“I didn’t know I was speeding, Officer. I’m on my way to meet a music publisher at the Bismarck Hotel. I work there, in the checkroom. Someone wants to publish my song and I—”
“Driver’s license?”
I showed him my license. He put it in his pocket. “Okay. Follow me.”
I was staring at him. “Follow you where? Just give me a ticket. I’m in a big—”
“There’s a new procedure,” he said. “We’re not giving out tickets anymore. We’re taking offenders right to the station.”
My heart sank. “Officer, I have to go to this meeting. If you could just give me a ticket, I’d be glad to—”
“I said follow me.”
I had no choice.
He started up his motorcycle and took off ahead of me. I followed him. Instead of meeting my new publisher, I was on my way to a police station.
I reached the next corner just as the light changed from amber to red. He went through it. I stopped, waiting for it to turn green again. When I started to go, the motorcycle policeman was nowhere in sight. I went slowly to make sure that he didn’t think I was trying to lose him. And the farther I got, the more optimistic I became. He was gone. He had forgotten about me. He was looking for someone else to send to jail. I picked up speed and headed for the Bismarck.
I parked the car in the garage and hurried to the checkroom. I could not believe what I saw. The policeman was inside, waiting for me, and he was furious. “You thought you could get away from me, huh?”
I was bewildered. “I wasn’t trying to get away from you. I gave you my driver’s license and I told you I was coming here, and—”
“All right,” he said. “You’re here. Now we’re going to the station.”
I was desperate. “Let me call my father.”
He shook his head. “I’ve wasted enough—”
“It will only take a second.”
“Go ahead. But make it brief.”
I dialed my home number.
Otto answered. “Hello.”
“Otto—”
“How did it go?”
“I’m on my way to the police station.” I explained the situation to him.
Otto said, “Let me talk to the officer.”
I held the phone out to the policeman. “My father wants to talk to you.”
He reluctantly took the phone. “Yes . . . No, I haven’t time to listen. I’m taking your son to the station . . . What? . . . Oh, really? . . . That’s interesting. I know what you mean . . . As a matter of fact, I do . . . I have a brother-in-law who needs a job . . . Really? Let me write that down.” He took out a pen and a pad and began to write. “That’s very nice of you, Mr. Sheldon. I’ll send him around in the morning.” He glanced at me. “And don’t worry about your son.”
I was listening to this conversation, open-mouthed. The officer replaced the receiver, handed me my driver’s license, and said, “Don’t let me catch you speeding again.”
I watched him leave.
I said to the hatcheck girl, “Where’s Phil Levant?”
“He’s conducting the orchestra,” she said, “but someone is waiting to see you in the manager’s office.”
In the manager’s office I found a dapper, well-dressed man who appeared to be in his fifties.
As I walked in, he said, “So, this is the Boy Wonder. My name is Brent. I’m with TB Harms.”
TB Harms was one of the biggest music publishers in the world. “They heard your song in New York,” he told me, “and they’d like to publish it.”
My heart was singing.
He hesitated. “There’s just one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“They don’t think Phil Levant is a big enough name to introduce your song. They’d like someone more important to give it a real send-off.”
My heart sank. I did not know anyone more important.
“Horace Heidt is playing at the Drake Hotel,” Brent said. “Maybe you could go talk to him and show him your song.” Horace Heidt was one of the most popular bandleaders in the country.
“Sure.”
He handed me his card. “Have him give me a call.”
“I will,” I promised.
I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to twelve. Horace Heidt would still be playing. I got into Otto’s car and drove very slowly to the Drake Hotel. When I arrived, I made my way to the ballroom where Horace Heidt was conducting his orchestra.
As I walked in, the maître d’ asked, “Do you have a reservation?”
“No. I’m here to see Mr. Heidt.”
“You can wait there.” He pointed to an empty table against a back wall.
I waited fifteen minutes, and when Horace Heidt stepped off the bandstand, I intercepted him. “Mr. Heidt, my name is Sidney Sheldon. I have a song here that—”
“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t have time to—”
“But Harms wants to—”
He started to walk away.
“Harms wants to publish it,” I called after him, “but they want someone like you behind it.”
He stopped and walked back to me. “Let me see it.”
I handed him the sheet music.
He studied it, as if he was hearing it in his mind. “That’s a nice song.”
“Would you be interested?” I asked.
He looked up. “Yes. I’ll want fifty percent of it.”
I would have given him a hundred percent. “Great!” I handed him the card that Brent had given me.