Phil, on his way to talk to the cop, stopped, sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair.

“The wife and I loved your last picture,” the cop said.

It had been a Western, a real piece of shit. As if anyone would believe a guy like him on a horse, saving decent folk from desperados. Johnny gave the cop the autograph he wanted, right on the back of his ticket pad.

“Making records again, huh?” the cop asked.

“Trying to,” Johnny said.

“My wife always used to love your records.”

That’s why none of the record companies in New York would give him a contract-no singer who’d ever been more popular with women than men (said some pezzonovante at Worldwide Artists) had ever managed to change that. But what Johnny hated even more was the past tense: not loves but used to love. Movies were fine, though even now, with his own production company and an Academy Award (currently swaddled in his daughter’s toy crib at his ex’s house), the people who ran things out here still made him feel like some dumb Guinea who’d crashed the party. The long waits on the set bored him silly, and he’d had about enough of smart-asses calling him One-Take Johnny. From here on, if he could get the right part, swell, but he was moving on. It just wasn’t where his heart was. He wasn’t really an actor, not really a hoofer, not really a teenster idol or even a crooner. He was Johnny Fontane, saloon singer-a good one and, if he gave it his all, which this contract with National gave him the chance to do, maybe one of the best who’d ever lived. Maybe the best. Why not? It’s hell when the person you know you are isn’t the person people see when they look at you. Not that he was going to say anything. You don’t say anything bad to or about anyone who’s been loyal to you. “What’s your wife’s name?” Johnny asked.

“Irene.”

“You and Irene ever get over to Vegas?”

The cop shook his head. “We’ve talked about it.”

“You got to see it to believe it. Look, I’m at the Castle in the Sand all month. Classy joint. You want to come, I’ll get you in.”

The cop thanked him.

“Fucking guy,” he said to Phil in the elevator up to the studio. “Bet he pulls over all your talent, eh? Bet he’s got an autograph collection that’d fill a garage.”

“You’re a cynical man, Mr. Fontane.”

“Loosen up, Philly, you’re too serious.” Though Johnny caught sight of his own mug in the shiny steel walls of the elevator, and he looked nothing if not serious. He took off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, and replaced it. “Everything all set?”

“For over an hour now,” Phil said. “There’s just one thing. Hear me out, okay?”

Johnny poker-faced him and said nothing, but he’d listen. It was Phil Ornstein who-after every other major label had passed-had given Johnny a seven-year contract (for lousy dough, but so what? dough wasn’t an issue). It was Phil Ornstein who had insisted that Johnny Fontane’s voice was back and that his public image as a boozing, brawling thug was both unwarranted and would only enhance sales.

“I know you wanted Eddie Neils for musical director, and if that’s what you really want, fine, we’ll try it.”

Johnny hit the stop button on the elevator. Eddie Neils had arranged and recorded Johnny the last time he’d had any hits. Johnny went to his house and wouldn’t leave until the old man gave him an audition right in his marble-floored hallway, among statues of eagles and naked people, and, when Johnny overcame the shitty acoustics and sounded like a little bit of something, Eddie had finally agreed to work with him again.

“You’re telling me Eddie’s not here?”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Phil said, tapping his gut. “Bleeding ulcer. Had to go to the hospital last night. He’ll be fine. But-”

“He’s not here.”

“He’s not. Right. Here’s the thing, though. He was never our choice for you anyhow.”

That Phil was classy enough to say for you instead of for your comeback wasn’t lost on Johnny. “You always wanted the other guy,” Johnny said. “The kid. Trombone man.”

“Yes. Cy Milner. He’s not a kid. He’s forty, forty-five years old. We took the liberty of hiring him to write a couple new charts.”

Milner had been a ’bone man with Les Halley, but after Johnny had left the band. They’d never met. “Since when? Since yesterday?”

“Since yesterday. He works fast. He’s a legend for the fast-working.”

The kid’s a legend, and I’m One-Take Johnny. “What about the charts Eddie already did?”

“We can use those, too. Either way.”

Phil ran his hands through the hair he mostly didn’t have. He was the sort of man who unconsciously took on other people’s mannerisms.

“What do you think I am, difficult?” Johnny yanked the stop button. “C’mon, Philly. I’m a pro. We’ll give old Cy a whirl, try some things, see if we can kick up a little magic, eh?”

“Thank you, Johnny.”

“I always liked a Jew with manners.”

“Fuck you, Johnny.”

“And guts.”

Johnny got off the elevator and strode down the hall toward 1A, the only studio big enough for the string setup he wanted. He burst through the doors and made a beeline to the gray-blond man across the room. He had on a British tweed suit and horn-rimmed glasses, one lens so thick it made the eye look funny. Broad-shouldered, like someone who’d played football, not what you expected from a man with a baton. He looked like a kindly headmaster from some movie. Johnny and Cy Milner made each other’s acquaintance with the bare minimum exchange of words. Johnny jerked a thumb toward the microphone, and Milner nodded.

Milner mumbled directions to his engineer and then took the podium. The musicians reached for their instruments. Milner took off his coat, raised his brawny arms, and flicked his baton. Johnny was in front of the mike and ready to go.

“C’mon, gents,” he said. But that was all he said.

Johnny hit the song hard from the first note, and the orchestra-Eddie Neils’s people every one-surged lushly behind him. It was like old times. He felt himself riding over the top of the song. He could still do this. Just like riding a bicycle.

When they finished, the people in the booth clapped soundlessly.

Milner sat down at a stool. Johnny asked him what he thought. Milner said he was thinking. Johnny asked if he thought they should do it again. Milner said nothing. He just stood and raised his arms. They did it again. Milner sat back down and started making notes.

“What are you doing?”

Milner shook his head but said nothing else. Johnny looked at Phil, who got the message and brought them all into the booth together.

“We’re getting rid of two thirds of the orchestra,” Milner said.

Not “we should” or “maybe we should”; just the flat statement. Johnny snapped. This was exactly the kind of orchestra he’d used on his biggest hits, exactly the sound people yearned for.

Milner stood his ground, expressionless, absorbing Johnny’s tirade.

Finally Milner handed Phil a slip of paper. On it was the list of people to take off the clock and send home. Phil arched an eyebrow, then pointed at himself. Milner said he didn’t care who did it.

“Hell,” Johnny said. “Do what you need to do.” He sat down heavily on a leather chair.

Milner was the one who sent the men packing. Johnny sat and looked over the list of songs he’d chosen, compared the charts Neils had done and the ones Milner had done. Milner’s were written fast, dotted with sloppily filled notes. There was nothing like the old days about this.

Moments later, Johnny was back behind the microphone, staring down at the sheet music on the stand in front of him. Milner’s this time. An old Cole Porter number that he’d recorded once before, way back when. He wanted to both kill this Milner and hug him. He’d love to prove the man wrong. He prayed that the man was right.