"This is fantastic." Dorothy agreed. "We'll have to thank whomever gave you this referral."

She gently deposited her belongings next to Ben's and began to take in the apartment in more detail than the initial view offered, leaving Ben to gaze out the tall window that somehow accentuated the handsomeness of his long, lean figure. These thoughts, as well as her general admiration of the way the golden sun warmed his face, she pushed aside.

The kitchen would lend itself well to their purpose, she thought. Though she supposed it was a purpose she couldn't clearly define. Ben was to prove something to her, though how long that would take or what that would look like, she hadn't any notion. In any case, Dorothy could imagine that spending more fiscally smart and private meals together in the small space would be preferable to nights out on the town.

The bathroom was smallish as well. Personally Dorothy had never understood the need for bathrooms the grand size of a bedroom, and so it suited her well. She made a mental note to purchase a few towels and washcloths when she stopped by the grocer.

Finally her tour led her into the bedroom, "Did you specifically request the double, Ben? I wouldn't have been offended in the least if you had broken that part of your word." Dorothy tried to will away the blush that belied her teasing confidence, and pressed the backs of her cool hands against the heat of her cheeks.

Instead of waiting for his response or imagining the awkward scenarios of trying to retire to slumber together that evening, she removed herself from the bedroom and joined him by the window, "I'll have to go back to work tonight if I'm going to help afford this. Don't bother arguing, or you may as well forget about me returning to New York all together," A smile wrinkled the corner of Dorothy's eyes as she stared past him at the scenery below, "What are your plans for the remainder of the day?"

Ben shrugged at her insistence that she would go back to work. He hardly had an issue with that in itself, it was more that work, for Dorothy, involved being around Michael Rivarde, the man who Ben was coming to dislike more and more. It was not that he lacked any trust in her, either; he did not feel threatened by this man, though Ben suspected that he had more than a little interest in Dorothy. It was that, from what he had seen and heard and the fact that Dorothy had insisted that they leave the guesthouse as soon as possible after Rivarde had discovered Ben's address, he seemed like someone to be avoided. At least, when there wasn't a story involved...

Still, he'd know more by the end of the day.

"I've got a meeting with a contact in a hour or so," he said, truthfully. If he found anything significant, he'd tell her, of course, but until then, he didn't want her to get any more mixed up in the dark underbelly of the city than she already had.

"And I'd like to point out that I made no specifications about the nature of the bed in there," he added, more playfully. "I guess I just got lucky."

In truth, he anticipated the business of deciding who was going to sleep where to be as awkward as Dorothy inwardly did. It was not that they hadn't known each other for long enough; indeed this issue would have never have occurred had it not been for a certain moment-ruining discovery they'd made on the night they'd met, it was more that the situation they had found themselves in was nothing like anything Ben had ever experienced before. Were they even together? It wasn't as if they'd shared a proper kiss in a month. But did it matter? Ben decided to do what he did best and play it by ear.

"But if you like, sheba, I'm sure I can rustle up a make-shift bed on that sofa there," he said, kissing her shoulder briefly then turning to face the sofa in question. "In fact, I can guarantee it'll give me a better forty winks than the bed in my place back in New York," he added, sardonically. The sofa looked almost new, and expensive too. Back home, in contrast, the broken springs of Ben's bed jangled whenever he turned over and the iron frame was at least thirty years old and an cast-off from Missy's parents' home.

Dorothy wondered silently as to why Ben hadn't found quality sleep when back in his own bed, remembering her own difficulty in attaining rest after sifting through thought after confusing thought about Ben. But she was sure that his intended meaning was only a joke, and a kind way to solve the issue of whom would sleep where. Better to make light of things than deal with them difficultly, right? Or wasn't that the exact problem in their relationship that she was trying to weed out?

"Well, if that suits you, then by all means." Dorothy made a sweeping gesture towards the large piece of furniture, all the while watching Ben consider the couch's comfortability.

The idea of sleeping together (even in the most innocent of definitions) was something they were both clearly tiptoeing around, and their circles were getting closer and closer to the heart of the issue. As he was so close to her side, it was easy for Dorothy to reach for Ben's hand and with her free hand, gently poke at a spot just below and between his shoulder and neck, "But if you asked me, I'd have to say that my head would rest here fairly comfortably. And a bed has got to bear more comfort than even the nicest of sofas, wouldn't you agree?"

She smirked, returning the kiss he had planted on her shoulder with one of her own at the handsome line of his jaw, "If you don't believe me I can prove it to you. Unless of course you have to hurry off to that meeting."

Ben mock-pretended to consider her offer. In reality, he could think of absolutely nothing better. Not cigarettes, not writing, not booze, not even scooping the biggest story in the country or becoming editor of the most famous paper. There would be nothing better than to feel weight of her head resting just underneath his collarbone or the faint tickle of her dark hair against his neck.

He'd made an offer (disguised as a joke) to sleep on the sofa simply because, having finally managed to track her down, even to be halfway to persuading her to come back to New York with him, he did not want to to lose her again as a result of some stupid assumption on his behalf that they would automatically revert back to the level of physicality they'd almost reached in the previous incarnation of their relationship. But now that she was prompting him...

"I dunno, sheba..." he said, pasting a serious expression across his angular features before taking the hand she'd slipped into his own and kissing its pale palm. "I'm a serious journalist after all- I think you're gonna have to provide evidence before you go making wild claims like that and expect me to believe them."

The meeting could indeed wait, if it meant an hour or two of lying in the cool darkness of the bedroom with Dorothy, away from the heat and noise of the streets outside.

Dorothy tugged her hand away from his lips after Ben's response, and shook her head with a rueful laugh, "I could have guessed as much. Well I'm glad that we've established trust between the two of us. Common."

She nodded her head in the direction of the bedroom, noticing that her earlier embarrassment had been replaced with something more akin to eagerness. The night before she had relished in how good it had felt to be held by Ben, sorrowfully remembering the last time that he'd wrapped her up in his long arms (when her goodbye had her holding on to him for what she believed to be the last time), and now wanted nothing more than to enjoy an uninterrupted afternoon in that very embrace.

Holding up a finger to signal him to wait, Dorothy patted and fluffed the dusty pillows and arranged them on top of the sun soaked bed. Then she crawled upon it herself, tucking her knees daintily underneath her smoothed skirt, and extended her hand in a gesture for Ben to join her.

"Now all you have to do is get comfortable, and then I'll follow suit. But it's important that you get settled first or else there will be nothing but squirming and probably another argument of sorts between us." Though Dorothy was jesting, her smile grew tender as she waited for Ben to arrange his gangly self upon the mattress that was soon to be theirs. "Let's see if you can prove me wrong, hm?"

Ben shoved his hands into his pockets at her signal to wait and watched with bemusement as Dorothy arranged the pillows on the bed, plumping and fluffing them so that clouds of dust rose out of the fabric, then gracefully climbed onto it, spreading her skirt out over her knees so not a sliver of pale ankle was visible. She might have been a princess, or a lady from the Upper East Side, with the poise she was managing to maintain despite the fact she was kneeling on the bed in a little apartment in New Orleans with a scruffy-looking journalist for company.

"Whatever you say, sheba," said Ben, with a grin as he kicked off his shoes and sat down on the side of the bed next to her. Dorothy had been right; the it was softer than the sofa in the living room and therefore infinitely more so than the bed back at home.

"Somehow, I think I'm gonna be comfy no matter what," he added, as he lay back onto the cushions, his hands behind his head. Despite Dorothy's best efforts, a little dust sprang up from the pillow and he wrinkled his nose to suppress a sneeze. Then, reaching back up, he took hold of her waist and tugged her down in a tangle of skirts to fall next to him.

"See?" he said, voice muffled by a combination of her hair and a broad grin.

Smoothing out her hair, Dorothy 'hmph'd a few times as she regathered her skirts and wriggled into a more comfortable position. The one that Ben had tugged her down into, complete with her hair in his mouth and her elbow trapped beneath herself, failed to do the trick of proving to Ben that this could be a worthwhile time expenditure.

Now, with her head propped up on her hand and her other arm draped lazily atop Ben's chest, Dorothy blew a last stray strand of hair from out of her eyes and looked at the journalist next to her, "I have the feeling that you knew this would be cozy all along. Need my evidence...ha!"

Instead of looking at his smug expression further, Dorothy un-propped her head from her hand and snuggled down properly and tightly next to Ben's side. Her shoes, she realized, were still on but she didn't bother with taking them off. Instead she closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of the warm body next to her; a musty combination of cigarettes, cologne, and something unnameable. She could have fallen asleep in this fashion easily.

A long moment of quiet passed between them before Dorothy finally spoke again, "I missed you, you know. I missed you so much that it hurt." A truthful yet also vulnerable admonition this was, and after a heavy pause Dorothy pushed herself up and brushed her hands together as though clapping away dust, "Right then, I think I've proved my point. A wonderfully comfortable way to share a bed. Or are you still favoring the couch? I could get it readied for you."

She scooted to the edge of the bed, draping her legs over the side as she began to think of the things needing to do before she returned to the Lagniappe that evening.

Ben grinned at her as she propped herself up above him, her hair falling delicately into the razor-sharp bob that hung at her jawline, and tried his best to look innocent. Although his best in that respect was probably not good enough, Dorothy didn't seem fazed and Ben felt her lie down next to him. They remained in silence for a little while.

During these precious moments, Ben inwardly marvelled at how well her body seemed to fit against his, his lean frame against her slighter one and how easily his arm could fit right around her shoulders, his long fingers able to trace the delicate line of her collarbone. And how warm and alive she felt. He could feel the thud of her heart at his side and it felt as fragile as that of a small animal; fainter and faster than his own.

When she spoke, he smiled and his hand moved to her face but before he could touch her, she sat up abruptly.

"I think the bed will do fine, sheba," he said, sitting up too, suddenly conscious of the space where she'd been. He shifted over to sit beside her.

"And me too," he added, simply.

Dorothy looked up at the man who sat next to her, and offered him a timid smile. It wasn't that Dorothy had been trying to get away from Ben or from the comfort of his arms, but there was something overwhelming about the newfound -or rather newly reinstated - feelings that she had towards him. It was still hard for her to believe that he was even there. That this 'chance' was real.

But it was real. Ben was here and he was keeping up with her step for step, even if she was making it more than a little difficult. As she held his pale gaze, she wondered at the meaning of his words for the second time that day. 'And me too,' He had stated. Did that mean that he, too, would be fine just as would the bed? Or was he telling her that she had been missed to the point of hurting, just as she had missed him?

Dorothy wasn't sure, but she liked to believe that both held a degree of truth. He'd missed her, else why would he have traveled the country side in her search?

Standing up from the bed, Dorothy once more smoothed her skirt and corrected her smile into a smirk, and stood before Ben with hands on hips, "I guess I'll just meet you here later then, handsome."

And then on impulse -and perhaps a combination of feeling badly for tearing away so quickly and the afterglow of the warm feeling of being held- she bent at the waist and took his face between her slender hands. When she tenderly (almost cautiously) pressed her lips to his, Dorothy was nearly overcome by how strongly her body reacted - how longingly she had been wanting to do that very thing.

Ben grinned as Dorothy said goodbye and was about to stand up to go when her impulsive kiss caught him by surprise. There was a sharp intake of breath as her mouth met his and there was a kick in his chest, as if his heart had jumped straight out of his body. But he quickly recovered and his pale eyes flickered shut as he stood up to hold her against him, their lips never parting, and kissed her back. His kiss, like hers, was cautious at first, as if exploring a territory which, whilst not unfamiliar, had been visited a long time ago. But soon, his hands moved instinctively to her face and her hair and he let himself fall into it with more energy.

Kissing her was like being dazed by the heat that shimmered above the roads here in New Orleans, except that, when their lips did eventually part, he didn't want to find cool shade, he wanted to immerse himself in that heat again, even if it made him lose grip on his mind.

Resting his forehead against hers, their noses side-by-side and their mouths half an inch away from each other, he smiled. He could feel her breath, warm against his skin.

"Yeah," he said. "Later, I guess."

As far as Ben was concerned, the meeting with Evie's contact could go to hell. But Dorothy seemed to be expecting him to go, even if it was for a short time. Though every atom was screaming out to him to remain, hold her as close as was possible, kiss her until he got heatstroke, he painstakingly forced himself to step away, slip his shoes back on and head for the door.

"In a while, sheba," he said, before closing the door to the apartment behind him and observing that his hands were shaking.

Though it had been several long minutes since Dorothy had heard the click of the door shut behind Ben, she could still distinctly feel warmth where Ben's hands had held her face, burrowed through her hair, or had forced her body against his. His reaction to her rash action left her wanting for nothing more than the same; a powerful passion to fill her heart and erase any other worries from her mind. Because as he'd been kissing her, there had been nothing else.

But now in the wake of Ben's departure, Dorothy felt sluggish and numb minded. She couldn't be sure as to how to continue on without reliving the previous moment over and over again in her mind.

Slowly, and then with gradual recovery, she went about accomplishing the tasks she had been listing to do. A more detailed tidying of the small -but grand - apartment had windows receiving in sun without blemish or smudge, dust free surfaces, and a set of sheets and pillows that hand been well shaken and aired in the New Orleans sun.

When Ben still hadn't returned home by the time she'd finished (though admittedly it hadn't been very long), Dorothy left the apartment, replacing the key under the mat after locking the door. Once outside under the sun, heavy with heat, she set off to find a small grocer or convenience shop from which she could purchase a few necessary items.

Even though the afternoon sun was bright, the day seemed a little bit lighter than before when Ben stepped outside and began to make his way across town to where Evie had said her contact would be waiting. She'd told him to go to a little cafe hidden down one of the winding side-streets of the French Quarter called The Apple Tree. After a few false turns, he found eventually found it.

It was situated on the bottom floor of a tiny wooden house so crooked it looked as if it was about to collapse in on itself at any moment. Small grubby windows had been dressed with equally grubby chequered curtains and the interior looked dark and gloomy. Despite this, the cafe was doing good business and a dozen or so people had spilled out onto the street, lounging in rickety wooden chairs sipping coffee or drinking iced tea. Inside was just as busy.

As Ben approached the cafe, a man hailed him from one of the chairs on the pavement.

"Hey, hey! Evie's friend, ain't ya? Come and sit ya-self down by here," he said. As Ben did as he was told, the man extended a hand, introducing himself. "Name's Eddie, and yours is Ben, am I right?"

"You're right," said Ben, going to shake the man's hand. He'd got halfway there when he realised that his hand was not empty. It contained a badge which, though it bore an unfamiliar crest, was undoubtedly a police badge. And a genuine one at that. Although the name was obscured (purposefully so, Ben guessed) by the man's hand, the little black and white photo did indeed show the face of the person sitting in front of him.

He was a small man, at least half a foot shorter than Ben's six foot-something, but heavily built with biceps that strained under the sleeves of his shirt. Curly black hair was cropped short on his head and protruded from his unbuttoned collar. His features were roughly hewn; a thick neck, overhanging brow and a Roman nose, but his eyes were dark and shrewd. He looked Mediterranean, as if he'd stepped straight off of the dry hills of Sicily.

"And you wanta know somethin' about Michael R, do ya? Why's that?" he asked, taking a surprisingly delicate sip of coffee.

"It's for a story I'm working on," lied Ben. "I ran a piece in New York about underground speakeasy culture and now I'm gonna write a companion piece for the Picayune. If they'll buy it off me, that is..." he added, with a grin, easing himself in with the expressive policeman.

Eddie laughed a loud guttural laugh. "Heh, well, always happy to help out a starving news-hawk. Let's call him Micky, shall we? Micky's a big egg around these parts. Got his fingers deep into the prohib pie. Except it's not a harmless gin mill racket he's running. Nah, we've got extortion, prostitution, illegal money lending, a few homicides... The works. But Micky comes from a big family. A big wealthy do-good family. And, although he's a bit of a black sheep compared to, say, his workaholic businessman brother..."

---

Ben left The Apple Tree cafe with seven pages of notes in his notebook and a lot to think about. Still, although he wasn't particularly happy that Dorothy was going to go and spend the next few hours in the company of the subject of the interview, those thoughts could wait until tomorrow. He glanced at his wristwatch. She'd probably already left for the Lagniappe by now. He could work on the story he'd been given to write up by the editor at The Picayune; a run of the mill piece about a fire that had started in a shop down by the river. All the names and details were...

Damn it. They were in a file on the window ledge in his old room back at the guesthouse. A file that he'd moronically forgotten to put into his suitcase before he left. Cursing under his breath at his own forgetfulness, he turned right to make a detour by way of Mrs Winston's.

It didn't require much of Dorothy's time to obtain the things she needed; a few simple towels and soaps for bathing, a small bag of apples, a loaf of bread, and enough odds and ends to make up a simple pasta dish for their dinner that evening. In fact, by the time she had returned to the apartment she still had enough time to prepare the meal and leave a simple note for Ben before leaving for work: 'Help yourself when you're hungry. I look forward to finding you here when I get home.'

Dorothy knew that she hadn't any more time to spend tidying or cooking, as the hour she was scheduled to work was drawing near. And though she wasn't particularly bent on pleasing Michael Rivarde, neither was she aiming to excite his anger. So arriving slightly early, she hoped, would be advantageous to her cause. More than ever, now that Ben was back in her life, Dorothy wanted to take exactly the right steps to ensure that nothing went wrong. She would sing any song, dance any dance, and entertain any conversation just to appease whomever needed appeasing...as long as she and Ben remained safe.

So with a determination to remain polite and agreeable to Michael, and likely very apologetic, Dorothy tried to stride confidently down the streets of New Orleans. She tried to remember all of the more kind memories she had of her boss, but as she entered the doors of The Lagniappe she could only envision the look in his eyes after he'd taken her note. Her note from Ben.

Rather than walk in straight through the front door, Ben went round the side of the guesthouse and, as he expected, found Mrs Winston in the kitchen, doors wide open to let a little breeze in from the humid night. Thankfully, there was only one person in the dining room as Mrs Winston took him back upstairs; the smartly-dressed man who'd taken the room next to his old one. With what he'd learned of Michael, the move, which had initially seemed almost like an over-reaction by Dorothy was now very sensible indeed.

"And how're things with you, darlin'?" said Mrs Winston, as she stood by the door whilst Ben retrieved his notes from the empty room. "Did you find somewhere else ta stay?"

"There're fine, Mrs W," said Ben, putting the file inside his jacket. "And yeah, we found a place. Obviously not as copacetic as this one," he added, with a grin. "But beggars can't be choosers, I guess."

"Oh, you're just tryin' ta get back into my good books, Benjamin," said Mrs Winston, laughing and leading the way back downstairs. "I still haven't forgiven you for taking yourself and your girl Friday outta here before I had a chance to check she was good for you."

"Mind if I go out the back?" said Ben, as they went back through the dining room and into the kitchen. The well-dressed man was gone.

He stepped out into the warm, close night. Overhead, the distance grumble of thunder rolled through the clouds.

"See ya, Mrs Winston. And I can tell ya; she's good for me," smiled Ben, as he waved goodbye to the buxom figure in the doorway, pushed open the gate set into the wall that surrounded the garden and went back down the narrow alleyway at the side of the guest house.

He'd got halfway down when someone vaulted straight over the fence of the house next door and slammed his head straight into the stone.

Dorothy had heard the phrase 'you could have cut the tension with a knife', and once inside the Lagniappe she began to understand exactly what that phrase meant. The thickness of the air as she first met Cora's steely gaze and then Anthony's sharp stare, was oppressive. It was a wonder that she could walk through it at all. But she did, nodding to both individuals with less than a smile on her face, and strode with mock confidence back to her dressing room.

She hadn't imagined that it would have been so difficult to return. Her recent argument with Cora was only made worse by a day of not seeing one another. The look in Anthony's eyes could only mean that he had been listening to Cora's tellings of the story, and perhaps now the entire staff was under some false impression about 'Helen'. Something along the lines of her going home with Michael and then disappearing without word for a day. The whispers between persons seemed to scream at her.

A final, albeit temporary, solace came once her door was closed and she was shut inside. As predicted, the note she had left for Michael to find was missing from the top of her vanity. This would have given her a knowing satisfaction the day before; that she had predicted his actions. But now it gave her a chill, as though he were still lurking in the shadowy corners watching her every move. The defiant nature of her note would not have been received well by him either, and she did not look forward to hearing what he would have to say about it.

None the less, Dorothy had a job to do, and this job required a much different appearance than the casually dressed, softy made up face that she was sporting now. With thoughts set on what she could look forward to once the night was over, she began readying herself for a night on stage.

Ben staggered, stars bursting in front of his eyes, automatically clutching his hand to his head. The hair at his temple was matted with something sticky and warm. He glanced at his assailant but he barely had a chance to realise that a) it was a man and b) that his face was obscured by the brim of his hat and a scarf tied tightly over his nose and mouth, before he had to awkwardly duck to avoid his fist. It glinted with the dull gleam of knuckledusters.

Ben did his best. He really did. But that initial blow to his head had altered his balance, made the scene dance before his pale eyes. He managed to glance a punch off the man's jaw, and another off his neck, but it had little effect. The man staggered back but an instant later, he'd shrugged it off and came back at Ben with renewed force. A blow struck him at his cheek, another on his nose, each one landing with the dull thud of metal on flesh. As blood streamed from his nostrils over his mouth down to his chin, he wondered absently if his nose had broken for the second time. The pain was barely registering, it felt distant, as if it was happening to someone else. Something was wrong with his sense of time.

A flash of metal and he doubled-up, winded by the punch that had struck underneath his ribs. The man took the opportunity to kick Ben to the ground. Another savage kick and he was sure a rib was broken. He'd felt it crack sickeningly as the man's brogue impacted his side. The next kick was aimed at his face and Ben had just enough awareness to throw his arms up to protect his head. His mouth filled with blood as two of his back molars came loose instantly. He stared at the pavement, inches away, and waited, shaking with horrible apprehension for the next blow, the next kick.

Well, Goldberg, you almost did it. You almost made it back to New York with her. And now you'll never get to kiss her again.

But another blow never came. Instead, his assailant dragged him up by the front of his shirt and leaned in close. He smelt like disinfectant and the cold tang of steel.

"You will get out of this city and you will not take her with you. If you try... We know that you left the guest house this morning. And we know where you went. Next time, it will not be your blood on my knuckles."

Then Ben was dropped back onto the stone and the sound of retreating footsteps echoed away down the alleyway. There was silence.

He tried to get onto his hands and knees but his limbs struggled to support him and he bit back a cry of pain. He collapsed onto his side and his stomach wrenched horribly as he vomited back up all the blood that he'd swallowed.

---

At the Lagniappe, Michael thought it prudent to remain in his office for most of the night. Aside from the fact that he had certain issues to oversee, specifically an attempted raid on one of the brasshouses he controlled in the North of the city (he suspected Etienne was involved), it would give Dorothy a chance to lull herself into a false sense of security. He did not want her to stop coming to work here; he would lose the chance to track down her new abode if he did (Mr Shaw had informed him of his failure this morning). Not only that, but Cora would doubtless be more... willing, if he did not show her friend much attention tonight.

So, he ignored the sound of music that drifted out from the club and put pen to paper.

Michael Rivard was not making acquaintances, nor glaring at Helen from across the room, nor doing anything that Dorothy could observe from the stage. Earlier that evening she had lingered as long as possible after the holler from the stage-manager outside her door, and felt that she couldn't get her shoulders to straighten completely despite her best efforts. Hopefully no one else would notice.

Quick, green eyes had speedily surveyed the large speakeasy for any sign of Mr Rivard as she left the confines of the corridor and stepped into the busy club. When she didn't spot him then or during the entire first half of her set, Dorothy decided that it made her more nervous that comfortable. Not that she wanted the confrontation or questions, but without it she felt quite unsettled.

And so, on a short pause between numbers, Dorothy made small talk with her newest -and currently closest- friend at the Lagniappe.

"Say, Franny was it?" She tried to sound lighthearted with the playful use of the nickname she'd heard used for him at the guest house, "How did things go last night with your gal? Did she hold up alright? I should find a way to thank her." Of course what she really wanted to know was how things went with Helen's absence.





"Just look at her! Making nice with the band as though nothin' at all happened these last few days." Cora sneered, leaning upon one hand at the bar and balancing her cigar tray with the other. When Anthony, at her side, didn't respond she continued,"I had half the notion that she was gonna run off and never return."

It had been a grave fear of Cora's, in fact. Shortly after returning home from her night revealing the truth of Dorothy to Michael, Cora came to wonder if Dorothy had actually found a reason to rush back to the Big Apple. It scared her to think that she may be by herself with men that made killing seem as ordinary as having a cup of coffee.

"Michael would not allow for that to happen." Anthony replied calmly, glancing at the auburn haired sheeba speaking with Francis. "She has yet to see the consequences of her actions."

Cora glanced at Anthony quickly, trying to read something from his expressionless face. Despite her anger towards Dorothy, she couldn't help but feel a shiver of worry creep up her spine at the implications in Anthony's tone. What sort of consequences? Maybe she should speak to Dorothy...

"My gal?" said Francis, with a white-toothed grin as he looked up from his task of adjusting the reed on his saxophone. "You're mistaken about that, chick, but... Anyway, once I'd actually convinced her to get up on them here boards, she did a damn fine job." His grin widened at the memory of Maggie's clear voice filling the crowded room. She'd looked so different from the Maggie he knew most of the time; a fresh, sweet little thing dusting the floors at the guesthouse or helping Mrs W with dinner.

"I think you've got yaself competition for house singer, there," he added, playfully. "If you ever need a day off again..."

Ben did good, Francis thought, but why was she still here? Surely his plan had been to take her back to New York? He'd heard from Mrs Winston that the pair of them had paid up early this morning, without so much as a goodbye to him or Maggie. Francis had assumed the news hawk was anxious to take her back to the Big Apple as soon as possible but Mrs Winston had told him (in the kitchen when there was no one else around) that they were still in the city, staying at some other place. And now Helen was back at work?

Mentally, Francis shrugged; he wasn't one to interfere where it didn't concern him. It didn't stop him being curious about how things had turned out between her and the journo.

"How's things with you and Goldberg?" he asked, with an inquisitive glint in his eye. "He seemed keen on ya, huh? Comin' down all this way."

---

After a few minutes of hazy contemplation at just exactly how shit he felt, Ben managed to lever himself up, using the wall for support. Once he was vertical, he stood still on shaking legs, as a grey film collected over his eyes and he feared he was about to pass out. His head ached, his face ached, where his tooth had been ached and his abdomen ached. It hurt to breathe.

He looked back down at the ground. His left eye was already beginning to swell up, narrowing his line of vision. Just lying back down again, curling up into a ball and not moving, even if it was on the cold stone of the alleyway, would be blissful. But one dogged thought kept repeating itself in his mind like a broken record: go back to Dorothy, walk back down the alleyway and catch a cab, just go back to Dorothy. Even as the record faded away, he realised that he was the at the end of the alleyway, having somehow managed to stagger its length. It took a few minutes of leaning heavily against a convenient lamp-post before a concerned taxi driver stopped to pick him up.

"What the hell happened to you?" he said, after Ben had managed to give him the address.

"I- Got mugged," said Ben, wincing as his split lip tugged painfully as he spoke. "S'OK, I've still got some kale..."

"You sure you don't wanna go to the hospital, son?"

"Y- Yep, I'm fine. It's worse than- it looks."

"Well, it looks bad, let me tell ya. Here, take this," said the cab driver, handing him a handkerchief.

Ben reluctantly looked at himself in the wing mirror and was a little shocked at what he saw. Dark bruises were already blooming around his left eye, where only a pale sliver of iris could be seen, and at his cheek. Ben knew that worse bruises would blossom around his ribs. He couldn't tell what his nose or mouth looked like because they were smeared with blood that was beginning to dry. There was blood on his shirt, too, and dirt from the floor and where the man's shoes had met his stomach. The hair just back from his temple was matted thick with blood from its impact with the wall.

He did his best to clean up the worst of the blood from his nose which, though it hurt like hell, didn't feel broken. His dark hair didn't show the wound on his head, either. But there was nothing he could do about the bruises on his face or the state of his shirt. He just prayed Dorothy would still be at the Lagniappe when he arrived back at the apartment.

When he did eventually get there, the cab driver refused his money then drove back into the humid New Orleans night. Climbing the stairs seemed like scaling a mountain and Ben had to stop halfway up to wait for the echoing pain in his head to go away. Thankfully, there was no one else around and he made it to the apartment door without encountering anyone. He turned the handle to see if it was locked.

"Oh, I do just fine with competition. Never have been one of those fight for the light type of gals." Dorothy returned, glad that things -at least in terms of entertainment- went smoothly. She didn't feel like pressing the topic of Michael any further, and just assumed that if something significant had happened, that Francis would give her a fair warning.

Instead, she raised an eyebrow to his inquisition, "Ben? Coming down all this way? Well, golly, I can't say that I know what you're talking about. He's just some sheik that happened to catch my eye when I was looking for a place to stay." Dorothy moved as though returning to the microphone, but then looked back to Francis with a girlish smirk, "I'd have to say I'm pretty keen on him too."

And so the next hours flew by with thoughts of Ben, their earlier conversations, and even more so their heated kiss. The bluesy songs were likely less believable as Dorothy felt far from blue, and the faster paced numbers held an extra spark. The crowd responded well and Dorothy found herself actually enjoying her evening at work.

When finally her time on stage was done, after she had shaken hands and politely refused drinks, after retiring to her dressing room to return to the modest clean faced Dorothy, she left through a back door and with a renewed energy made her way purposefully back to the apartment that wouldn't be empty when she opened the door. Unless of course he'd stepped out for something, Ben would have returned from his interview long before, found her note, eaten a hearty meal, and would be waiting to capture her up into his arms. Either that or she'd force herself into them.

Such thoughts carried her right up to the worn welcome mat, which from underneath Dorothy withdrew the key to the door, and unlocked it to let herself in.

"Honey," She called dramatically, turning to close and lock the door behind her, "I'm home."

Ben did not reply.

He'd made it back a few hours previously and found that Dorothy had not yet returned from the Lagniappe. So, he'd bent down painfully to feel under the doormat for the key and let himself in.

The first thing he'd done was go to the bathroom and rinse his mouth out. Knitting his brows together against the pain, he felt around the back of his mouth then spat the remains of a molar into the sink. He washed his face and gingerly examined the extent of the wound on the side of his head. As far as he could make out, it had been messy but not too deep. So, he rinsed out the dried blood matted in his hair then looked at himself in the mirror.

An improvement from his previous state, it was true, but he still looked as if he'd been hit by a car. Almost afraid of what he'd reveal, he slowly (every muscle still yelped in pain whenever he tried to move it) raised his hands to unbutton his shirt. Angry black bruises had blossomed right across his rib cage and under his ribs; any twist or undue movement of his torso made him feel nauseous with the pain it induced. He stared at his un-Ben-like appearance, water dripping down his bruised and swollen cheek, for a few moments then exited the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, key placed back under the mat for Dorothy, Ben been unable to resist the lure of glorious rest. He gingerly lay down on the bed, shirtless and shoeless. He lay flat on his back, to avoid putting weight on his bruised ribs, unable to even draw the sheets over him because they were unbearably rough against his grazed skin. Soon, he found sleep, uneasy and restless as it was, and failed to hear Dorothy enter the little apartment.