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“Yes—Mr. Jeffrey. I’m a friend of his.”

The heavy drapes on one side of the room parted, and Nicky appeared, flushed, happy, and I saw that the wall separating Nicky’s old room from the next apartment had been knocked out, and that he now had a suite. The drapes closed behind him, so that I had only a glimpse of what lay beyond—a room hazy with smoke and laughter, garishly modern. It was like looking into a sunset from the mouth of a cave.

“Happy birthday, happy birthday,” said Nicky.

“Celebrating the sale of your business?”

“Hmmm? Oh—no, not exactly,” he said. As before, my intrusion into his new life seemed to sadden him. “No. Just having some business associates in.” His voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “You have to do a little of this to keep things going smoothly.”

“Still trapped?”

“Yep. Son of a gun, he’s really got me. Maybe in six months—”

“Another deal on?”

“Just one darn thing after another,” he said dismally. “An outfit from Milwaukee’s trying to open up some shops here, so what can we do but extend our chain? Dog eat dog. But in six months, so help me, George B. Jeffrey’s going to disappear, and Nicky Marino’s going to be reborn.”

“Georgie, boy, sing us a song,” called a woman from the other room.

It was plain that Nicky didn’t want me to meet his business associates, that he didn’t want me to go into the other room. But the woman opened the drapes to call to him again, and I got another look at the door. The walls, I saw, were decorated with framed ads, and over the fireplace was a caricature, a doughnut with Nicky’s features, grinning, cocky, happy.

“Look, Nicky, I came about this tea service. It was a wonderful thing to do, but listen, it’s too much. Really, we—”

He was restless, seemingly eager to get me out and get back to the party. “No—I want you to have it. You deserve it, or I wouldn’t have given it to you. Back in the old days, the ten dollars you gave me was a king’s ransom.” He started easing me to the door, in friendly fashion, but firmly. “You keep it, and tell Ellen hello from George.”

“From who?”

“From Nicky.” I was out in the hall again. He winked, and shut the door.

I walked slowly down the stairs with the ridiculous bushel of silver still in my arms, and knocked on Gino’s door.

The old man opened the door a crack, smiled broadly, and welcomed me in.

“Greetings, Maestro. I thought maybe you’d moved. Your sign isn’t out there anymore.”

“Yes—I’ve taken it down at last, and retired.”

“Nicky just threw me out.”

“Mr. George B. Jeffrey threw you out. Nicky would never do a thing like that. What would you like to drink?” He had an amiable edge on. “I’ve got a good bottle of Irish a former student sent me. He’s a very successful welder now.”

“Lovely.”

“Any other time of the year, even Christmas, I enjoy being alone,” said Gino, making my drink. “But in the springtime it gets me, and there’s nothing to do but quietly tie one on.”

“Live!” cried Nicky outside, to the world in general. Gino and I watched the variegated feet of the doughnut king’s entourage pass by the cellar window.

“Bears his cross well, don’t you think?” said Gino.

“Must break your heart to watch it, doesn’t it, Maestro?”

“It must? Why?”

“Seeing a promising artist like Nicky getting deeper and deeper into business, farther and farther from singing.”

“Oh—that. He’s happy, even if he says he isn’t. That’s the important thing.”

“You sound like a traitor to art, if I ever heard one.”

Gino poured himself another shot, and, on the way back to his chair, he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “The only way Nicky could ever serve the world of music is as an usher.”

“Maestro!” I couldn’t believe it. “You said he was the image of his—”

“He said it. His mother said it. I never did. I never contradicted them, that’s all. That big lie was his whole life. If I’d told him he was no good, he might have killed himself. And we were getting to the point when I was going to have to tell him something.”

“Then this doughnut business was the luckiest thing that ever happened,” I said wonderingly. “He can go on believing