously by Tony and served by Rosa, a pleasant and very attractive English major from Hunter College. The music, melodic and lyrical, easy to follow, relaxing. None of the short shots of vodka, tiny cups of bad espresso, dark walls and over-dim lights, and vaguely theoretical music Illya espoused on their trips to the Village. Solo didn't feel that music should require a Ph.D. in order to enjoy it, but, rather, that some of what Illya called music had to be nuclear test plans set to alleged orchestration.

Greg was playing an instrumental version of "Love is Blue" as Napoleon entered Verlucci's. Greg looked up briefly. "Hey, Napoleon!" he called out. Solo waved back and headed through to the dining area. Although Napoleon might visit Verlucci's once a month, or twice a month at best, when he was in town, Greg knew all of his regulars by name, by drink, and by favorite song. He was certainly talented, both as a pianist and as a tenor, though his regulars loved him not only for those qualities but also for his sense of humor. Had he chosen it, he could have worked as a comic; an admission of summers working the Catskills in college had fallen from his lips one night after his third post-show martini with Napoleon and a few other regular customers. He'd spent time on stage with Red Buttons, Jackie Mason, and a few other tummlers learning their craft as well as the one he'd studied at NYU.

After a well-chosen veal piccata, a Caesar salad, and Verlucci's secret cheesecake, Napoleon felt up to braving the pleasures of the lounge. Obviously a request had come from the dating couple in the corner; Greg was holding forth with a rendition of "As Time Goes By." Napoleon nodded his approval as he took a corner seat at the bar. Greg was an impressive player, and Verlucci's had purchased a new Steinway recently to show off his powers adequately. After three years playing at Verlucci's, Greg had acquired a reputation in those circles of people who enjoyed piano lounges, and it was well worth the piano's cost to "old man Verlucci," as he was known, to keep his pianist happy and the sound in the small room suitably mellow.

A few tunes later, Greg called it a set and strolled away from the piano for a break. Approaching the bar, he shook a pack of Benson and Hedges out of his dinner jacket's pocket and lit up. "Hey, guys," he greeted the barstool regulars. "Tony, man, set up my usual."

"Coffee, one cream, no sugar, comin' right up, Greg!" Tony cracked. It was true, though; Greg never drank while he was playing. Coffee and cigarettes fueled him for the evening. After finishing mixing a tray of Manhattans and Pink Ladies, Tony drew a coffee for the pianist, who was making his way down the bar slapping backs, lighting cigarettes, and working the crowd. "There you go."

"Thanks, Tony!" He kept working down the row of stools, coffee in hand, introducing himself to two newcomers, greeting the regulars. "Hey, Vinnie, where's the wife? Roger, how 'bout them Yanks? Think they'll make the playoffs? Na-PO-leon, how the hell are you? Imports still doing well? When you gonna import me a Swedish blonde, huh?" It was schtick, no doubt about it, but the crowd at the bar was there just for that schtick. Was it companionship, or the illusion of it? Solo wasn't sure, didn't really care; it was entertaining, as was Greg's rendition of "My Funny Valentine," and that was sufficient in itself. He, like the rest of the crowd, was there to be entertained. Any additional intimacy, real or imagined, was a bonus, strictly—what was his grandmother's word?—lagniappe.

Back to the piano. A few slips handed to Greg on his way from the bar, through the cocktail tables, and up to the piano; requests, all of them. A few greenbacks peeked out from the slips; tipping for requests was par for the course, though not demanded. Much of the usual—some Gershwin, a Johnny Mercer tune or two, an Irving Berlin. Oh, nice choice, Napoleon thought—who had requested "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square"? A beautiful song, that; his mother had always loved it, had hummed it under her breath regularly when he was younger. " There were angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square." He'd dined at the Ritz himself now—he'd seen no angels, but the food had been delicious, and the service excellent. And Illya had been at his best; they'd had a week in London after extinguishing a THRUSH satrap in southern France, with Illya, a Cambridge graduate, anxious to show his partner the town. They'd walked through Berkeley Square, come to think of it.

Illya—now, Illya was a dinner companion. All of Napoleon's dates, all of the women he'd taken to dinner, and if possible to bed, had never been nearly as good a dinner partner as was Illya. Illya knew him well, knew when not to speak, knew what he couldn't bear to discuss, could entertain Napoleon immediately with a story about Russia or about his days at Cambridge when Napoleon was down. And Illya's wit was the only thing Napoleon knew that was dryer than Tony's martinis B Tony's martinis, in which vermouth was applied sparingly, with a dropper.

"Looking for the light…of a new love to brighten up the night…I have you, love…" Greg was really into it tonight; an occasional visitor wouldn't be able to tell Greg's moods by his playing, but the regulars could. Greg was "on" tonight, playing out what little heart he was joked to have. "They all laughed at Christopher Columbus when he said the world was round…They all laughed when Edison recorded sound…"

"They laughed at me wanting you, said I was reaching for the moon…" Well, no one had done that, not yet. That, Solo observed wryly, was due only to the fact of never having voiced what he wanted. No way to tell your partner that you'd rather have one dinner with him, anytime, than an entire weekend with the svelte brunette stew from that Alitalia flight from Rome. That you'd much rather work across a desk from him at UNCLE headquarters than be in bed with any of the women in your allegedly infamous date book. Now, if you did tell him, Napoleon, it would be a much different matter. Then, ah, then you'd hear the laughs, wouldn't you, Napoleon? Who'd believe that of Napoleon Solo?

"To prove that wise men can be wrong…I concentrate on you…" Oh, Napoleon thought, contemplating his Beefeater martini, watching the olive rotate slowly in its depths, I've concentrated enough on you, Illya, haven't I? Every time I look at you, damn it. And how you've managed to miss it, I can't imagine. Another sip at his slowly warming martini; he decided that he had better finish it before Tony accused him of destroying the drink entirely by allowing it to warm up. There was more than time for another; who was it that had said, "one martini is not enough, and two are too many?" He couldn't remember, but the fact was indisputable. What was Illyosha doing right then? He'd said something about heading into the Village to catch some drummer or another, possibly to jam with him after his set was completed at the club. Illya's bright blue eyes had lit noticeably as he'd mentioned the man's name; Napoleon had never heard of him. The only part he remembered for certain was the way the younger blond's eyes had glistened at the thought of hearing his jazz idol that evening.

I'd have been bored witless by the music, Solo reminded himself. Still, to see Illya light up like that…It was worth it occasionally to suffer for Illya's passion, not because he loved the music himself but because he enjoyed Illya's evident pleasure in it, a pleasure the Russian evinced at so few things. How to tell Illya Kuryakin that his pleasure was Napoleon's own? That even though they were at two different places that night, Solo's thoughts were still with him? How to tell the younger man that he wished that his name made the Russian become as effusive as the name of his idolized drummer could? More particularly, how to survive it if he did tell Kuryakin any of those things. His musing on the issue threatened to distract him from his distraction of the evening, to keep him from enjoying his temporary escape from the realities of UNCLE, of five days spent working against THRUSH operatives in the Antibes, and of the slight but strong man who was haunting his thoughts. It did succeed in occupying him long enough not to notice that Greg had played a short set and was taking a break already.

"My hands," he explained to Napoleon and another regular who was apparently named Jimmy. "Did a luncheon today uptown before I came here; I'm totally wiped out. Another coffee, Tony. And a manicurist for a hand massage."

"Find yer own woman," Tony called back as he poured another cup for the pianist. "Got enough trouble keeping track of my own."

"Thanks, Tony." Greg leaned over, reached for the coffee. "Hey, Napoleon. You look like you lost your best friend. What's up, my man?"

Napoleon shrugged. There was nothing like attempting to communicate the vagaries of life to a civilian. How to say, "I'm in love with the man who covers my back every day, who's killed for me to keep me in one piece, and I'm really not sure how to tell him that without risking major offense and a possible diplomatic incident with Russia?" He bit his lip. "Nothing much, Greg. No…a lot, but I'm not up to talking."

"Ah." Greg nodded sagely. "Woman trouble, my friend?"

"Close enough," Napoleon replied easily as he flagged the bartender for another round. "Probably unrequited love. But I'll live."

A strong hand was clasped briefly on Napoleon's shoulder. "I hear it all, Napoleon. All of it. So save up your troubles and let Doctor Greg cure 'em for you after the show. If a couple of drinks and an ear can cure it, I'm here, buddy." Another cigarette dangling, Greg made his way across the room to charm a pair of ladies sitting and chatting quietly at one of the candle-lit cocktail tables. Napoleon watched with sardonic satisfaction as Greg lit cigarettes and worked temporary magic with the women.

Again, back to the piano bench, the coffee and a smoldering cigarette travelling across the room with him. A quick shooting of his cuffs from within the sleeves of the white dinner jacket, and Greg was back at work. "Since I went on the wagon, I'm certain drink is a major crime…" he began. Now he was warmed up; he was digging into the Cole Porter songs, Napoleon thought a bit more cheerfully.

"Y Let the poets pipe of love…in their childish way…I know every kind of love…better far than they…" Perhaps Cole Porter hadn't been the wisest choice after all, Solo reflected. He sincerely doubted that Greg, who invariably claimed a reputation as a cocksman after a few drinks, really had much of an acquaintance with Napoleon's own dilemma or with the kind of love involved. Greg, who could easily take a new date with him from the audience after any given show, and occasionally did, would hardly understand the issue of slowly realizing that you were in love with the man you worked with, sometimes twenty-four hours a day, sometimes under gunfire, sometimes in countries whose names you hadn't been able to spell properly twenty-four hours previously. That, of course, was presuming that Napoleon could even say that to him. Explaining that you were falling in love with your partner in your uncle's import/export business fell into the category of the blatantly silly at best.

Nearly midnight. That was mildly obvious; Greg's standard last number was just striking up. "It's quarter to three…there's no one in the place here except you and me…We're drinking, my friend, to the end of a brief episode…So make it one for my baby…and one more for the road…" Napoleon ordered another Beefeater martini, enjoying watching Tony's theatrics with the cocktail shaker as the drink was assembled. He folded up a five-dollar bill and handed it to Rosa with instructions to place it in Greg's tip jar.

A few minutes later, Greg, obviously tired and perspiring faintly in his worsted dinner jacket, eased his way to the bar, lit cigarette in hand. A lock of hair, previously combed back, was starting to stray down into his forehead. "Great playing, buddy," one of the barstool regulars told him.

"Thanks, Jimmy," Greg replied tiredly. "I appreciate that somebody notices, you know?" He reached across Jimmy's shoulder and took a draft beer from Tony. "You guys, I don't know what I'd do without you. Nice to know people love me for something besides my looks." He slapped Jimmy on the back. "Great to see you, man." One lone woman, youngish, relatively well-dressed, slightly aloof, not of the regular female barfly variety. "Betty, baby." A fast kiss on the cheek. "Been a while. Don't tell me, let me guess. Harry walk out again?" The woman nodded. "Hey, baby, you can do better; what do I keep telling you?" A pat on her forearm. "Tony, you been taking care of Betty?"

"Takin' care of the ladies is parta my job, Greg. Gotta make sure they're safe from the likesa you."

"Aw, Tony, you're a real pal." Greg took a healthy swallow of his beer. "Hey, there you are, Napoleon. Now, come on, you were gonna unburden your soul to old Doc Gregory here." He slapped Napoleon on the back, and nudged the man on the next barstool. "Hey, Vinnie, move yer ass. I gotta consult with my good buddy Napoleon here so I gotta sit beside him, you know?" Vinnie moved his Manhattan down the bar and reseated himself. "Thanks, man." Greg positioned himself on the neighboring barstool formerly occupied by Vinnie. "Now, Napoleon. Drink up. And tell me for Christ's sakes what a good-looking guy who travels around the world is doing having love problems. She married, man?"

Napoleon shook his head. "Not likely."

Greg shrugged. "So which is she, a nun or a lesbian? No offense to your sister the Sister, of course. But at least nuns can leave the convent—at least, Audrey Hepburn did, or was gonna, in that movie, right? As for the other problem—well, if you're not the right man, buddy, send her my way and I'll take care of it."

Napoleon groaned inwardly. This was obviously a major mistake. But he was going to have to go through with some kind of attempt at a conversation on the topic; he'd been pushed into it. "No…it's more like, what do you do when you're falling in love with someone who doesn't even know that you exist?"

Greg looked Napoleon over. "Look, my man, unless you're having some kind of mooncalf thing over Jayne Mansfield, whom I am presuming you've never met—she knows you exist. You know her, right? She knows you?"

Napoleon nodded. "We work together."

"That's better." Greg took another swallow of his beer. "So she knows you exist. What you mean is, she's indifferent to your charm."

"Exactly. That's pretty much it." Napoleon watched the light reflect off the droplets collecting on the side of his martini glass.

"Well, then." Greg considered for a moment. "Have you actually been turned down flat?"

Napoleon laughed bitterly. "Turned down? I haven't even tried." Greg stared. "You haven't even given it a shot? Good Lord, man, what'd she do—walk up to you and tell you that you're ugly and repulsive? Kiss another chick in front of your face? She wrote 'I hate Napoleon' on the ladies' room wall? If you haven't even tried, how do you know?"

A good point, that. One that had been staring down at him all along, hadn't it? How did he know that Illya would reject him? Illya had little or no social life with women, rarely circulated at all except with him—when Illya did do anything that wasn't a solitary activity, it was something with Napoleon. When Illya's icy exterior thawed at all, it was in front of Napoleon—and usually only if no one else was present. Solo nodded. "I don't know. I…don't know. We're…friends. But it's never gone any farther than that."

"But you want it to, right?" Greg inquired. "You want this chick to be more than just friends."

"Oh, yes." Oh, yes, indeed. Napoleon wanted to know exactly how Illya Kuryakin's arms felt around him when one of them wasn't in the process of saving the other's life…wanted to know how Illya's skin felt against his when he wasn't performing first aid. How Illya's lips felt against him when one wasn't checking the other for continued respiration. What it would be like to be in bed with his Russian when they weren't in a freezing room in Northern Europe on assignment just trying to keep from enduring hypothermia. What it would be like to have Illya's blue eyes looking up into his as their arms wrapped around each other, as Illya whispered Russian phrases more intimate than "tovarisch" to him just before their lips met…"Oh—sorry."

Greg chuckled. "I know. Hard to stop thinking about it when you've started, right? Figured you got a little distracted there." He swiveled around on the stool, stuck a finger into Napoleon's muscular upper arm. "But seriously, Napoleon, I never figured you'd be at a loss on something like this. I mean, I've never thought you'd be afraid of putting a move on a pretty lady. What's the problem here?"

Napoleon took a breath, contemplated the real inner barriers. "I'm…afraid of being rejected, afraid I'll lose someone who's been a good friend, someone I do have to work with very closely every day…who's actually saved my life once or twice. Who's been—pretty much like my own twin." He bit back the word "brother" before it could slip out.

"Okay, man." Greg returned to his beer for a moment. "What it looks like to me, if you really wanna know…is that if someone is really that close to you…really has given you that shoulder to cry on, really has pulled your ass out of the fire like that, and really doesn't mind seeing you every single day…you shoulda married them already. Because you're not gonna find two women like that. And there's only one reason anybody does anything like that for someone else all the time, my friend…and you know as well as I do what that is."

Solo stared back at Greg, eyes widening. How had he missed it—because Illya wasn't female? Had Illyosha been a woman—well, if he had, he might not have been Solo's partner…but Illya had no reason to sit up with Napoleon, listening to the occasional failed romance story and pouring Napoleon another vodka. He had no reason to abandon his own plans whenever an invitation from Napoleon arose. And although rescues were part of a partner's job, hadn't both of them gone so far beyond the necessary to rescue each other that they'd been read the riot act by Waverly more than once? How often had they both risked their own lives unnecessarily solely for the other? How often had Napoleon told Illya that he had plans, and taken Illya's downcast look only as a comment of boredom, or frustration with Napoleon's reputed womanizing?

And how often had they sat together in one or the other's apartment, doing nothing, utterly relaxed, conversing in terms of "Illyosha" and "Napasha," names that were barely nicknames, closer to endearments, completely unconcerned with anything or anyone besides themselves? "Shit. Shit, shit, shit."

Greg raised an eyebrow at Napoleon as he waved to Tony with his empty glass to pour him another beer. "What's the problem now? Or have you just figured it out?"

Napoleon shook his head. "I'm fine, Greg. It's just—what you said makes so much sense, and I can't believe I missed it. I'm beginning to see the light here."

"Is that a song request? "Cause if it is, man, you're thirty minutes late; save it for tomorrow." Greg grinned.

"I might not be here tomorrow. I might be…busy."

Greg hoisted his glass, raised it to Napoleon. "Bring her over, I'll play anything you two want to hear."

"I don't know about that." And he didn't know. Even if Illya would come, he could hardly present Illya as his date, could he? "I mean—a jazz fan. Big, big jazz buff—goes to the Village all the time to hear the bands there."

Greg shrugged. "I can play jazz piano, you know. I love jazz myself. It just usually doesn't go over big with this crowd. But hey, I get a request, you know? I'll play it."

Napoleon nodded slowly. He couldn't let himself get collared on this one. "Well, we'll see."

Greg leaned over, crooked his finger at Napoleon to indicate that Napoleon should lean closer to Greg. As Napoleon lowered his head to Greg's, Greg hissed at him, "Bring the guy, huh? Nobody's gonna care, you know, as long as you don't make a scene."

"You know?" Napoleon was frankly astonished.

"Hell, yeah," Greg whispered back. "I'm a musician, man, you think I don't know any? Some of the best guys I've worked with go that way; it just leaves more chicks for me, right?"

"But how could you tell?"

Greg flashed a quick smile before resuming his whisper. "You never said it was a 'she' and you kept looking pale when I brought it up. I ain't that stupid. Now, you bring him over here some night and I'll show your friend what jazz piano's about."

Napoleon drew himself back up. "Gotcha, Greg. I'll do that. Thanks for the advice."

Greg nodded, smiled wistfully. "Now look, you know you owe me a Swedish stew for that, right, man? Or maybe a nice, German Lufthansa stew. So you better cough up one of these imported blondes for me or I'm gonna get steamed."

Solo couldn't help it; he laughed.

"What's so funny?"

Napoleon leaned back over. "I hate to tell you," he whispered, "but mine's an imported blond. Blond, blue eyes, cute accent…"

Greg's jaw fell. "You jerk. You are a jerk—you know that, right?"

A voice from across the bar—Tony, mixing a gin rickey. "Hey, you two. Quit sittin' at the bar neckin'. Whatta ya think ya are, a couplea queers?"

Greg sat back up. "Ah, Tony, you're just jealous. Get me another beer, huh? And another one of those silver bullets for my buddy here."

"Whatever you say, Greg. But drink up, huh, you two? People are leavin'—I think I'm closin' up early." Tony looked at the bar well for a moment, then pulled out the Beefeater. "One Beefeater martini, two onions, comin' up."

»»»

("It's a quarter to three; there's no one in the place here except you and me. So, set 'em up, Joe; I've got a story that you ought to know. I'm drinking, my friend, to the end of a brief episode…so make it one for my baby, and one more for the road."—"One For My Baby and One More For the Road," Johnny Mercer)

END

Greg's Playlist (at the piano):

"Love is Blue"
"A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square" (Maschwitz and Sherwin)
"As Time Goes By"
"Dancing In the Dark" (Schwartz and Dietz)
"They All Laughed" (George and Ira Gershwin)
"I Concentrate On You" (Cole Porter)
"Make it Another Old-Fashioned, Please" (Cole Porter)
"Love For Sale" (Cole Porter)
"One For My Baby (and One More For the Road)" (Johnny Mercer)
"I'm Beginning to See the Light"

The Author's Playlist (all on CD): "Perfectly Frank": Tony Bennett

"Steppin' Out": Tony Bennett
"Tony Bennett: Unplugged": Tony Bennett
"Live at the Algonquin": Michael Feinstein
"Bobby Short Sings Cole Porter": Bobby Short
"Julie London Sings Cole Porter": Julie London
"Peter Allen At His Best": Peter Allen
"Drag": kd lang