The soft-drink counter that fronted on Broadway was halfway down the next block. A garish red-and-orange sign, bigger than the shop, proclaimed that it specialized in a drink called PinaCola. Against a violently colored scene of neon-lighted palm trees a second sign advertised PinaCola as a “Refreshing, Tropical Fruit Drink—a Sparkling Blend of Fresh Pineapple Juice and Cola.” The store also served hot dogs and hamburgers, a limited menu of sandwiches, and hot tea and coffee. It was built so that customers could get service directly from the street without going inside. Peggy often stopped there in the morning for a cup of tea, which was served by a friendly, gum-chewing attendant named Harry.
Harry, as usual, sat near the front of the store, his starched white cap perched on the back of his head. As Peggy passed by, he looked up from his magazine and rapped on the sliding glass window that opened out on the street.
Peggy heard the sound and smiled over at him. Harry broke into a huge grin and crossed his fingers in what was obviously a good-luck sign. Peggy waved and hurried ahead. Even Harry knew where she was going.
Before she had time to puzzle out the almost magical way news seemed to get around on Broadway, she was stopped by a third well-wisher.
“Good luck, baby,” came a voice from a nearby doorway. “Belt it out real cool, and knock ’em dead.” Three or four other men smiled and nodded.
They were musicians who congregated daily in the same place. No one quite knew why they were there, but at practically any hour of the day or night you could find them. The area was generally known as the “musicians’ corner” and if anyone needed a trumpet player or a guitarist on short notice, he could call the cigar counter in the lobby of the building. The attendant was careful to hold all messages. It was one of those informal arrangements that puzzled outsiders but was accepted without question by those who lived and worked in that strange world in New York called show business.
Peggy smiled back at the men and turned down the street that led to the Elgin Theater. At the corner her progress was momentarily halted by a line of sleepy-looking people boarding a chartered bus parked in front of a sign that read: “Sight-seeing Tours Meet Here.” A brisk, businesslike man in uniform was herding them aboard.
“Step lively, folks,” he was saying. “New York’s a big city and we’ve got a lot to see.” He gave Peggy a good-natured wink as she went by, as if acknowledging the presence of another insider—a greeting from one New Yorker to another. It made Peggy feel that she belonged in the big city and that she was really a part of Manhattan. She swung down the street with renewed confidence.
In front of the theater, a row of shiny glass doors blocked her entrance. A small printed sign over the center door informed the public that “Box Office Opens at 10 A.M.” Peggy tried the door and found it locked.
Moving to the next door, she was met by a gray-haired man who opened it a crack. “Sorry,” he said. “Box office won’t be open for another half hour.” Off to her right, Peggy noticed that a line had already formed. The early birds watched her with interest.