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Show nrT i rVi I it's the law 111 V IVylM By CLARISSA LORENZ . j . Cornet 80 mMA ' MmM:J0f -A, he "But don't let It happen again. Remember, I'm keeping my eye on you." ( U ' fyHEAD was in the clouds that jVl warm day in April driving up - ' E Broadway. The radio in my jalopy was tuned in on Tom O'Neill, my favorite voice of the year. I was hs-! hs-! tening to The Songshop Hour when the sharp blast of a whistle brought I me down to this too, too solid earth, i I'd driven straight through a red light. As a big, burly traffic cop swaggered swag-gered over to my battered coupe, my knees shook. I had a deep respect re-spect for law and order. "What's the big idea, sister?" he bellowed. ("I'm sorry, officer, I said meekly. "I was late for school." "Better be late than sorry," he said in an altogether different voice i as he caught O'Neill's lush rendition i of "Irresistible You." He jerked his 3 head and smiled at the radio.s"You 4 know, that guy's not bad." E "He's simply super," I gurgled. "He makes me all goose-pimply." The blue eyes of the law flickered, ' then fell on the volume of Popular Yl Melodies on the seat beside me. ?' "Music! What do you do for a J living?" ec "Piano teacher," I replied, "at pi Miss Follens Day School." I gave ef him a wan smile. 11 sr. He pUshed back his cap and wiped t0 the moist, blond ringlets plastered j K( to his brow. "Ever do any radio j 5h work?" x That made me wince. "I just wish : fr I had a dollar for every audition " Tve had." : -o ! "Pull over," he ordered. : 1 obeyed w1'" alacrity. At the curb : --(j I became voluble. Anything to stave . 3t off a ticket. I told him that radio a was a 'snare and delusion for any : ambitious young girl. I'd got no- where, "Sorry, we have our own : 111111 staff accompanist. . . . Sorry, noth- Ing right now, but If you'll leave your name " : He grinned, and it was like a I burst of sunshine. He leaned against i! my car, looking at me as if I were a crossword puzzle. "Say, how about dinner tonight?" i' You could have knocked me over i with a feather. "Why, I don't be- i ,i lieve-" I began primly. "You see--" " !j If he thought I was, a girl who could ' ; e be picked up, even by a police- . y man . . ." j ! "Okay, sister," he grunted. "I get , i it." Then his voice became official HI1 again. "Well, I'll let you off thi3 time." j m "Thank you, officer," I said. I S "But don't let it happen again. IB' Remember, I'm keeping my eye on shirt, which read, "The Singing Cop." "Nobody knows about it except ex-cept the gang here. I told 'em it had to be that way, or else. If the boys down at the station knew I was a crooning canary, life wouldn't be worth livin'." I sat still, looking slightly ga-ga. "Say," he said, his eyes twinkling, "that's a fine reception, considering that I finagled you a radio job." "You did?" I gasped. "But Mr. Burnham said " He waved his big hand at me. "I know. When I heard about Miss Miles, I asked him to give you a try-out." try-out." He looked up at the clock. "Okay, beautiful. Let's try that old number, 'Why Don't You Fall in Love With Me?' " I obeyed mechanically. As I said before, I have a deep respect for law and order. Next morning I wore my new Easter bonnet, a pink, flyaway confection. con-fection. On my radio O'Neill was giving deliriously with "Time Waits for No One." My heart went boomp as I approached the crossing ;on Broadway. There stood my nice giant in a shaft of sunlight. I drove straight through the red light. At the blast of that tin whistle I jammed on the brake. He sauntered over, twirling twirl-ing his shiny toy. . , "Well, sister," he said sternly, "if you're gonna make it a habit, I have to take steps. Let's see your license." li-cense." I looked at him in sheer dismay. O'Neill went crooning on, but my traffic cop seemed deaf this morning. morn-ing. "Make it snappy." So I fumbled in my imitation alligator bag and fished out the license folder. "Beryl Thompson," he read, and took down the number, name and address, handed it to me. "Here you are." "You conceited goon," I told myself my-self hotly, watching his broad back. "Serves you right." The low ceiling depression that hung over me all that day was lifted at 5:35 when I got back to my room and found a message to call Mr. Burnham at the radio station. I flew to the hall phone. "Be at the studio tomorrow night at 6:30 sharp," he said over the phone. The next day I was on hand long before six. "It's a transcription pro- !! you." ! ,1 looked at my watch: 8:45. I'd never make it by nine. Not when I ' had to pick up that daily cargo of I seven squirming kids and convoy ,"i , thern to the red brick building that I was my prison five days a week. I j ! s sighed. Art Is long and life is short, i . ' i and didn't I know it. I'd probably go j on teaching sassy brats five-finger ! I exercises until the grave yawned. : i Especially now that Charlie had j gone international on me. Corporal ! j j Charles Brent, No. 1 heel! When I j got his bombshell of a letter two I i I i months ago, telling me cooly he'd i j 1 fallen for one of those Aussies, I I i L kissed all hope goodbye of every I marrying an artist. Charlie played ! ) the bassoon before the Army made ' ; him play the bazooka. ' Until today I thought he'd broken my heart. But that night in bed, when I tried to picture him, all I could see were a pair of sky-blue . j eyes, strong white teeth, and moist, blond ringlets under a policeman's I : cap. I felt a twinge of remorse at ! having snubbed him. What if he was . W just a traffic cop? Maybe something ! -: could still be done about it. - i. gram," Mr. Burnham explained. "Miss Miles, the studio accompanist, accompa-nist, is out sick, and her substitute's having a baby." "What's the program, Mr. Burnham?" Burn-ham?" 1 "The Songshop Hour. Studio B. Here's the music. You'll have plenty of time to run through it before O'Neill gets here." "O'Neill? But , he broadcasts mornings, doesn't he?" "He records at 6 the night before." be-fore." AS THEgreenbaize door of Studio B closed soundlessly behind me, I felt like .turning cartwheels. A little before 6:30 a familiar voice broke up my practicing. "Hello, sister" I looked up, and my fingers began to prickle. There was my traffic cop, bareheaded and in shirtsleeves. "Pardon the attire," he said with mock politeness. "I'm not supposed to wear my coat off duty." "Are you Tom O'Neill?" "Professionally speaking, yes." He came over and began polishing with his hand the badge on his blue |
