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Dearest brother,

When I think on that sentiment, I find that it is true. You are without doubt the brother that I hold most dear. Sentiment (or what you would deem silly and 'mushy') aside, I've arrived safely at my destination. I'm quite glad to have that long ride behind me, and am likely never to return to New York simply for the sake of avoiding such travel again. I suppose that's one way to learn that I'm not fond of travel.

I hope all is well in New York, though I don't envy the slight chill that must be filling your lungs every morning as you unload the truck. Warm breezes bring new smells through my window, and a distinctly unique music on something called a mandolin. I believe I can rediscover happiness here...or try. Best to be optimistic as mother always said, right?

As I advised previously, don't worry over me. I'd beg you not to be angry with me, but I already know that you're not. Among others, I miss you already.

Love,
Dorothy

"You've finished, then?" Cora's irritated voice delivered the question as more of an impatient demand. She ripped the letter from underneath Dorothy's hovering pen and nearly shoved it into the awaiting envelope. "We didn't leave so that you could remain attached to New York at the hip. Say goodbye, already."

Dorothy stood from the iron chair on the balcony, and took the letter to her brother back into possession. Without response she stepped through the french doors back into what was now her bedroom. It appeared large and empty compared to the cramped quarters she'd shared with Maddie only days before.

"He's waiting for us downstairs. Don't dawdle, Dorothy." Cora begged. She'd apparently spent the past two hours bathing, perfuming, and preparing for the evening ahead whilst Dorothy caught up on sleep in her lonely room. Now wearing a slim fitted get-up, Cora looked ready to paint the town the same color as her dress.

"Just one more hour, alright?" Though Dorothy was teasing, her tone didn't let on. She didn't feel the slightest bit ready to step into the public eye. Her new auburn hair set her wrong footed in picking out a wardrobe and jewelry to match. Finally, relying on it's effect on her best feature, Dorothy chose a deep green dress to pair with her eyes. Linking her arm with Cora's, the two red-headed 'sisters' descended the curved marble stairs to meet the awaiting Mr. Newbury below.

"Ah, parfait! Cest magnifique. What a grande evening we will have, ladies. Shall we?" Otto extended an arm for each of the women. His white toothed smile beckoned them assuringly, which did little for Dorothy's desire to remain indoors. She slipped the envelope into the designed slot for outgoing mail, and sighed.

Minutes later, the handsome trio was strolling along the streets of New Olreans. Cora remained all smiles and flirtatious laughter, and Dorothy couldn't help but find it contagious. Leave it to the perky young woman to flit like a social butterfly, with easy and beauty into her new surroundings. With a determined pang, Dorothy decided that she would not be flirting in a similar fashion any time soon. They were going to a bar, presumably one that Otto's employer owned. The last time Dorothy had flirted intentionally at a bar, well...that road had eventually led her to precisely where she sauntered on slim heels now.

"You'll enjoy this place, I should think," Otto was saying. "It will be much like that Blossom joint you were speaking of, though with a bit different ambiance."

"It sounds swell!" Cora replied. And Dorothy had to agree. Something familiar to the cool depths of The Gin Blossom appealed to her senses greatly.

"What can I get ya, darlin'?" said the waitress behind the counter. Ben looked away from watching people walk past outside the window

"Just a coffee, please," he said, turning to her. She was middle-aged and dark-skinned, with black hair neatly braided behind her head. A crisp white apron was stretched across her ample figure and stuffed with knives and forks rolled up in napkins. "Black, no sugar."

"Sure thing," she said, with a smile, then went about busying herself with cups and coffee pots. "You just arrived in the city?" she asked, over her shoulder.

"Is it that obvious?" said Ben, looking at himself in the mirror on the back wall behind the counter. He didn't think he looked that out of place. Sure, he was a little less tanned and wearing a few more layers than most people around here but he didn't stand out that much, did he?

"A 'cawffee'?" she said in an exaggerated New York accent. She smiled as she handed him a small china cup filled with rich dark coffee. "It's a little obvious, darlin'. What you come down here to the Big Easy for, huh?"

"To look for someone," he said honestly. He didn't see the point in lying- by some strange coincidence she might even know Dorothy. "But I'll be doing a little work on the side."

"Who're you looking for?" she said, curiously. "This is your work? Are you one of them P.Is or something? Come on and spill it, darlin', I've got an ear for a story."

Ben shook his head and grinned. "Nah, I'm a journo, I'm here to work for The Picayune," he said. "But that's just something to keep the jack flowing in whilst I'm down here. I'm looking for a dame; her name's Dorothy Knutson Byrd. She sometimes calls herself Birdie?" He could help but place an upwards inflection of hope into that last sentence.

The waitress shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, never heard of her. She's from New York like you?" Ben nodded as he sipped his coffee. It tasted as good as it smelt. "I'll keep an eye out. This lady, she a sweetheart of yours?"

He wasn't entirely sure how to answer this particular question.

"No," he said finally. "I dunno..." He honestly didn't.

The waitress eyed him as she scrubbed out a coffee pot with large hands used to suds and soapy water. "Oh, it's like that, huh? Well, best of luck to you, darlin'. Say, you looking for a place to stay whilst you're here in the Big Easy?"

Ben looked up from where he'd been staring into the murky dregs of his coffee.

"Yeah, you know somewhere? It'd be a real help if you do," he said, brightening. He was in the habit of talking to people whenever he could; not only because he was by nature and profession a person who was interested in almost anyone but also because every so often it provided him with a lead or a contact.

"Sure I do, you can come and stay with me! I've already got a few lodgers but I'm sure I can squeeze a lean thing like you in somewhere," she added, drying her hands on a nearby cloth and taking out an order pad from her apron. "Head down to this address in Vieux Carre; that's the French Quarter to you, darlin', and my husband will be sitting on his lazy ass outside on the gallery. Tell him Mrs Winston told you that you could stay and he'll show you to your room. Don't worry, it's cheap and if you smile at me some more like you're doin' right now, I might even cook you up a mean crab meat and spinach soup. So long as you keep me updated about you and your girl Friday, that is..."

She handed him the piece of paper and Ben grinned at her. He was beginning to like this city.

The Lagniappe waited for them after a series of twists and turns passed Bourbon street. Though at first blush, were it not for the style of persons entering and exiting the establishment, Dorothy and Cora wouldn't have known it were anything spectalar. From experience, however, the women had learned that the quality of the juice-joint could often be measured by the believability of its external facade. This one was top notch.

After traversing the floors of the "legitimate" business, they wound their way up a spiral staircase whose banisters seemed to throb with the energy from above. With each ascending stair the latin flavored notes, blasting from a brassy instrument, grew louder and less muffled. The style, while not quite as jazzy as the Gin Blossom, still gave Cora reason to inhale deeply and Dorothy the first genuine smile since she'd woken from her nap.

"Mr. Newbury! Welcome. Would you like me to inform him that you are here?" A finely tailored, aging gentleman stood before a pair of ebony doors. Though they were solidly thick, even these painted oak barriers couldn't seem to contain the energy within.

"Merci, but that will not be necessary. I am not here for business tonight, Bertrand. Tonight these fine ladies and I are celebrating their arrival." Otto nodded for the doors to be opened courteously for himself and his guests.

One might think that disapearing down a hidden corridor or climbing a well disguised set of stairs into an unknown level of an establishment would give the feeling of entering a foreign world. This might be the case for some, but only briefly. Once the doors, curtains, or other veil are opened to the exclusive scene itself, there is when one begins to feel as though they've transcended the mundane into the vibrant and lively world of an underworld speakeasy. And though Cora and Dorothy were well versed in such a world, each new setting brings something distict, especially in the flavorful south.

"Here we are, gals. With me you drink on the house, so to speak. What do you think?" Otto watched their delicate features adjust to the dimmed lights, and knew what their eyes were seeing around the large room; A swanky, classy combination of red and black, full of interesting looking persons with a full bar. Though it wasn't his to boast about, Otto was proud of the popular establishment.

"It's so similar and yet so different." Cora took a few steps deeper into the room, gaining the attention of more than a few men staggered about. She regarded Dorothy with a raised eyebrow, "Yet another home away from home, ya think Dorothy?"

"I think you should call me Helen." It was all she could think of to say. Her feelings were a tumultuous mix as she took in all that her emerald eyes could see. Cora's observations of the similar/different nature of The Lagniappe was only part of what she was thinking. Though familiar, the new environment empowered Dorothy to make the best of her 'fresh start.' And part of this, she instantly decided, meant keeping as much of her past to herself. Not leaving it behind, as Cora had coarsely suggested, for she couldn't bear to do that. But she would tuck it away for only herself to own. To Cora, to Otto, and to anyone else she would come into contact with…her middle name would do. With determination, she curled her lips into her signature pouty lipped smirk, “You said drinks were on the house, Otto?”

Otto recognized the forceful change his cousin was making, and let his cunning eyes smile knowingly at her, “Right this way…Helen.”

The Lagniappe was an oasis of cool darkness in the bright light and humidity of the city outside. Unlike the Gin Blossom with its gilted facade of splendor, the decadance of The Lagniappe was real but fading. The bar was long and topped by green-veined marble reminiscent of the shallows of Lake Pontchartrain, its corners speckled with chips. The metal tables and chairs were ornate, their backs and surfaces entwined with iron vines and blooms. The only source of natural light was a skylight set high above the velvet curtain-framed stage which in the night-time would cast an unearthly moonlight down onto the dancers below. Electric orb lights were hung about the edges of the large room, reflecting off the polished parquet floor like their cousin many miles above them or will'o'wisps hovering over marshland.

In one corner of the The Lagniappe, in a small section furnished with plush chaise longues covered in threadbare brocade, Michael Rivarde sat. He was not alone but surrounded by a host of the most glamourous residents of New Orleans. Whilst his brothers had the ability to attract the businessmen, the heads of the wealthiest families, Michael had always prided himself on being able to surround himself with the most beautiful and the most fashionable.

Money was not everything, he had come to realise, and besides, he had more than enough of it himself. No, influence was style, having the press under your thumb. Influence was charisma and this city was hardly lacking in that. All Michael had to do was ensure the hoofers, the actors, the singers, the bohemians and the flappers did exactly as he wanted. And a little leverage was not hard to come by when their les vices et les plaisirs were so... easy to take advantage of.

Although Bertrand had not informed him of his entrance, Michael soon caught sight of Otto Newbury. Otto was a useful man: resourceful, quick-thinking and pleasingly unsqueamish. He was not here on business and Michael would have left him to his own devices had it not been for the two dolls he had with him. Two very attractive dolls.

Rivarde held a hand up and an attending waiter quickly lent in to listen. A few minutes later, that same waiter approached Otto, Dorothy and Cora.

"Mr Rivarde would like to invite yourself and your two guests to join him, Mr Newbury," he said, bobbing a short bow and gesturing towards his boss. He held up a tray with three Creole Bloody Marys gleaming red in the dim light. "Compliments of Mr Rivarde."

---

Ben had found Mrs Winston's Guesthouse without too much trouble. It was a tumble-down house with duck-egg blue paint peeling from its wooden panelling and shutters over its many windows. In New York, where space was at a premium, a house this size would have been bulldozed to make way for apartment blocks or another skyscraper to grace the city's climbing skyline. Here in New Orleans, however, no one seemed to mind that this building was sprawled out in fading luxury or that an overgrown garden was set out around it.

Mr Winston, a little older than his wife, deepened a few of the lines on his forehead at Ben's arrival and waved him in through the front door before going back to sleep in the lilac light of the evening. Inside, it was dark and almost every available wall was covered in wall hangings, paintings and wooden carvings. Ben stood uselessly in the hallway for a few moments wondering what to do before a door to his left opened and he was confronted with a girl in her early twenties standing in its stead.

"Oh! You're not staying here are you? Are you looking for a room?" she said, dusting down her apron and adjusting her bleached blonde hair self-consciously.

Ben nodded. "Er- I went to this coffee shop a few blocks over and Mrs Winston told me to come...?" he said cautiously.

"Sure, we've got a room for you anyhow. It's only small though and you'll be next to Francis- I mean, Mr Austin," she said, apologetically wrinkling her freckled nose. "Just come follow me..." The woman led the way up a rickety staircase at the other end of the hall, her shoes tapping on the wooden floorboards with each step.

"Small's fine, and what's so bad about being next to Mr Austin?" said Ben curiously. The size of a room didn't bother him, not when the weather was as warm as it seemed to be here. If he needed to write, he could do it outside. "Name's Ben Goldberg, by the way."

"Oh, I am sorry, mine's Maggie Butler. I help Mrs Winston out with cleaning and cooking and making groceries," she added helpfully. "And there's nothing bad about Francis! Oh, I mean- It's just that he's always practising his sax and sometimes it bothers people... He's so good, though, I mean-" She appeared to prevent herself from stumbling over any more words. "It's just this way, Mr Goldberg."

They turned left onto another long corridor, its walls painted pale green, and she opened the door nearest to the staircase. If this room was small by New Orleans standards, then Ben had no idea what large would be. It was at least as big as his entire apartment back in New York with a knot-strewn wooden floor and a faded geometric wallpaper covering the walls. The furniture was sparse and simple, consisting of a iron-framed bed, a huge dark wood wardrobe and a white basin on a stand. Thankfully, there was also an ancient desk stood in the far corner underneath a shuttered window.

Maggie seemed to be waiting for his approval so Ben turned to her.

"This is small? You should see my place in New York," he said, grinning. "You can call me Ben, by the way."

"You live in New York?" she said incredulously, looking at him with wide blue eyes as if he'd come from another planet. "That must be wonderful... I've always wanted to go! You must tell me- Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs Winston always says I spend too long flapping gums with the guests. Breakfast will be at eight tomorrow morning. There's some bread and butter and some cured meat in the pantry if you're hungry tonight, else we usually have the evening meal at seven."

Before he could attest that she wasn't bothering him, she curtsied and left, shutting the door behind her in a flurry of blonde hair and plaid apron and leaving Ben alone with his suitcase.

Quick eyes had observed the signal from the swarthy man in the curtain of shadows, and Otto surmised that the presence of someone in particular was being summoned. As all other inhabitants of the room seemed to have been occupying their portion of space for a while, he could only assume that his recent entrance and alluring company had captivated the attention of Mr. Rivarde.

"Not a full two minutes in this joint, and we've already -ow!" Cora snatched back her hand from accepting the proffered beverage, rubbing at the spot which was reddened. "What'd you go and slap me for, Dor- I mean, Helen?"

"You don't even know who this mister Rivarde is." Dorothy scolded, taking steps to appear as though nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on the face of her cousin, soon joined by beseeching jems of Cora."Need I remind you that we aren't familiar to this city nor its inhabitants, and for all you know you're accepting drinks from the snakiest man in here."

The waiter, still balancing the tray, failed to disguise a snicker as a cough. All three turned their attention in his direction. Evidently something she'd said about Mr. Rivarde had been either spot on or ridiculously outlandish, causing the employee to find it humorous. It wasn't professional nor was it his place, as Dorothy and Cora well knew. Dorothy couldn't help but feel both embarrassed and offended.

Otto took cue to regard the man with sarcastic kindness, "Was there something that you found amusing, sir? Something you'd like to share with these women...my guests, hm?"

The man blanched, "Oh, monsieur Newbury, of course you know I mean no disrespect I-I...it's simply that Mr. Rivarde is-"

"Is the very man who has been so kind as to employ you at this fine establishment, no? An establishment that strives in every way to provide a comfortable and inviting milieu. Tell me, ladies, "Otto continued without removing his piercing stare from the man, "Is it comforting to have the staff snivel at your very appropriate hesitance to accept drinks from a stranger?"

Suddenly Dorothy felt quite uncomfortable no longer due to the man's laughter, but for the predicament the waiter had found himself to be in. Cora, on the other hand, appeared to have adopted a self-righteous expression. Neither woman responded as Otto transfered each of the drinks into the hands of himself and his guests, "Thank you for delivering the message. Ladies."

Without another word to the trembling waiter, Dorothy and Cora followed Otto in the apparent direction of the same Mr. Rivarde whom had sent them the drinks and requested their audience. Cora attached her free hand once more to the arm of her host with a smile of anticipation. Soon Dorothy found herself standing near Cora and Otto, before a man whose obvious clout couldn't be denied.

"Ladies, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Mr. Rivarde; the man responsible for not only your drinks, but this very scene that you find yourselves enjoying. Mr. Rivarde, these are the two young women I was speaking to you about. They just arrived today."

Michael Rivarde stood up and extended a hand towards each of Otto's guests in turn.

"The pleasure is all mine, I assure you, Otto," said Michael, bowing his head to kiss Cora and Dorothy's hands. His accent was New Orleans, tempered by a Gallic flavour to the ends of his words. He sat back, dark eyes almost black in the dim light. Around him, the chatter of company seemed to redirect itself towards the other end of the table as if wordlessly commanded by Michael himself.

"Enchante, mademoiselles and please, call me Michael. Might I enquire as to your names?" he said, looking at the two of them.

They were both pretty, in their own way. One, shorter and more voluptuous than the other, had honey-coloured skin that looked delicious under the glow of the old-fashioned orb lights. Her hair was a deep red too, with a boldness that was matched in her attire. She was certainly magnifique but her brazenness was not unique in a city known for its loose interpretation of social propriety. The other one, however...

She was waif-like and elegant; her slender form had the proportions of a shadow cast across a wall, only her skin was creamy white. Her hair was black, or perhaps auburn; he could not tell in the darkness, but her eyes were a clear exquisite green, like the colour of polished jade, and framed by dark lashes. She had a reserve and sultry vulnerability about her that attracted Rivarde intensely. He imagined what it would be like to have her at his neck in some hidden corner of The Lagniappe, to have her do exactly what he wanted. It would be difficult, penetrating that barrier to see what went on behind that jade gaze of hers.

But Michael Rivarde liked a challenge.

---

After unpacking the few items of clothing he'd managed to squeeze into his suitcase and hanging them haphazardly in the huge cupboard in his new room, Ben pulled back the shutters and went out onto the balcony.

The sun was kissing the horizon, a haze of colours spreading out across the sky in a way that reminded Ben of blood spreading through water. Like when he cut himself shaving and watched as one drop, then two drops fell into the cloudy water in the basin and leached away. In a city as warm and vibrant as New Orleans (Ben could already hear the chatter from the first few of many people that would spill onto the streets as the night progressed), it seemed vaguely sinister.

He looked down at his hands. Unusually, they were not ink-stained. He hadn't had the chance to write in almost two full days; almost unheard of for him. Perhaps it was time he broke his dry spell.

Taking his notebook from his jacket pocket and tucking it under his arm, Ben opened his door and cautiously set off through the ancient guesthouse. He did not meet a soul on his way down to the front door. The place was big enough, he supposed, for a dozen people to live here and only occasionally come across one another. The soft tones of Mrs Winston humming to herself and the occasional splash and clink of plates drifted out from a room off the downstairs hallway, which Ben assumed was the kitchen.

Outside the front door, he took a random turn to the left, walking under his own balcony. From the room next door, the faint strains of a saxophone cut through the humid air. Maggie had been right: Mr Austin was very good.

Almost as soon as he'd left that sound behind, he was greeted with another, more unfamiliar one. It sounded a little like a guitar, or a harp perhaps, but more precise than the latter and more delicate than the former. It was an instrument Ben had never heard before. Soon, even this was replaced by another sound. This time it was the chorus of crickets; he had emerged from the shaded maze-like streets of the French Quarter onto the water front.

Ben found a quiet spot off the walkway, close to the water, and sat down in the grass. Here, out of view of the people who walked the boarding along the Mississippi, he slumped back against the slope of the bank and opened his notebook. It had occurred to him whilst listening the strange string instrument back in the French Quarter that he had nothing of Dorothy to remember her by. Macs usually had something from their squeezes that they could keep. A gift, a love-letter, a lock of hair (if you were being really Wallenstein about things) or at least some ephemera that the other had left behind or discarded. Ben didn't have anything of Dorothy's. But then he supposed they never actually been 'together' as such. At least not in any conventional way.

Well, Goldberg, he thought. Create something then. That's what a writer does: create things that don't exist.

And so he settled down to write a description of Dorothy as best he could, as if she were sitting right next to him.

Otto chose one of the plush chairs to sink into whilst observing the two women make their introductions. It was unlikely that either Dorothy or Cora comprehended just how powerful and reaching Micheal Rivarde's influence was, exceeding far beyond the walls of this speakeasy. Before long, especially if they took to frequenting The Langniappe, they would learn of his status in the creole city and of his family ties. As of now, though, Otto assumed that they knew nothing and to a degree he found this amusing. Surely their reactions would be different if they were aware.

Cora was the first to extend her hand, giggling quietly as Michael gingerly pressed a welcoming kiss upon it, "Do all men down here speak French, Micheal? It's thrilling, really. My name is Coraline, but please call me Cora. This is...well,I suppose she can introduce herself, can't ya doll?"

She winked at Dorothy as she removed herself only far enough away from Michael to allow him to bestow upon Dorothy a similar greeting. Cora inwardly hoped that her hand would be the only one receiving attention, and was slightly disappointed to watch his lips descend to her friend's fair skin.

"You may call me Helen, Mr. Rivarde." Dorothy replied smoothly. Unlike the her bubbly companion, Dorothy resigned to keeping things formal. There was something about the man that bespoke of his power, a certain solidity and confidence even in his introduction that insinuated the weight of his character. He maneuvered the conversation without fear, discomfort, or worry that he'd ever not have the upper hand; similar to an Irish lilted blonde back in New York. And while Helen wasn't her true name, she supposed that she hadn't really told him that it was. "It was most kind of you to welcome us with these drinks."

Cora eagerly jumped at this opportunity to reclaim a voice in the conversation as Dorothy resigned herself to a seat across from Otto, "Yes, thank you so much Michael. They're wonderful. So...so do you own this joint? It's so different from the one back in the big apple!"

Otto laughed at the young woman's apparent enjoyment of all things New Orleans, though he noted that her constant energy grew tiresome and implied a lack of intelligence. He assumed she was very smart, but perhaps not as matured as his reserved cousin. Perhaps she was one who delighted in change, "The Gin Blossom, if I'm not mistaken? Both Cora and Helen worked there, Michael." He raised an eyebrow to his boss, hoping Michael would receive the implications of his comment. The two women would be looking for work, and experienced, attractive dames were greatly appreciated and hard to come by.

"The GIn Blossom, yes. What a great memory you have Otto. That's where I met D-Helen, you see." Cora continued, eyes drinking in both of the handsome men entertaining her in conversation.

Cora reacted exactly as Michael had expected her to; with gushing enthusiasm and obvious flirtation then taken a seat as close as possible to him. Helen, however, sat opposite him with reserve. One slender leg crossed over the other, her dark bobbed hair hanging in a smooth crescent over her cheek bone.

"No, not all, but there are a few of us around. I fear the language will soon die out in New Orleans," he said, leaning back on the couch with one arm stretched along its back, behind Cora. "Which would be a shame, as it is so belle."

"And not at all, Helen," he said. "I do indeed own The Lagniappe, so it is no great sacrifice on my behalf to bestow some drinks on a pair of women as charming as yourselves."

So Otto's new aquaintances were from New York. Rivarde had been there once and had hated the crisp coldness and the grey stone buildings towering like the side of a canyon on either side of the street. Everything had seemed faster, more exposed there. Here, in New Orleans, things moved at a slower pace and Michael imagined events to be more considered, better thought-out than the chaos of downtown Manhattan. Michael himself was a meticulous strategist and his city suited him, he thought.

As Otto alluded to the professions of the two women, Michael nodded. He was certainly a useful man and seemed to understand Rivarde's needs perfectly. Of course, The Lagniappe was one of the most glamourous speakeasies in the city and was in no particular need of more staff. Exceptions, however, could be made.

"Do tell me more," he said, smoothly, taking a sip from the amber-coloured liquid in his glass. "What did you do in the Gin Blossom? We are always searching for talented individuals here at The Lagniappe..."

---

Ben took the cigarette out of his mouth and let a curl of smoke escape his lips as he sceptically scanned over what he had just written.

Suddenly, he ripped out the pages from his notebook in a single movement and held them between his fingers before removing the cigarette from his mouth and pressing the glowing tip to the paper. It crinkled and gave way immediately, a small hole forming beneath his fingertips. Beyond the hole, the murky waters of the Mississippi flowed.

His frustration at his inability to convey exactly what he wanted to convey seeped away a little. He had the image in his head. It was almost perfect and could only be bettered by reality. He just couldn't translate that inner language into marks of ink on a page.

Ben lay back so he was spread flat out in the grass. The sun had disappeared below the horizon now and there was a slight chill to the warm humidity of the New Orleans air. Goosebumps were beginning to prickle the skin of his forearms and he rolled the sleeves of his shirt down from above his elbows. The sound of water was comfortingly familar; Ben used to go down to the harbour with his mother and his two brothers when he was a kid and throw stones into the sea. Sometimes he'd cycle down to Central Park and sail newspaper boats on the lake.

He found himself making one of those boats now, folding the pages from his notebook between his lean fingers. Then he sat up and let the breeze take it and cast it onto the water. It bobbed away gently into the vast stretch of water. Ben stood up and turned around, walking back up the bank onto the boarding.

"Hey, mac! Watch where you're goin'! Where yo' think this is? New York?" spluttered a man as Ben almost walked straight into him. The woman on his arm put her hand on her hip and raised an eyebrow.

He grinned. "Sorry pal, guess I was somewhere else just then," he said, holding his hands up placatingly as he sidestepped them and headed back into the tumble-down streets of the French Quarter.

Cora flashed another broad smile before pulling her eyes away to look at the room once more, scanning with narrowed eyes. She straightened when she recognized the figure she was looking for and returned her shining eyes to Michael's face, lazying pointing over her shoulder in the direction of a short skirted girl with a dark laquored tray anchored around her neck at waist height.

"That's what I did. Sold cigarettes, mostly to ladies, and cigars, mostly to men. Though there were a few females who'd try a cigar for bragging rights. It did the trick. Until they sputtered and choked." Cora laughed, causing her red waves to bounce. "Hmm...I like to rely on less manly ways of getting a sheiks attention."

Dorothy couldn't help but raise her eyebrows in surprise; apparently a few days away from the Gin Blossom had rusted her facial control expertise. Her lips parted briefly, pressed together, and then opened once more as she forcefully turned her head away from her obvious friend, "Cora was a cigarette girl to our fine patrons, while I watched from a- um, well from across the room."

"Gawd, stop clamming up, Helen. Your modesty isn't flattering." Cora reached forward to give Dorothy's knee a gentle nudge, paired with a wink. Inwardly she envied her friend; she was the cigarette girl, bouncing from job to job, living lonely with a bum boyfriend. Meanwhile Dorothy was a rising star whose voice captivated audiences who returned for repeat performances, and had to flee a city because too many men were falling head over heels at her feet. None the less, she couldn't help being proud of her. "Tell him!"

Once again Dorothy was aghast at her friend's eruption. Her pale features didn't register it as acutely this round. Her words remained measured ,"Alright, Cora. I was a singer there."

"Not a singer. The singer. She was the main gig, Michael. Everyone called her Birdie and let me tell you, she's the bee's knees." Cora corrected.

"You didn't mention that to me, and we're family." Otto teased. He was trying to gain his cousin some reprieve from Cora's gushing. He hadn't realized the nature of Dorothy's role in the northern speakeasy. It was an interesting twist to his ideas of gaining them employment. She'd have to be quality to get a gig in a Rivarde club, though she could still gain an alternate role if the singing didn't play out.

Michael imagined that Cora would make a good cigarette girl. She wouldn't be afraid to make eyes at patrons in order to sell a few more cigars and she had that common denominator that made her approachable. There were at least five girls vying for every position at The Lagniappe but Rivarde would make sure that she got a place.

"Is that so?" he said to Cora, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Well, I shall talk to Bertrand. I am sure I shall find you a place here at The Lagniappe, especially for someone so féminin," he added, releasing his grip on her shoulder after a duration that was a few seconds too long.

He noted Helen's embarrassment at her friends lack of propriety and resisted the thin-lipped smile that was threatening to spread over his features. Of course she would be embarrassed; so cautious when Cora was so freely mannered. She seemed unaware that Cora was in awe of her for being something that Cora, no matter how hard she tried, could never be. It irritated Michael a little (though he did not let a hint of this show). But no matter; it would make his victory all the more sweeter once he had her.

"And Helen, a singer? You should have said. I must insist that you come back here afternoon for an audition. Otto, make sure that she does. It would not do to let such a beautiful bird escape without hearing its song."

He finished the bourbon in his glass and set it down on the table next to the chaise longue. The Lagniappe was a classy establishment; one of the best in the city, and Michael made a point of ensuring that the spirits served here were at least drinkable, if not enjoyable, unlike many of the dives and gin mills scattered around New Orleans. Even so, he made sure to keep the best bourbon back for himself and his favourite guests. And it was the very best bourbon. Michael didn't think he'd tasted better even before prohibition.

"And do you still go by the name Birdie? Or would you prefer a different name for a different establishment?" he said, shifting his gaze to the stage. A jazz band were setting up for their evening performance but Michael was imagining Helen, decorated in sequins and feathers, gracing the boards in their stead.



Ben opened the front door to the guesthouse with the key he'd found on the bedside table in his room and went upstairs as quietly as he could (which wasn't that quietly due to the creaks and groans his footsteps induced in the ancient floorboards). It was late now and a crescent moon hung far above the rooftops of the Crescent City. Despite this, it seemed as if many of the city's inhabitants were only just waking up. The streets were as busy as they had been during the day as people emerged from the dark and shady corners of their houses and apartments into the cool of the night.

He found his way through the maze of corridors to his room. Mr Austin had stopped playing saxophone in the room next door and the place was quiet except for the creaking of the house's skeleton.

Ben opened the windows onto the balcony to let some of the breeze into the still air of his room. Then he drew the cotton curtains across and stripped down to his underclothes before climbing into the iron framed bed and trying to find sleep.

At Michael's statement Dorothy found her embarrassment to be a fleeting thought. Replacing it now was the headstrong pride that refused to silence itself once excited. Pride not for her vocal abilities, but for her independence that didn't oppose her femininity. Her blushing cheeks took an a hue more associated with frustration. Her downturned lips and modestly lowered lids perked. Indignation rippled beneath the calm and controlled planes of her face.

Dorothy had noticed at first blush that this man maintained a lofty stature, and made no effort to conceal it in his presentation. It made her slightly uncomfortable in a wary sense to begin with, but she no longer felt that the quiet and reserved young woman bit would do. His words, while flattering, didn't stop there. In his 'insistence' lie the assumption that she wouldn't refuse. It wasn't an offer. It was a command, given both to herself and Otto. How could the single, unemployed young woman possibly turn him down? He must imagine that her heart fluttered at the thought of performing before him, his judgement deciding not only her employment but also validating (or denying) her worth. Perhaps if she was Cora this would be true, but not for Dorothy. She saw past his use of the term 'beautiful' and fixated on his choice of words that implied she needed to be captured and not let to escape.

"I believe I did say that I was a singer, Mr. Rivarde. Of course it took the persuasion of dear Cora, here. But I assume you would respect my choice had I deigned not to enlighten you with such privileged information." Her green eyes met his squarely, without hesitation. The truth was, she assumed quite the opposite. If she refused to appease him he would likely interpret it as a personal disrespect, and not respect her in the least. But like Michael Rivarde, Dorothy Byrd refused to be conquered. She tipped her chin upwards a bit more, "I will consider your offer."

"Consider..." Cora was exasperated. She'd half expected Dorothy to turn on her doe eyes under those long and fluttering lashes, and decline the offer with the sickening humility she'd been pretending at all night. What she didn't expect was for Dorothy to be defiant; to regard such a handsome, successful, and promising man with cold stubbornness. She tried to gain Dorothy's attention, but it was riveted regally on Michael. So Cora tried to appeal to him, "She'll be there tomorrow, I assure you. She'd be absolutely foolish not to! And thank you so much, Michael."

Otto's eyes flicked back and forth from his boss to his cousin, expressing anxiety and irritation accordingly. His patience was now running thin with both women; Cora for her obvious flirtations and smothering pep, and Dorothy with her suddenly conservative and insolent attitude. His worry was increased as Michael had directly requested that Otto deliver Dorothy for her audition the following day. Many would have seen Michael's request as looking for agreement that 'Helen' was indeed a beautiful bird. Otto knew it was an order meant to be executed with just as much seriousness and professionalism as firing a gun, hiding a body, or disposing incriminating evidence.

"I imagine that a new nickname would be appropriate, Michael. It wouldn't do to have a New York persona in a New Orleans atmosphere. Perhaps something with a French flair, yes?" Otto attempted to ignore that Dorothy hadn't agreed to perform. She remained silent.

"He's offering us a place to work, no questions asked. He called you beautiful..." Cora hissed, meaning only for Dorothy to hear.

Dorothy finally turned her head to look at her friend, and smiled sweetly, "Oh, Cora. Beauty is far more than skin deep. I can't imagine that we've spent enough time in Mr. Rivarde's company for him to determine that I am beautiful."

Otto and Cora pulled back in their chairs, eyes wide (though Cora much more blatantly). A laugh sounded in response to Dorothy's statement, and they turned to see who would be so bold.

"I assure you, sister, he is a superb judge of all things beautiful." A pair of dancing brown eyes now gained Dorothy's attention. "I would have to agree with him."

He stood just behind her chair, forcing the young woman to turn in her seat to see him or remain awkwardly facing forward. This new figure was tall and lean, and though lacking in brawn he appeared strongly built. An expensive suit coat was draped carelessly over his shoulder, matching the pressed and well tailored pants he wore. He draped the jacket over the back of a chair near Dorothy but didn't sit down. It was clear that he felt comfortable intruding on the scene without needing to introduce himself.

"I see you've offered your signature Bloody Mary's, Michael." Anthony Rivarde had amusement etched into his every feature.

It was to Michael's private delight that Helen's exquisite lips curled in pride and indignation as she took offence at his insistence that she attend an audition. He would have been disappointed if she had uttered her consideration of his offer with an air of lofty reserve. It showed that there was a little fire behind those green eyes of hers. And after all, a challenge such as Helen would not be a challenge if there were not obstacles to overcome or suppress. Women such as Cora were no challenge at all and that was perhaps why they tended not to hold Michael's interest for very long.

"You misunderstand me," he said, smoothly, though she had not in the slightest. He smiled at Cora and her childish exasperation at the possibility she would be unable to take a taste of life at the Lagniappe. "It was, of course, a request, to be accepted or declined as you see fit, Helen. And there is really no need to thank me, Cora."

"French? You may be right, Otto," said Michael in reply to his employee's mildly anxious attempt to assure him that Helen would attend the audition the next day. "But I shall leave that to the mademoiselle herself to decide upon. If she deigns to grace this establishment with her voice, obviously." There was an air of barely-detectable malevolent sarcasm in Rivarde's voice that only Otto would be familiar with. It was the tone of Michael Rivarde the mob boss rather than Michael Rivarde the socialite.

Then Helen's rather fascitious comment broke through the quiet conversations and there came a laugh from across the table. Rivarde looked up to see his brother. It took only the slightest of gestures with his index and middle finger to summon two burly men dressed in dark suits to appear discretely behind Anthony.

"I would not consider myself a good host if I did not, Anthony," said Michael, standing up and meeting his brother's insolent bemusement with a measured, carefully-calculated smile of his own. "Excuse me, I'm afraid I must attend to business," he said, to the three left sitting as he stood up. "I hope I shall see you tomorrow, Helen," he added, casting a short bow towards her and making his way across the club, the men behind Anthony silently ushering his brother to follow him.

Otto, ever the man of mob business, was not unaccustomed to uncomfortable interactions. Particularly not when involving any of the Rivarde brothers, though usually it was with a squeamish fool who'd managed to cross them in some form. He hadn't expected such from his cousin. None the less, he was quick to stand and make another round of introductions as Michael Rivarde sauntered away.

"Ladies, this is yet another of the Rivarde family; Anthony Rivarde. Anthony, these are my cousin Helen and her friend Cora."

"We've just arrived from New York." Cora offered. "We'll be staying with Otto while we're here."

"Wonderful. An extended stay, then? Well then perhaps, ladies, we should venture onward. This city has many more things for your lovely eyes to see. If you would allow me to accompany you, that is." He tried for a kind smile before giving a discreet nod to Otto.

Of course Otto would fully understand his true reasons for wanting to leave. The young woman had left an impression upon Anthony's older brother; one that would spark in him an insatiable desire to have the last word. Insatiable, because it seemed that Helen had an equal stubbornness, bent to do exactly the opposite of what Michael wanted her to do. While this made Anthony inwardly joyful, he was also concerned. If she pressed too far in her protests, she would stoke the embers into flames. And she didn't know the fire that she was playing with.

The Lagniappe, being Michael's establishment, would surely be housing all sorts of characters whom appeared to be unassuming patrons. Anthony knew that they would, in truth, be listening to their every word and watching their every movement. He would suggest that Helen return, but in the case that she spoke ill of Michael (and became a self hindrance to an enjoyable life in New Orleans), it would be better that she wasn't overheard. Not to mention, Anthony preferred to function with more freedom than this speakeasy allowed, and so he suggested that they leave.

Dorothy didn't like the idea that this Anthony was the brother of Michael, but instantly detected a difference in character. For the moment she decided that he was tolerable, if only an excuse to leave this place, "Of course we will."

"We will? I mean, yes, we will." Cora was surprised at her friend's willingness, but wasn't about to scorn it. Instead she stood with Dorothy and Otto, and the group departed together, back into the lively streets of the southern city.

The night wore long, and Dorothy had to admit that it was rather enjoyable. Anthony wasn't imposing like his brother, and she relaxed a bit. Perhaps she had been overreacting earlier. Maybe she had read Michael's tells wrong. Maybe...

"Maybe you should reconsider your reluctance, Helen. It is clear that you have a vivacity meant for the stage." Anthony encouraged. The car had just deposited them back at Otto's residence. With a discrete signal, Anthony had requested for Otto and Cora to return inside, leaving himself alone with the comely Helen. "I mean no pressure, of course. But he is my brother, and despite all of our rivalry," She had no idea, "I cannot deny that he has a great eye for talent."

He was being complimentary, of course, but his words didn't imply flirtation, assumption, or desire. Though he did find her attractive, he regarded Helen more with a gentle admiration for being determined and strong. He felt some strange sense of obligation, swelling in his chest, to protect her without warning her of all that the Rivarde family could and would do if she stood in the way of what they wanted. Gently he lifted his hand, reaching to tip her chin up so he could better peer into her deep eyes, "Think about it, yes? I will be there tomorrow if you are." He left her with this promise, returning back to the waiting car and driving off.

The light had a different quality down here in the South. Ben, who usually kept writer's time (waking up late, staying up into the dead hours of the early morning), awoke as soon as the slats of sunlight that streaked through the shutters crept up to cast lines across the contours of his face. He struggled out of the tangled sheets, unable to remember the dream that had caused him to kick or twist himself into them, and grabbed a towel from his open suitcase.

Though early, it was already warm and though the water in the shower was only lukewarm, it was refreshing after a night of mosquitos bites and humid darkness. Once dry, he dressed in navy trousers and a shirt (no tie, of course) and went downstairs to breakfast.

To his mild surprise, there was no one else downstairs apart from Mrs Winston who waved him into the dining room from her place at the stove with a 'Good mornin' darlin'' and Maggie, who was busy wiping down the polished tables.

"Oh, hello Mr Goldberg," she said, catching sight of him and stuffing her dustcloth into the pocket of her apron. "You're up early. Francis- And most of our other guests are late risers so you'll get the pick of breakfast." She smiled her timid smile and pointed to the counter where piles of food were being accumulated from the stove in the other room.

Breakfast in New York meant a toasted bagel and some cream cheese if he was feeling like anything more substantial than coffee and a cigarette (which wasn't often). Once in a blue moon it meant pancakes and syrup. In the Big Easy, on the other hand, breakfast was piles of sugar-dusted fritters and a huge bowl of fruit. Far too sweet for Ben's tastes.

"I'll just have a coffee, please," he said, sitting down the at the nearest table and taking a cigarette from his pocket. He placed it in his mouth but refrained from lighting it.

Maggie giggled. "'Cawffee'," she repeated as Ben wondered if he should start ordering tea instead if his pronuciation of coffee was going to have this sort of effect everywhere he went in this city. "I'm sorry," she said, as she poured a cup of steaming hot liquid from a nearby coffee pot. "I just can't get enough of that accent of yours! Do you live in... Is it Manhattan?"

Ben shook his head and grinned as he took the coffee from her.

"Nah, other side of the park," he said. The coffee was as good as the stuff he'd drank the other day in Mrs Winston's cafe. "Do you live with Mrs Winston?"

"Oh, no," she said, her expression becoming wistful for a brief second as if the idea was one she had thought about often. "I live about ten minutes trolley ride away. With my parents," she added. There was a pause before she changed the subject. "Are you busy today, Mr Goldberg?"

"Ben, you mean?" he said. "I'm going down to The Times-Picayune. Hopefully I'll get a job that will keep the jack flowing in whilst I'm here."

"Sorry, Ben," she quickly corrected herself with another anxious smile. "Mrs W told me you were a news-hawk; have you really come down here to look for a dame, Ben? That's so romantic. She's from the Big Apple too? Oh, it's just the kind of thing that Francis would write a song about-"

"Really? If you think you know what I'd write about, little Miss Maggie, then why don't you come and write them for me?" said a man who could only be Francis Austin as he picked Maggie up by her waist and spun her around, her green dress dancing in the air and her blue eyes full of surprise.

Dorothy hadn't, in fact, showed up at the Lagniappe the following day. She'd done everything in her power to stay locked up in her room, save for the times that she'd needed to use the facilities, or upon fetching something to eat or drink. Cora was furious, and would often storm over to Dorothy's door to rap upon it unceasingly. Dorothy ignored the droning beat by stepping onto her balcony with a pen and paper in hand. She sketched off and on, composed another letter to her brother, and even found a book to read.

But mostly she thought about what Anthony and Michael had said. What they had offered. Her recollection now seemed foggy, and she couldn't help but wonder if her general soreness and new resolve not to get into another relationship had altered her perception of Michael and his offer. Perhaps he'd just been trying to compliment her in an effort to reassure any qualms she might have had at auditioning for a stranger. Even if he had been flirting, which now she wasn't sure of, it wasn't a crime. Anthony had been so steadfast in defending his brother as well, causing Dorothy to doubt her intuitions of the night before.

And she couldn't deny that a fresh opportunity that included doing what she loved was outstanding. It thrilled her to no end to think of performing again, rather than balance drinks on a tray, wipe tables, or sell cigarettes. She'd do it, of course, but she'd much rather sing. Both of their offers, but mostly Anthony's gentle persuasions, appealed to her.

So, two days after being introduced to the Lagniappe, Dorothy rose and deftly readied herself for another visit to the speakeasy. Cora and Otto, speaking in hushed tones over cups of coffee, looked up in surprise as Dorothy descended the stairs glamorously.

"So she still lives. Bon." Otto stood to receive his cousin with a kiss on the cheek, and offered her his chair. "Un petite cafe for you today?"

"No, thank you. I'm off to see if Michael's offer still stands." She gained another round of startled expressions, before both Otto and Cora jumped up to get ready to join her.



Anthony didn't bother waiting to be escorted to his brother's office, but instead nodded to a set of guards standing outside. They never seemed to appreciate his sense of righteousness - acting as though he owned them and the joint just because his brother did- and rapped twice on the door before pushing it open to Michael's office.

"Brother. You look well today. I hope I'm not being intrusive, but I have what I believe you will find to be good news." He helped himself to a drink from a decanter sitting on a small table in the rear of the room. "I have a good feeling that Helen will pay you a visit soon. Very soon."

Anthony let the moment develop whilst he swirled the golden liquid around, took a generous sip, and considered how it affected his palate, "This is good. Anyway, Michael, by very soon I really meant now. She's waiting." He smirked, raising his glass to his brother, and taking a step back towards the door.

"Franny! Not in front of the other lodgers- Put me down! I've got work to do!" shrieked Maggie, batting at Francis's shoulders with her cloth. He relinquished his hold on her and set her down on the ground, grinning to expose a set of bright white teeth. Maggie pursed her lips together in what she probably imagined was a frown but which Ben could clearly see was a suppressed smile. Maybe the two of them were sweet on each other.

"You look new. Where y'at?" Francis said, turning to Ben. He extended his hand and Ben shook it. "Francis Austin. Pleased to meet ya. I play sax down at a barrelhouse in Vieux Carré."

"Ben Goldberg," he replied, after attempting to figure out the unfamiliar slang terms Francis had sprinkled through his greeting. "I... Well, I don't have a job yet, actually. I'm about to pay a visit to The Picayune offices. Arrived in from New York yesterday."

"Ya did, huh? New York... There's a place. I'm not sayin' the music's bad down here; we've got our own style and all but I hear there's big things happening in Harlem these days," said Francis, picking up a fritter and biting into it with relish. He was black with dark hair cropped short and a pleasantly infectious smile. His grey-green eyes that were bright with intelligence, their expression not dissimilar to a particularly mischievous Missy. Ben liked him immediately.

"My place isn't far from Harlem," said Ben. Music was a passion that had largely been sidelined in favour of writing but he had frequented enough underground speakeasies to know what Francis was referring to. "You've never been to the Big Apple?"

Before Francis could reply, Maggie interrupted.

"He's here to find a dame, Franny. Some doll who came down here from New York. Isn't that right, Ben?" she said. "What's her name? Maybe we will have heard of her."

Francis looked bemused at Maggie's excitement then the two of them turned their gazes towards Ben, waiting for him to reply.

"Er... I guess. She's called Dorothy Knutson Byrd. She used to work as a canary in a club back in the city; her stage name was Birdie," said Ben. Every time he repeated these precious few facts out loud, the size of the task he had ahead of him loomed. One person in a city of thousands and thousands.

"Sorry," shrugged Francis, digging his hands into his pockets and looking apologetic. "Never heard of her. I'll keep an ear open though. But I'm telling ya, cat, there ain't no better errand to be running than chasing after love," he added, with unexpected and practised philosophy. He looked thoughtful for a moment. Then, slightly more quietly: "This doll, she's a sheba, right?"

Ben couldn't help but laugh as Maggie jabbed him in his ribs with a small elbow.

"You have no idea," he replied, similarly sotto voce, then grinned. "I gotta scram now but I'll see you at dinner, I guess." He took his lighter from his pocket in preparation for lighting his cigarette.

"Your first dinner cooked by Mrs W... The cat's got so much ahead of him," said Francis, turning to Maggie as Ben lit his cigarette and waved goodbye as he left the guesthouse and went out onto the streets of New Orleans.

---

Michael looked up from his place at his desk. He was surrounded by piles of papers, most official-looking and many counterfeit. Despite his outwardly glamorous lifestyle, the running of a dozen speakeasies, brothels and gin mills required an awful lot of paperwork. Or at least, their covering businesses did. Michael was always fastidious about keeping up to date with every tax payment, every form that needed to be filled. There were fake receipts and balance sheets, fake salary slips and fake employee details. Everything was immaculate. Why give the police a reason to call unnecessarily?

Like his bodyguards, Anthony's assumption that he could treat The Lagniappe as his own irritated his brother. Still, Anthony was sometimes useful and, considering the information he brought with him, not unwelcome today.

"She is? Bon." said Michael, ignoring his brother's amateur display of theatrics. He stood up and went outside into the emptiness of the speakeasy beyond. Helen's absence the previous day had not surprised him but it was not without an element of frustration that he conceded to wait another day for her audition. He would be talking to Otto about that. Still, it was better to let her have her own way at first, whilst she was still independent. He did not want his canary flapping away before he had a chance to even touch its plumage.

He approached her with all the grace of two nights ago, inclining his head in greeting and taking her hand to press to his lips.

"I am glad you accepted my invitation, Helen," he said. She was still as exquisite in the light as she was in the darkness. "Are you ready to begin your audition? Will you need accompaniment?"

Dorothy resisted the image do draw her hand away before his lips could touch it for the second time in a matter of days. Instead, knowing she'd behaved most rudely the day before, she let her eyes rove the room even as he straightened to ask of her needs for the audition. It was then that she smoothly slipped her hand away, walking over to the stage.

"I'm glad the offer still stands, mister Rivarde." Which was relatively true. She didn't like the way the corner of his smile tipped, as though he had gotten his way. She made every intention to let him know that returning had everything to do with her choosing, and nothing to do with his flattery or charm. "I'll just need this piano. May I?"

She didn't wait for a response, instead finding the short flight of stairs off the side of the stage. With grace, and a wonderful stage presence that didn't require a large audience, she ascended to the raised platform and crossed to the well polished grand and the back of the stage. She couldn't help but notice its slendor; clearly an expensive instrument.

Cora and Otto, who'd been hovering in the shadows of the Lagniappe, crossed as she took to the stage. Otto was still half convinced that his cousin would be stubborn enough not to perform, and was ready to exit swiftly if need be. He was relying heavily on Anthony's certainty, and it appeared that the younger Rivarde brother was right. They all remained quiet as Dorothy smoothed her dress, arched her delicate hands over the keys, and began a slow progression of chords to a popular bluesy song. It was one that Cora remembered being sung faster, but Dorothy chose a slower rendition, each note full of feeling.

Everybody hand-in-hand, swingin' down the lane,
Everybody feelin' grand, swingin' down the lane,
That's the time I miss the bliss, that we might
have known, Nights like this, when I'm all alone!

When the moon is on the rise, 'Honey' I'm so blue,
Watchin' lovers making eyes, like we used to do,
When the moon is on the wane, still I'm waitin'
all in vain, Should be swingin' down the lane with
you!

Dorothy paused to cross one hand over the other, reaching for higher and higher notes. She liked the song, but hadn't meant for so much passion to fill her words; so much truth. For a brief moment she halted her progression as she thought of walking under the moonbeams with a certain someone, pausing under streetlights to steal kisses and make teasing promises.

When the moon is on the rise, 'Honey' I'm so blue,
Watchin' lovers making eyes, like we used to do,
When the moon is on the wane, still I'm waitin'
all in vain, Should be swingin' down the lane with
you!

Michael sat back as Helen took to the stage without waiting for a word from him. She had a presence, that was undeniable; he would have hired her for that alone. After all, he had learnt long ago that it was the look of a thing that mattered the most. Helen looked as she was meant to be on stage; it came as naturally to her as walking down a street, and therefore the quality of her voice, as long as it was passable, was of little consequence. It was an unexpected lagniappe, then, that she sung beautifully. And with such passion. He wondered where she was summoning it from, or who she was thinking about as she sung it.

As he watched her, green eyes looking down at the her hands as they played across the keys and auburn hair framing her delicate features, he was aware he hated that he did not know who that person was.

"Bravo," he said, clapping, the sound echoing through the empty speakeasy. He stood up and walked over to the piano. "Bravo Helen!"

He stopped to consider her for a moment, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

"You have a job," he said. "Of course, you have a job. But will you accept now or wait another day before saying yes? The sooner you accept, the sooner you can begin. We are open tonight..." he added. The Lagniappe would be the talk of the French Quarter if a new, exotic and talented singer appeared without fanfare to a club full of unsuspecting patrons. The place would fill up on subsequent nights as the best and the most beautiful visited to hear her for themselves.

---

Meanwhile, Ben was being confronted by a receptionist who was far older (and apparently far less willing to concede to his unusual or short-notice requests) than the one at The Times back in New York.

"What did you say your name was, again?" she said suspiciously, looking up at him over half-moon spectacles.

"Ben Goldberg. James Edison from The Times said you might have some freelance work for me. The Times in New York?" added Ben, helpfully.

"New York? Oh yeah, I remember Mr Vaux sayin' something about a writer from New York. OK, well go on up then. His office is the first on the left. You can't miss it," she said, as if she were sure he would.

Ben resisted rolling his eyes and followed her instructions. The Times-Picayune offices were within a ornate stone building in the south of the city, only a few blocks away from the river. They seemed to be far emptier than the newsrooms in New York, with journalists lounging around in chairs, unhurriedly typing away or reading through notes. At The Times, everyone seemed to be running or barking out the latest details for a story and the entire building seemed to exist in a state of perpetual chaos. It was unnerving being here, after being used to a place like that.

He knocked on a door with a glass panel which read 'Stephen Vaux- Editor-in-chief'.

"Goldberg? Come in, Mrs Churchill just called to say she'd sent you up," came a voice as Ben opened the door and went inside. Vaux was a man in his sixties, with carefully parted white hair and a moustache like a scrubbing brush. Despite his eccentric appearance, Ben could immediately tell that, like Edison, he was not a man to be underestimated. But there was a genuine warmth about him that the hard-nosed New York editor lacked.

"So, you want freelance work, do you? Why should I buy stories off some upstart from New York and not a local writer?" he asked, raising his eyebrows with a slight smile.

Ben grinned and began to talk.

Dorothy found herself initially shocked by Michael's quip, and then tilting her head down to laugh. It could have been that his quick witted sarcasm brought her briefly home to Clyde. Or then again, the humor could have served as a much needed diversion from the train of emotions and thoughts provoked by her performance. Regardless, it shone favorably on him and she found herself fixing him with a bright smile.

She slid gracefully off of the bench and stood near Michael, laying a hand on his arm whist her other hand lightly tried to stifle the laughter falling from between her lips. Once settled she drew both hands back to an appropriate clasp, "Perhaps a week would be a more appropriate. I'm just not sure that I'm interested in what you're offering."

Cora drummed her fingers against the tall table she and Otto stood by, watching as her singer friend dazzled all watching and then rose to nearly press herself against the handsome Michael Rivarde. Something in her throat tightened, and she wished desperately for another of last night's drinks to wash loosen it up. She could hear Dorothy's girlishly attractive laughter, but couldn't hear the lowered words she muttered to him thereafter.

"She's smiling. That's an improvement." Otto was stating this more for his benefit than anything else. He'd been moved by her performance, thinking that the truth in her lyrics wouldn't be nearly as appreciated in such a place as they should be. He'd have to remind her to sing with less feeling, and more focus on making eye contact with the men looking up at her.

"A grand improvement." Anthony added, smiling satisfactorily to himself. "I knew she would be promising." And to think without my persuasion she'd have not returned at all, he mused. Anthony couldn't help but enjoy being in control.

Cora couldn't stand still amidst all of her friend's praise. She forced a charming smile upon her features and spoke to Dorothy loud enough for all to hear, "Are you turning Michael down again, Helen? Or perhaps he hasn't even offered you a position?"

Dorothy looked away from Michael, a flash of uncertainty in her eyes regarding Cora. She was behaving very strangely ever since the first night at the Lagniappe. Despite this, her decision was already made. It had been the instant she'd chosen to pay Michael another visit, "On the contrary, Cora, I start tonight."

Michael was pleased that she had chosen to laugh at his observation, rather than display a childishly rebellious expression of offence, as she had done two nights ago. He was also pleased that she stood near enough to him for him to see the impressionistic brush strokes of different greens in her eyes and placed one delicate hand on his arm.

He was less pleased at her response to his question, as joking as he believed it was. He did not let a single hint of this displeasure cross his features until Helen had turned around. It was only then that an expression of dark determination flitted across his face. But as soon as it had appeared, it was gone again, and all that remained was a measured smile and quietly observing eyes.

Helen confirmed that she would be performing at The Lagniappe that night and Michael did not miss the jealousy that Cora clumsily tried to conceal. He must be careful not to neglect her too much in favour of Helen, at least in Cora's presence. She was more crude than Helen not did she possess the talent that her counterpart did, but she would be useful and it would not do for her to harbour resentment, at least not directed towards Michael himself. Towards Helen, however... That was another matter.

"As must you, Mademoiselle," he said, approaching Cora for the first time that afternoon and again stooping to kiss her hand, taking more time than he had done with Helen; it would be better received, after all. "You will accompany your friend tonight to similarly charm our patrons, I trust?"

Of course, Cora was disposable. She was just a cigarette girl. But Michael would make sure that she did not know that yet.

---

After he'd left Vaux's office (freelance contract folded neatly in the inside pocket of his jacket- it seemed Edison had actually been complimentary about him, a fact which surprised Ben somewhat), he did not leave The Picayune offices. He had another person to talk to before he did that.

Like Jo Levard before her, Evelyn Cotillard had been one of the few female journalists able to successfully make a living working in New York. Ben had met her whilst working for the two-bit Globe back when he was barely out of his teens. They'd both been employed to do the menial work no one else wanted to do; fetching coffee and ghost-writing the schmaltzy 'human interest' stories that were often used to fill up empty columns. Again like Jo Levard, Ben had had a brief relationship with her. Unlike Jo Levard, Evelyn hadn't been able to stick with the rewardless hours that junior journos had to suffer through and had decamped to New Orleans where she had family. The split hadn't been particularly amicable and the last Ben had heard of her had been a few years ago when it emerged through the journalistic grapevine that she'd got a job working for the newly merged Times-Picayune.

After another conversation with the suspicious receptionist downstairs, Ben found the newsroom that contained Evelyn's desk and hopefully Evelyn herself.

And there she was; tall with a fashionably androgynous figure that slouched in a way that was suddenly familiar to Ben. She had her back turned towards the door, her mid-length ash-blonde hair pinned neatly into a bun and her dress smart but with that hint of the bohemian that was common to many writers.

"Evie?" he said cautiously. He had literally no idea how she'd react to him after all these years. But to hell with whatever awkwardness would result; he needed her to find Dorothy. She'd have contacts, she might even know who this Otto Newbury was and why exactly he was 'trouble'. It could take him months to cultivate a network of contacts in an unfamiliar city without her help.

"People don't call me that anymore, Ben," she said, turning around. Time had lined her strong features a little but she was still recognisably Evie. "It's Evelyn. And Vaux told me you were coming. What the hell are you doing here?" she said, crossing her arms, mouth hard.