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"Tonight? Really, so soon?" The color and vibrancy returned to Cora's tanned features. Any animosity she'd been steeping towards the very friend that Michael mentioned was forgotten (but not evaporated), and she let herself draw as near to him as possible without seeming too inappropriate. "It would be a great pleasure, Michael. Tell me; will I get the even greater pleasure of serving you tonight?" Her eyes shone, and she didn't hold back from letting her lashes flutter as she stared at him with open admiration.

Dorothy watched Cora blossom like a rose under Michael's flattering attention. Where Cora may have been jealous to watch a similar exchange, Dorothy was relieved. It was obvious that Cora had been kindling a small flame for their new employer, though Dorothy strongly assumed it was founded in his grandeur and obvious wealth. Also, having so recently broken up with her less appreciative drunkard male companion in the Big Apple, this unexpected praise in the Big Easy must have comforted the young Cora.

Dorothy only hoped Michael sensed that it was a youthful, growing infatuation and would deal with it tastefully.

"Tonight you will light up the stage, cousin." Otto approached Dorothy and offered a hand to help her off of the stage. He waited until she was near his side, and draped a comfortable arm across the slight width of her shoulders, "I'm glad you chose to accept. I've only found benefit in working for the Rivarde family."

Dorothy was sure that Otto seemed more than glad. He seemed relieved, though she wasn't sure why. Had his position been threatened when she'd implied denying Michael's offer? Of course not, she told herself.

"Ah, Otto, that is because you are so diligent, precise, and dedicated in your labors. We value all that you do for our family." Anthony approached and smiled down at Dorothy, "Helen, you've made the right choice I assure you. I'm sure you will take after your cousin in his dedication. But there is much to do before you and Cora make your debut tonight."

Dorothy questioned him with her eyes, to which Anthony chuckled. He turned to regard Cora with a wink, and spoke to his brother, "Surely Michael will want nothing but the most fashionably dressed ladies under his care, no? It would be my great pleasure to see to it that you are appropriately lavished. Unless of course you, brother, would like to do the honors."

Anthony could tell in many ways that his brother would enjoy nothing more than to have Helen play dress up for him, but also sensed the balance Michael was striving to maintain between the two women friends. Anthony let his white teeth show as he smiled at his elder brother, hoping he'd get every opportunity to watch this game unfold. For there was no mistaking that this was, indeed, a game. And Dorothy and Cora, among dozens of others who worked under the Rivarde's, were the pawns.

"If you would be so kind as to do me the honour, of course," replied Michael, without missing a beat. Privately, however, he was embarrassed by the crudeness of Cora's attentions. If they were in the heady atmosphere of a full Lagniappe and under the influence of alcohol then he would have understood, perhaps even been pleased to show off the pretty curvaceous red-head as another conquest. But here she seemed too easy. Especially in comparison to the cool and intelligent Helen.

He smiled at Cora then turned to his brother.

"I think that the ladies themselves would be more expert in picking out suitable dress for their new jobs," said Michael. Anthony was right: Michael would indeed like to have had Helen play 'dress up' for him. He doubted very much that she would submit to such a request, however. He would settle with seeing her on stage from afar. For now.

"There are many boutiques that cater to discerning mademoiselles such as yourselves," he said, taking care to include both of them in his offer. Helen's appearance, of course, mattered far more than Cora's. Singers, especially here in the Big Easy, were known for their carnival-esque extravagance when it came to their performing outfits. He relished taking the time to imagine what she would chose to wear.

"Chose three outfits, each suitable for your work here at the Lagniappe and they will be considered expenses and paid for you," he said, confident that Anthony, despite his irritating habit of speaking when he did not need to speak, would guide them in the right direction. "Now I do apologise, but I must leave you to attend to book-keeping. It was a pleasure to hear you sing, Helen," he added, inclining his head towards her as he bid farewell to the two women. It would be a greater pleasure to have her sing here tonight, sitting on the perch he owned, wearing the plumage he had paid for.

---

Ben grinned. Evelyn didn't grin back.

"Er- You're not gonna believe this Evie- sorry, Evelyn, but I'm looking for someone. You know a mac called Otto Newbury?" he ventured.

Evelyn frowned.

"And what makes you think I'll help you?" she said. "Why are you looking for him, anyway?"

"Oh, I dunno, out of the goodness out of your heart?" he said, injecting a little sarcasm (though not too much- he needed hear what she had to say) into his reply. "And it's because the person I'm looking for is probably staying with him. She's come down from New York a few days ago. Her name's Dorothy-"

"A doll?" said Evelyn incredulously. "Ben Goldberg's travelled from the Big Apple to the Big Easy to look for a doll. You're kidding me, aren't you? You wouldn't have looked more than a few blocks for me if I decided to go walkabout."

"Dorothy Knutson Byrd," went on Ben, ignoring her accusation. It was true, of course. But he'd been more occupied with writing then; he'd been on the verge of breaking through into proper journalism, where the real stories were. And Evelyn was not Dorothy. There was that, too.

They'd just ended up drifting away from each other. Or Ben had drifted away, Evelyn had fought for a piece of his attention until she'd given up, switched papers and eventually upped and left for New Orleans. He'd never really thought about it before but he could feel eight-year old guilt creeping into his consciousness.

"I don't have anything at all on this guy Newbury, except for the fact that he's 'trouble', apparently."

Evelyn rolled her eyes.

"Trouble? Could mean anything. Probably means gangs, though. New Orleans isn't so different from back home, you see? It's just ours are French and Sicilian rather than Irish and Italian." She sighed and looked down at the notebook on her desk. "Look Ben, the name's don't mean anything to me. Go through the back issues of the Picayune if you want," she said, gesturing towards the rows of filing cabinets behind her. "But I can't help you."

"Alright," said Ben, similarly looking down at his scuffed brogues. "Listen, Evie-"

"Oh, go away. I've got work to do."

He was about to open his mouth to say something else, then shrugged and did as he was told.

The confidence that Michael had awarded his younger brother was well invested. Promptly after exiting the speakeasy, he had treated the party to a light lunch and then driven them quickly to the shops and tailors that could cater to their wardrobe needs. Pennies weren't spared, not were they even a concern as Cora and Dorothy sought to fulfill Michael's suggestion. Both Otto and Anthony knew it was nothing of a suggestion, and everything a command.

Neither of the woman seemed to fully believe their fortune, Cora pouncing on every gleaming dress (within the prescribed limits dictated by Anthony), and trying them on while feeling most glamorous. Dorothy received less restrictions in her outfit selection, as she would be the main feature in a much more focused light that Cora. Her fingertips hesitantly grazed the materials of dress after dress, trying them on after rather forceful pressure from her cousin. Their efforts lasted well into the evening, exhausted a sizable sum of money, and resulted in not three, but four outfits for each woman. There was a decent amount of time remaining for the troupe to return to Otto's home, dress and ready for the evening, and present their new acquisitions.

And they looked exquisite.

Cora had been limited to the color black, which suited her just fine. She would have to blend in with the other serving staff, but as a female was allowed a bit of scandal in dress length. She took full advantage of this, and on this night wore a short black dress that fastened sleeveless around her neck. It's body cinched just below her hips. She convinced Anthony to allow her a splash of color, and she donned a brilliant pair of silver earrings.

Dorothy, after much prodding, had finally deposited her fears at the door of a small boutique and boldly chose a richly colored jade dress among others. It's hem, while falling slightly lower on the leg than Cora's, was angled to reveal more of one gam than the other. It's effect was very appealing. Sewn tactically into the fitted body were blue, black and green sequins, which were meant to catch and reflect the stage light. True to her persona, a long peacock feather was fashioned into a head band and well contrasted her newly reddened hair.

This view of the ladies wasn't available to the mingling customers of The Lagniappe, of course. Anthony had not only seen to it that Cora and Dorothy each purchase feminine trends of a trench coat -as strutting around in their outfits on the late streets of any city was dangerous- but he had also managed to succinctly deliver the pair through a back entrance.

Now the women stood with growing excitement just outside of Michael's office, where Anthony rapped his knuckles against his brother's door in what he felt was unnecessary politeness. He awaited a reply, more for the sake of the women watching, before entering. He knew his brother would appreciate a private presentation, and Anthony looked forward to the own praise that he would receive (however fleeting).

Michael opened the door and was greeted with a pleasant sight.

Cora looked sultry in black. The dress skimmed her curves and gave a non-too-subtle suggestion of what lay beneath. With her deep red hair and tanned skin, she looked exotic, like a siren emerged from the green waters of the Mississippi ready to tempt the patrons of the Lagniappe into emptying their wallets. Not too exotic, however. She still had that touch of commonness that would go down well with the men (and women) that were beginning to cluster around the tables in front of the stage.

Helen, however, looked very different. Where Cora's features were bold, painted in brash brush-strokes, Helen's were finely sketched and exquisitely beautiful, complimented by the detail on her dress. The colour was reminiscent of polished jade or the iridescent flash of a kingfisher and brought out her eyes from beneath the auburn-tinted darkness of her hair. She was resplendent. A Jazz-Age angel in feathers and silk.

"My, brother, you have done well," he said, nodding to him. Despite his irritating lack of professionalism, Anthony had his uses. "Mademoiselles, you both look belle." He inclined his head to each woman in turn. "Anthony, would you please take Cora over to the bar where she can collect her tray," he said, referring to the cigars that Cora would be selling that night.

"And Helen, I will show you to your dressing room," he said, holding out his arm for her to take. He was already looking forward to walking through the club with such a specimen on his arm.

---

After drafting a run-of-the-mill general interest piece on a new building in downtown New Orleans, Ben left the news offices of the Picayune late that afternoon. He'd managed to dredge up a few articles on recent gang activity in the city but so far, no mention of Otto Newbury. Which didn't surprise him; if the guy was any good, he wouldn't be caught doing, well, whatever it was he did. What he needed was a contact in the gangs themselves and, being a newcomer in a strange city, that was nigh-on impossible in the short term. He did not allow himself to become despondent but he was beginning to think he would not see Dorothy again for some time.

Back in the French Quarter, Mrs Winston's guesthouse was alive with the chatter of residents who were drifting in from upstairs or outside in preparation for dinner. Ben spent a pleasant hour eating shrimp remoulade and talking to a curious draper's assistant who wanted to know every last detail about living in New York.

Afterwards, Francis, closely followed by Maggie, approached him.

"Ben, how's life at the office?" he asked, with a grin. Ben could guess he'd done nothing but laze about in the sun the entire day.

"People in this city think they're real funny, huh?" shot back Ben.

"'Know', cat, the word is 'know'. You wanna come down to the Lagniappe tonight? Me and my band have got a gig supporting some fresh torch. I've got heat in one of the songs too, if you wanna watch me play," said Francis as Maggie looked at him admiringly.

Ben looked blank. "You're gonna have to say that in English, mac..."

Francis grinned again. "We're house band down at a speakeasy in the French Quarter, a real classy one too. There's a new singer we're playing with and I've got a solo in one of the songs. Wanna come?"

It wasn't like he had anything else to do.

"Lead the way, Franny," said Ben, as Maggie giggled.

On the tip of Cora's tongue was a question, and she was teetering between thoughtlessly letting it out or keeping her composure and hoping she'd be able to stifle the growing sourness in her stomach. Why was Dorothy earning the arm of Michael, whilst she was discarded to Anthony? This was the question that she chose to let thunder around her mind, rather than air it and cause unnecessary embarrassment.

Dorothy was in such an excited frame of mind - to be performing again! - that she willingly took Michael's arm without a second thought.

"Thank you, Michael. I like to think I've done well by you. Shall we Cora?" Anthony could see the rising lump in the cigar seller's throat; knew what was inevitably coming as a force unseen to her Helen. But Cora's anger must be kept in check, for now. Anthony had a feeling that her bitterness towards Helen would be put to better use than empty comments, at a later time. His hand found the small of her back as he gingerly led him from the office and to the bar. "It's a shame Helen could not find her own dressing room, and that I know not which room my brother has intended for her. It was most obvious that he wished to give you a proper tour."

It was most obvious that Michael wished to give Helen a private tour, but it would to better to fan the flame in a different direction.

"Do you really think so? I do suppose someone had to show Helen where her room was." Cora bit her lip, instantly forgiving Michael but inwardly cursing Dorothy. Of course the singer would require a dressing room. "Perhaps he can offer me the opportunity later?"

Anthony's ear was straining to listen to the exchange between the barkeep and a dark suited man. The man seemed frazzled and worn. His hands pleaded with the bartender, of whom he would gain no information as the employee knew nothing. Anthony hardly heard what it was that Cora was asking, "Yes, yes. C'est possible." He leant against the bar and gazed at the two men through narrowed eyes. "Is there a problem, sirs? Cora is here for her first day's work, Luke."

The bartender immediately rushed to retrieve the items that she would need for the evening. He returned in a flash, setting them upon the counter top, "Here you are, mademoiselle. It is my pleasure to welcome you aboard, Cora. I am Luke if you are to need anything." He continued in light conversation with the young woman, taking her off the hands of the younger Rivarde brother. Anthony, directing with a nod of his head, ushered the sallow and poorly dressed man at the bar towards a back door where Otto stood waiting. It would appear that Otto recognized the fellow. "You know this problem, Otto?"

Though he didn't wish to admit it, Otto did know the man. It was the very rat who'd delivered him the gun a few days prior, groveling and whining the entire time. Even then Otto had the intuition that the man would me more trouble than he was worth, "Yes. A problem that is soon to be a problem no more."

"See that it is so. Tonight is a big night, Otto. It would be most displeasing were anything to disrupt the safe and casual environment my brother provides for his guests."

Michael led Dorothy through a small side door to the left of the stage, drinking in the attention of eyes that followed them across the floor.

Beyond, the corridor was dark and painted a deep blood red that was lit only by the soft glow of electric lamps that were dotted at intervals along the wall. A number of doors led off from it. Beyond one there was the excited chatter and giggles of the show girls who would be on shortly, in extravagantly cut outfits and a flurry of kicking heels. Beyond another there was the lower sound of a man talking, followed by a brief melody on a trumpet. The last door was silent and it was this one that Michael pushed open.

The room inside was small but sumptuously decorated with decadent (if a little worn) flocked wallpaper and a plush velvet chaise long piled high with pillows. On top of a small dressing table stood a jug of water and a glass, the curve of the water reflected in the mirror in front of it. A lamp stood either side, illuminating the windowless room. In one corner there was a rail upon which could be hung clothes or costumes.

"This is all yours," said Michael smoothly, as he shut the door behind them. He must be sure that he controlled himself here, away from everyone else. She was almost within his grasp, but not quite. It would not do to have the bird fly away so soon.

"Please, Helen, make yourself at home. Bring here whatever you need to be comfortable whilst you prepare for a show. The stage assistant will call you when it is your turn to perform."

He smiled, the practised and handsome upturn of his mouth echoed in the mirror.

"And there is one more thing; what do you wish to call yourself?" he asked. "I would suggest a new name for a fresh start."

---

"So why didn't you invite Maggie to come?" said Ben, conversationally, as the two of them walked the darkening streets of the French Quarter. "She's carrying a torch for you. And in case you've gotten the wrong idea, I'm not that kinda guy."

Francis shook his head and grinned, though it was an uncomfortable one.

"Nah, she's sweet an' all but... Well, she's a little too sweet, if you catch my meaning. Give me tooth-rot afta' a while," he said. Ben frowned; he thought he'd sensed genuine affection between the two of them. Perhaps he'd been wrong. Perhaps Francis was more a drugstore cowboy than Ben had first thought.

"Anyhow, we're almost here," he went on, gesturing to an apparently inconspicuous late-night tobacco shop and walking straight inside. The man behind the counter; middle-aged with several chins and a weeks worth of facial hair, barely looked up at Francis clapped him on the back.

"Hey, how ya' doin' Eddie? Just gonna take the delivery out back, yeah?" said Francis, shouldering the canvas sack he'd been carrying his saxophone in and walking straight through into the back room.

"Nice to meet ya, Eddie," said Ben, with a wave, following him. The shopkeeper grunted and went back to his pulp novel.

Behind the main shop, the back room was a maze of unopened crates and tottering piles of cigarette boxes, mostly empty. Francis led the way, shoving a crate away from the wall and pushing back a hanging strip of curtain to reveal a dusty doorway behind. He opened it and they emerged into a dark corridor that seemed to pulsate red, like they had somehow entered the artery of some great animal. Ben followed Francis through the second door on the right and was suddenly confronted with the sight of the rest of the band.

"Cats, this is Ben Goldberg. He's stayin' at Mrs Winston's an' he's coming to watch us play tonight," said Francis, with a shockingly white grin. A few members of the pinstriped besuited band looked unconvinced; scanning Ben's casual navy trousers and rolled up shirt-sleeves with scepticism.

"Don't worry, he's booted," said Francis, reassuringly, though Ben didn't have a clue what he was talking about. He assumed he wasn't talking about Ben's brogues. "He's a writer, ya see. A journo. He's from New York."

At this, several members of the ban brightened.

It was with much practiced etiquette that held Dorothy's lips together, preventing them from sucking in a deep breath of incredulity. When told she'd be led to her dressing room she'd expected to open a door to caddy young women spraying their hair, sweeping brushes over their features, and darkening their lips with rouge. Such as things were in the Gin Blossom; a large space, with a small share for each of the low name performers.

This room, however, was of the fancy Mama would have maintained. Surely there must have been a mistake! How possibly could she, Dorothy Helen Byrd from the outskirts of New York city, occupant of New Orleans for under a week, and employee of the Lagniappe for less than a day have her own dressing room? It was...

"This is too much, mister Rivarde. This cannot possibly be for me." Yet as she stated so, she felt her entire being drawn to the space; could see herself draped along chaise, could envision preparing before that grand looking mirror. The hangers seemed to call for the very dresses she'd just purchased. Her slim fingers traced the embellished floral pattern feminizing the room slowly. In disbelief. Her eyes met Michael's in the mirror and she spun to face him, leaning her hands back against it's surface. She felt nearly willing to embrace him out of the sheer thrill of it. Instead, she chose to use his first name, letting down one of her walls, "This is beautiful, Michael. I love it. A new career, a new dressing room, and now for a new name..."

Birdie would certainly not due, of that Michael was correct. Finding something new suited her commitment to neatly pack away her past into a corner of her mind, and her heart if she'd admit it. However, she'd always appreciated the double entendre of her stage name in The Big Apple, "I was Birdie there. Perhaps something similar, such as the lark or canary. They are beautiful singers, after all. What do you think?"



Otto hauled the scoundrel up by his lapels, which were wrinkled and untidy to begin with, and tossed him across the back alley into a tin trash can. The metalic clamber of the can against the wall and gravel, combined with the sickening heavy thud of a helpless body against blacktop gave Otto brief satisfaction. He wiped his arm across his forehead, feeling heated in the warm night air.

"Otto! Otto! Leave off, please, I gots ta' make a clean face at work!" Sal's whine did nothing but buzz in Otto's ears, caring not for the man's future employment. Maintaining a job was the least of the snake's worries currently. He drew his knees up to his chest and held an arm before his fast bruising face. "I swear I didn't-"

"That's the think, Sal. You're always swearing to me things that you didn't, don't, or won't do. It ain't the way we do business in the Rivarde family, see? We don't take kindly to liars or loose lipped weasels like yourself." Otto dealt the man another kick to the side.

"That ain't me! I didn't talk to nobody... well, just one somebody. But it was a guy who says he runs guns for Anthony. I didn't see no problem in that. Honest!"

"You won't be seeing the light of day by the time-"

"Ecote, Otto. Let's hear what this rat feels he has to say. Someone who works for me, oui? Who is this someone, Sal?" Anthony had wandered unnoticed into the alley, observing Otto's expertise in teaching lessons to the uneducated rats and runners in the business. Only the smartest and the strongest survived, clearly not descriptors of the coward on the ground in front of him, "Well?"

"Said his name was Nick Blankly, but I learned it was really Nick Bloom. Said he worked for ya, Tony!" Sal's eyes dashed between the tension in Anthony's eyes and the readied tension in Otto's leg. He expected another kick at any moment and didn't know how to better prepare for it.

Anthony had in fact heard of Nick Bloom and Nick Blankly. Both were pseudo names that his brother, Etienne, had his eyes and ears use when tracking information. Few persons knew that Etienne would soon be on the opposing side of the Rivarde fence, with Michael and Anthony on the other. Sal obviously didn't, thinking that he'd been keeping privy information all in the family, so to speak. He shouldn't have been talking, none the less. Anthony smiled a cruel crescent of a smile, and looked at Otto, "Did ya' hear what he just called me? Tony! Is that my name?"

"No it ain't, boss." Otto returned the smile, and the two men rushed forward to serve the man another round of pain that would promise his silence or sure death in not, for his future reference.



Clyde nodded as he accepted the tip from a man who'd just purchased several large bags of potatoes, tomatoes, onions, and other various vegetables all on their way to a family owned business a few blocks over. Clyde had made a habit of helping the man load his truck and took care to double bag his items, and it felt good to be appreciated for his careful work. You couldn't find kindly service just anywhere in the big city.

"For you, sir." A small boy of around eleven stood poised behind him, hand outstretched with a familiarly tinted envelope proffered. It was the same young lad who'd been delivering Dorothy's letters for the past week, always mysterious and never admitting where he'd received it from nor who he'd been sent by. Clyde had taken to keeping a shiny new penny for his every arrival. The boy would dash off gleefully, probably to the nearest candy store for a bag full of dandies.

Another letter from his sister it was. Her penmanship was undeniable, as was the cream envelope it was housed in. He quickly stepped aside and wrenched his finger through the paper, pulling out her letter and scanning the pages with a hand on his jaw and a gleam in his eye.

Dear Clyde,

Have only a few days passed? Time stretches long when I think of home, and consider all that I've accomplished in my new dwelling. Already I am employed at a similar establishment to the one you knew me at before. Do you remember the Lotus Blossom? This place is more refined, with more implied class and much more jazz. I haven't started yet, nor does the owner know that I have accepted his offer.

Which leads me to a qualm I've been hosting. This owner; I'm not sure how to position my feelings towards him. It's undeniable that he has cultured great wealth and esteem in this place, as has his brother Anthony. They have both been most kind to me, if not overly kind, but still I am uneasy. Perhaps it's the nature of their business that I fear, but with Michael I sense something deeper. Something more in his prowess that I can't put my finger on. Cora is smitten with him, for which I also find dismay. I must watch myself around him, but don't fear. Just pray, if you are the praying type.

I still miss you, if you can believe it. I wonder if you miss me as well? Poor Maddie! The torment she must be receiving in lieu of my absence. Be gently, brother dear.

With love,
Helen

Clyde was confused at her use of her middle name. Why not Dorothy, as in previous letters? Was she really seeking such great a change?

"I think the most beautiful singer of all is the nightingale, Helen," said Michael, smoothly. "It would suit you perfectly."

Though she had done a very good job of hiding her amazement at being gifted the best dressing room in the establishment, Michael had seen the brief look of joyous incredulity that had passed over her delicate features at being presented with such a place in which to prepare herself. He had noted too, with a certain degree of satisfaction, that she had used his first name to address him. It seemed to belong on her lips. He wanted to hear it again.

He took a step towards her and the shadows cast by the dim light overhead accentuated the chiselled, deep-set landmarks of his face and turned his dark eyes black.

"Are you content with your dressing room, Helen. Or is there anything else I can get you?" he said. Despite her initial refusal to audition on the day she had specified, today had been a good day; he could feel her edging ever into his grasp.

He was about to take another step towards her when a noise broke the uneasy silence that had descended over the little dressing room. Outside, the stage manager banged on the door.

"Ready in fifteen, Miss!" he called through the wood, then moved on down the corridor.

---

Outside the Lagniappe, another silence was broken but this time it was not by the sound of knuckles rapping on the wooden panels of a door but rather the dull metallic clicks of two safety catches being taken off.

"You gentlemen wanna stop what you're doin'?" came a gravelly voice from the shadows of the alleyway.

It was closely followed by the appearance of two thickset men. They might have looked like bimbos but it was obvious that these two were not your run-of-the-mill everyday mindless big sixes. They would not be outsmarted by a sidestep and a left-hook; they were top-notch hired guns, with an instinct for intimidation and a talent for causing pain. They were expensive but Etienne Rivarde did not skimp on kale where it was needed.

"Sal, why don't ya run along?" one said, to the man cowering by the dustbins.

"Mr Etienne values your services and advises you not to frequent less reputable establishments in the future," said the other, in more cultured, less accented tones.

---

"No, you're pullin' my leg daddy'o," said the trumpet player incredulously, with a grin.

"I swear," said Ben enthusiastically. "This mac, a big egg in City Hall, had been taking dough for hop for months. But in the back of a cab everyone talks, you know, to fill up the silence. First off I start telling him how I don't read the papers except for the sports section, ain't interested in politics, think they're all a bunch of kiljoys, how I couldn't name a single one. Then, after a bit of small talk, I start talking about how me and a few others got hopped up at the weekend, think it's a real buzz. Sure enough, the mac tries to sell me some! It's in The Times before six o'clock the next morning."

The assembled band burst out into assorted laughter.

"Them politicians sound like they don't change much from place to place," said the piano player, a heavy-set man called Wilbur. "We got idiots like that right here in the Big Easy-"

He was interrupted by a knocking on the door.

"Out you come, boys. Get your stuff ready, it's almost time to play!"

Francis stood up and stretched. "You wanna sit out back, Ben? You'll be nice and comfortable with our supply of gigglewater and you can treat yourself to some good music whilst you drink it," he said, with a grin, passing Ben the whiskey bottle the band had been sharing around. "Come'on, I'll show ya where you can sit..."

He pulled open the door and shouldered his saxophone case before holding it open for everyone else to pass through.

The nightingale. Yes, as a singing performer of the night, it would absolutely fit Dorothy perfectly. She tried to conjure up a mental visual of what this bird looked like. Perhaps she'd seen one on the farm...

As her mind wandered, Michael had moved more than fractionally closer. Though she'd clearly stated that the dressing room was to her liking, he'd asked her again if she were content with it. She straightened, realizing for the first that night that she'd been lowering walls she'd built purposely, meticulously, and with well founded intentions. Yet now here she was alone the back room of a speakeasy with a man, not a full week away from the men she'd run away from.

A knock and call prevented her from stating that he could hardly know if nightingales were the most beautiful, surely having not seen every bird there was to see or hear.

"There is nothing else, thank you. In fact, I'm quite readied for the evening if you would like for me to mingle."

Of course it was only out of necessity that she feigned interest in doing what it was that he would like her to do. She'd much rather make her own decisions, but knew that their professional relationship was founded on rocky ground. She'd have to be careful to maintain his favor, with out inciting his anger or amorous advances. A balancing act that Dorothy wasn't sure she could manage.

Before fixating too heavily on thoughts in that direction, she moved towards the door without awaiting his reply. Her dainty hand hesitated at the glass doorknob, "And I assume the set list Anthony gave me is in accordance with your band? There is a band, isn't there?"



Anthony had heard the footsteps approaching well before they'd appeared to dismiss Sal, and in preparation had aligned himself near a wall with the door to the Lagniappe and open alley at his disposal. That was assuming that he'd need to make a swift exit, of course. This was usually the case when uninvited and unexpected bodies came to occupy a space not well known to the general public. In other words, not an area where an Ossified Joe would accidentally stumble.

Sal's face lifted with relief, and his slumped body seemed to lighten as he picked himself off from the floor. He glanced from Otto to Anthony, to the two muscles rescuing him from kicks and punches his partially broken face to a completely broken one. The relief was only temporary. Though he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, he knew tomorrow would bring about consequences new. For squealing to one brother, and then running back for forgiveness to the other. It wouldn't fare well for him, but in the moment he felt near ready to praise the heavens for one more night with his suddenly appealing wife.

"Not so fast, Sal. We were right in the middle of a conversation, right pal?" Otto grasped a fistful of the man's dirtied shirt, and pulled him into a mock-amicable embrace. Inwardly, Otto was grimacing that he had to drape his arm around such garbage.

Anthony regarded one of the men, fixing him with a quizzical expression, "Oh, pardon. Are you the new garçon for the restaurant? Bus boy perhaps?" He paused, his smirk dropping into an unamused line,"No? Then you have no business here, gentlemen. Unless of course someone sent you?"

"Yes, the band is setting up as we speak," said Michael. "Everything has been arranged."

Michael liked to have things arranged. Everything ran more smoothly if it had been meticulously organised before hand; every photo opportunity was more agreeable, every public appearance more complementary to his image if it had been calculated down to each minute detail. He had an eye for how things would appear and was careful to maintain an external appearance of spontaneity, even if underneath the surface, there was nothing remotely spontaneous about it. For Helen to 'mingle', as she put it, with the patrons, then waltz delicately up onto the stage and launch into song appealed.

"That would be parfait," he said, stepping away from her with great self control and allowing her to turn the door handle upon which her delicately pale hand rested. "After you, nightingale."

---

The well-spoken man tilted his head with a scathing expression, as if they were speaking to a very small child. The other, thicker-set man scowled and gestured with his gun towards Anthony, the barrel pointing with uncomfortable regularity towards him.

"Are ya deaf? He said Mr Etienne. Would have thought ya recognised the name of ya own brother," he said, advancing on Anthony. "Wanna tell that piker to take his filthy hands off Sal?"

"No need," said the well-spoken man, with a small smile, as if they were talking about more pleasant things. He casually raised his gun and, with a deafening bang that filled the air of the alleyway, shot Otto in the leg.

---

Ben followed the rest of the band along the corridor to the open door that led out onto the side of the stage, where curtains shielded the view from the audience that he could hear beyond the thick velvet. Francis and the others went out onto the stage and began setting up their instruments. The crowd, who were sitting at tables and buzzing with anticipation, perhaps at hearing a new singer, let out a few whoops and bursts of laughter.

Ben grinned as Francis gave them a wave and a brief melody on his saxophone before turning back to the music stand he was assembling. Wondering if the Picayune had an entertainment section he could lever a review of this into, Ben leant against the wall, crossed his arms over his chest and settled down to watch the performance.

"Why don't you fix us with a whole case of these bad-boys, sweetheart. And a round of kisses to, eh? We're celebrating, right boys?" A rowdy chorus cheered their response, with a few of the men preparing their cheeks for Cora.

To these she giggled coyly,"I'm only selling cigars tonight, sugar. I'm not sure you could afford these lips anyhow."

A mixture of catcalls and playful groans brought a smirk to her lips as she departed the table, making her way for the door she'd been instructed was the humidor. Down the back hallway and to the left. To think that Michael had installed such a grand system in his speakeasy, ensuring only the finest tobacco for his guests, unlike the dried and flaky products at other establishments. Another reason to admire him. Cora twisted the handle, pushed the door open and stepped into the room where the cigars would be delicately stored.

Or so she thought.

A raucous sound tore tore through the room, and on instinct her hands flew from the handle and tray she had been balancing to cover her ears. She tripped and her bare knees fell upon the spilled tray. The sharp edge of a cracked cigar box ripped at her pantyhose, slicing also her flesh. Her hands met gravel and dirt as she tried to catch her fall, and only then did she look up and realize that she wasn't in a room, but had stumbled outside. And she wasn't alone.

Her eyes quickly tried to process what her ears had heard. She first noticed the back of a disheveled man, bolting down the alleyway. Secondly she saw Anthony, rushing behind Otto and hefting him up against the wall. Otto, looking more than a little pale, slung his gaze in her direction at the sound of her crash and his eyes widened. The third thing she saw told her why; a gun. A man holding a gun. The gun that had, apparently, just torn through some part of the debilitated Otto.

While Cora's gears were slowly churning in process mode, Anthony was reacting on instinct and adrenaline. Thinking got you killed in this sort of situation. Instinct -and good instinct at that- was the only thing that saved a life when up against bullets, blades or brawn. That and the occasional diversion. Cora's bombardment happened to be just that.

"Up! Door! Now!" There weren't time for explanations, and Anthony banked on the hope that the startled dame would obey mindlessly in her shocked state. She did. Cora shakily leapt to her feet and tugged the door open further. Meanwhile Anthony let Otto slump against the wall long enough to ready his fist, and slam it into the jaw of the man not wielding a gun. Without waiting to see the effectiveness of his attack, he pivoted slightly sideways, and rammed his foot into the mans gut, sending him back into the gun owner. A long enough disturbance to allow Anthony to reclaim Otto, slump him backwards against his chest, and drag him through the awaiting door.

Cora had gained enough cognition to drag it shut swiftly behind them, her trembling hands searching for the large beam that would lay across the two holsters on either side of the door. Once secured, her large doe eyes looked to Anthony, not for explanation but for comfort, "I-is..." She gulped.

"Ecouter, Cora. We need towels, ice, and a car. Find them and fast." Anthony snapped, but grabbed her arm to tug her back as she started to flee. "But don't rush. Let no one suspect that anything is unusual. See?"

She nodded, turned away, and walked into the lively atmosphere just as Michael and Dorothy were emerging from an alternate hallway. Cora cared not, momentarily, about her friend's private tour with Michael Rivarde. She offered them a weak smile before disappearing behind the bar, trying to appear calm while obtaining the necessary supplies.

Dorothy frowned. Something about Cora wasn't right.

The thick set man barely had time to catch his balance before his accomplice shoved him away with irritation. So the youngest Rivarde brother and the scumbag go-between had escaped. Although the well-spoken man would have enjoyed a little more time to play with the two of them, he was not worried that they had evaded him. Mr Etienne, his companion insisted on calling him, had given instructions to avoid all permanent injury, at least for now.

They were still his brothers, after all. And it took more than a few... altercations to erase all blood ties. But there would come a time when these ties would be severed, the well-spoken man could sense it. Then, then it would be all-out war. He looked forward to it.

With a brief gesture to the other man, the well-spoken man set off back down the alleyway, leaving the trail of blood from Otto's leg smeared across the concrete.

---

Off to one side of the stage, Ben glanced off to one side as a red-headed woman brushed past him and descended the steps at one side of the stage, snaking her way through the crowd towards the bar. She was dressed too plushly to be a barmaid but still wore the unwavering black of a member of the Lagniappe's staff and he idly wondered if she was one of the cigarette girls who wondered around the now-packed joint. She might even be the new singer Francis was talking about; perhaps she was off for a shot of gigglewater to loosen her vocal cords before her performance.

Even as he looked at her, something else caught his eye. Behind him, down the corridor from which he and the band had come just a few minutes before, stood two figures. One was a man; stocky but with a culture and calculated elegance to his posture that almost compensated for his build. His dark hair was slicked back and neatly parted to one side, as was the height of fashion, and even Ben who had never stepped into a tailors in his life could tell that his suit was the very best. The man faced Ben but his handsome, if heavily-hewn, features looked down at a second figure, a woman, standing with her back to Ben.

The woman was auburn-haired, its shade far darker than that of the cigarette girl who had just passed by, and cut into a razor-sharp bob. She was tall but slight and the dress she wore (which glittered like the lights of the city had on the Mississippi the previous night) fell from her figure beautifully. She turned, frowning, in the direction of the cigarette girl. Ben felt like he'd been punched in the stomach.

Before he saw her face, Ben knew immediately who it was. He could tell by the way she moved; he didn't need to see her delicate profile or the angular line of her collarbone beneath the straps of her dress. He didn't need to see the intelligence or the expression of closely-guarded independence in her eyes to know it was her.

"Dorothy?"

Cora managed to assemble all of the items Anthony had asked for, save for a car. How was she supposed to obtain a vehicle? Her teeth had begun to worry her bottom lip again, and she inwardly scolded herself out of frustration. Don't loose your cool, Cora. Remain calm. But calm was about as opposite as feelings could be from her current state of emotions. A shaky hand swept through her auburn waves, and her eyes sought out Dorothy.

But Dorothy was occupied otherwise. She'd started toward the bar when, from somewhere sidelong, a man's voice called her by name. Real name. Even if he'd said Helen, Sue, or Martha, Dorothy would have recognized the New York accents in the gentle barritone, slightly roughened by years of cold winters and a numberless pack of cigarettes. Her heart seemed to cease beating as she turned almost casually to see who'd addressed her.

And then her heart picked up full speed again, as though she were running a marathon whose end she couldn't see.

Ben. It was Ben, here in Louisiana. Here at the very speakeasy she'd just been hired at. Her emotions were churning so rapidly that she couldn't name a single one of them. Though, upon later reflection with a clear mind, she'd notice that they were an altogether positive collection. When seeing someone or something you didn't expect, one of two things generally happened. There was always startled surprise, but it was what the heart did that was telltale. It either soared brightly, or fell to the pit of the stomach. Subsequent emotions always followed after the initial heart's recognition wore off, as they did for Dorothy. She felt angry, confused, unprepared, and for a reason she couldn't identify, worried. But initially her heart had soared, if briefly. She had been excited to see him.

Dorothy couldn't process these feelings now, however, especially not in the given environment and crowd. In a gesture that she would later likely regret, Dorothy stole closer to Michae's side and slipped her hand around his well muscled arm. She had to maintain appearances, afterall. And her appearance now was as Helen, the Nightingale, newest singer in The Lagniappe. One eyebrow raised in confusion, and she flashed Ben an apologetic smile. Only her deep, green eyes would reveal her true emotions, "Sorry sugar, you've got the wrong gal."

She considered extending her hand, but threw the idea out as fast as it had entered her mind, knowing she wouldn't be able to handle his touch. She wondered if she should introduce herself, thinking against it, but realized that she'd soon be introduced on stage. There was no use appearing impolite when, had he actually been a stranger, she'd have offered her name, "The name's -"

"Helen, time's up. You're on in two." The same voice that had hollered through her dressing room spoke to her now from the lips of a well dressed, but busy looking man.

She looked to Michael and offered him her best, most confident smile. Then, letting go of his arm, she parted and walked toward the stage while excusing herself from Ben's attention as well, "Good luck finding Dorothy. Enjoy the show."

Cora waited until Dorothy had sauntered away, and then worriedly approached Michael's side. Her eyes looked into his pleadingly, all traces of flirtation gone, and she whispered urgently, "Michael, you wanna join me in back for a minute? I've gotta problem with a...er...the back door. It won't close."

She turned around to look at him and in the brief instant after their gazes met, Ben was certain that it here the story would end. In the best way possible; she talk to him, tell him why she'd left New York, tell him she'd left Wallenstein because of him, be convinced to return with him and they'd go back to the city and live, well, they'd live happily ever after, right? He could see it in her eyes. Right?

Wrong, he told himself, as she slipped her hand around the arm of the man accompanying her. Her expression was now one of innocent confusion and Ben was suddenly unsure if he'd really seen the brief passion that had framed itself on her features when she'd first turned around. She'd rather pretend she didn't know him than acknowledge his presence here. The thought was painful.

What an first-class sap you've been, Goldberg, he thought angrily. His elation at seeing her again had deflated into bitterness but the urge to touch her to check she was real had not disappeared and he kept it in check by crossing his arms over his chest defensively. You've come all this way to 'rescue' a doll who didn't even want to be rescued. Who had likely left New York in the first place to get away from him. He felt humiliated, silently berating Missy for encouraging him, Clyde for unknowingly providing him with the means to find her and himself for ever dreaming up such a moronic plan in the first place.

"My mistake, sheba," he said. "You look a lot like someone I used to know."

He looked up at her from where his gaze had briefly been fixed on the floorboards and was once again knocked off balance by what he found there in her green eyes. A fraction of the hurt evaporated.

Then she was gone and, though his glance lingered on her as she left, he could not help but shift it towards her companion. Was she reluctant to acknowledge him because of this mac? Was it because he was some new beau she'd picked up down here already or was it something more sinister than that? Why was she not using her real name?

Michael, too, was looking at Ben. There was something not quite right about the exchange that had just taken place between the two of them. There was nothing in their tones to suggest that anything other than a case of innocent mistaken identity had occurred but something in the body language of Helen and this... this lean, untidily-haired, crooked-nosed man who had looked as insolently at ease in the Lagniappe as if he owned the place himself. Had. Now he looked positively uncomfortable. And Helen had left far too quickly for Michael's liking, whatever pleasant and possessive feelings having her take his arm had stirred within him.

He was about to smoothly demand the other man's name when Cora's voice sounded from behind him. He would have dismissed her so he could go about dissecting Helen's relationship to this newcomer but there was an undertone of worry in her tone, itself absent of all flirtation.

"What is it?" he said, abruptly, following her back down the corridor away from the man.

Behind him, Ben frowned then turned back to the stage. To his left, Francis was introducing himself to Dorothy with a grin and a nod then picking up his saxophone for the first song. Knowing he couldn't face hearing her sing or waiting for her backstage, Ben silently walked back down to the passage that led to the dressing rooms, taking out a cigarette from his pocket as he went.

A few minutes later, he exited the Lagniappe through the tobacco shop from which he and Francis had come. Back in Dorothy's dressing room, folded up neatly inside one of the gloves in her bag, was a note torn from the notebook Ben invariably carried around with him. It read simply:

When you decide to remember who I am, I'm staying at Mrs Winston's Guesthouse on Thalia St. in the French Quarter.

-B

Dorothy tried to smile politely through her introductions with the band members. Francis, she could instantly tell, was a gem of the underground music industry. His easy laughter and saucy attitude bespoke of his natural comfort doing something that he loved to do; play music. For a singer, the instrumentalists were of utmost importance. They'd have to follow her subtle hints, sways, and clues when wooing a crowd, calming a fight, and keeping up with the general pace of the evening. She hoped to fit in with them well.

Despite the new and friendly faces, Dorothy's thoughts were riveted several minutes in the past. Even as she stepped forward to offer a self introduction, compliment Michael and his establishment, and proceed with her first tune her mind couldn't change tracks. It was as though she were staring through a pair of glasses with a smudged lense; she could see and do everything as per usual, but there in the corner of her field of vision hovered something she knew wouldn't go away on its own. Every note that left her lips carried the heavy level of emotionality as had her audition.



Cora was glad for the instant diversion that Dorothy's voice created. Nearly every conversation had halted, or hushed at least, and she and Michael were able to retreat down the darkened corridor without arousing suspicions or drawing followers. Even the serving staff hovered to listen to their newest co-worker, rather than track the room's activities or go down that very hallway to restock supplies.

"Its- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" Cora nearly dropped the small bucket of ice that she was carrying, and felt tears prick her eyes. What was she supposed to say? She hadn't a clue what had happened in the first place, and hadn't been allowed the time to think in through.

"It's Ettiene. One of his bimbo's nicked Otto's leg with some lead." Anthony stood from where he had been examining the wounded leg, much calmer having realized it had been deeply grazed by the bullet but not pierced through.

Cora rushed forward with the ice and several bar towels. Anthony kept his eyes on his brother, and absently nodded his head in Otto's direction. He took the ice from her for himself, balling his hand into a fist and pressing his bruised knuckles into the cool cubes. Cora bent to wrap the wound.

Francis grinned at the audience then put the reed to his lips. The new singer was a pretty little thing, he thought, as the band began to play through a well-practised, lively version of 'I Got Rhythm', and boy could she sing. She put effort into it too. Not like some of the ones he'd played with before, who might as well have been flapping their gums on stage. No, this choice bit of calico was singing straight from her heart and Francis liked her all the more for it. What the hell was the use of something if you didn't do it from the heart? That's what he'd always thought.

Choosing to ignore the nagging suggestion that he tended not to apply this philosophy to all areas of his life, Francis lost himself as the verse descended into a brief interlude of scat singing and he plunged into a saxophone solo with relish.

The audience's reaction to the first song was explosive and the front row (mainly men) stood up in their ovation, stamping their feet and letting loose a barrage of cat calls. This new singer, The Nightingale or whatever she was calling herself, was going down a treat. Francis looked over to the side of the stage to gauge Ben's reaction but was surprised to see that the journo was absent. Where had the cat gone? Down into the crowd? Surely not for a drink, not when he'd left him with an entire bottle of gigglewater to get through.

Shrugging, he waggled his eyebrows at the crowd (to the joy of a few ladies sitting at the edge of the stage) and launched into another song.

---

"Etienne?" said Michael carefully. He glanced back down the corridor. The man who had called out to Helen was gone. "That is interesting."

So his brother had finally made the first move. In the shady underground world of gang affairs, a shooting, even a non-fatal one, was big news and sent out a very definite message. The war had begun. But Michael was confident he could win it.

"Anthony," he said, taking a set of keys from his pocket and passing them to his brother. "My car is parked around the corner on Iberville Street. Bring it around to the back entrance." He was not overly concerned about Otto's welfare; of course, he was a valued employee and a useful one at that, but ultimately everyone was disposable in one way or another. However, Michael was not about to let such an asset bleed to death needlessly.

"Beautifully done, Cora," said Michael, taking the wrap from her hands to tighten it around the wound. "I commend your quick-thinking. I will contact a doctor as soon as possible but I think it best if you accompany Otto back to his apartment."

Cora nodded, still wide eyed from all the unfortunate excitement but gaining clarity with each passing minute. She should have assumed something of the speakeasy owner, his well dressed brother, and hired man Otto. But now the pieces were falling together, and it would seem that she had Dorothy had planted themselves in the middle of an organized crime regime that stretched further than the Lagniappe. Just how far, she wasn't sure, but she had every intention of asking Otto once the Rivarde brothers weren't present.

"Of course, Michael. Whatever you think is best." She'd warmed slightly upon hearing his praise. Had she responded well? She hoped she'd never had a second opportunity to make a comparison.

"I'm sure they've run to report back to Etienne by now. We'll be safe going out the alley again. I'll pull the car around." While Anthony didn't enjoy the thought of returning to the scene of the crime, he knew that helping a limping Otto through the crowd would raise suspicion, and harm business. While he was concerned about Otto, he was more concerned with Michael's interests, which would absolutely lie in maintaining business as usual here in the speakeasy. So he left the small crowd, went to get the car from the location described by Michael, and collected his passengers.



Dorothy found enjoyment in the evening, despite her lingering thoughts. Her instincts had proved to be spot on about Francis and the rest of the band. Throughout her first night she'd enjoyed volleying playful glances with the instrumentalist as she tried to keep him on his toes, and as he returned the favor. She'd worked with dead beat players before, who took things to a level of seriousness that made their musical phrases stiff. It was always better to have fun, and encourage the audience to laugh along with you if you made a mistake.

There had only been one break the entire evening, which hardly lasted long enough for Dorothy to gather a glass of water and catch a breath of air that wasn't shared by someone six inches away from her. As soon as she'd stepped off the dance floor, hands and kerchiefs were offered in hello, and it went without saying that she received a proposition or two hinting to occupy her time after hours. When finally, and also regrettably, the night was over, Dorothy turned with a beaming smile and laughed.

"Francis, you are better than the best. Lawd, but that was a doozy! Are things always this hot in here?" She reached for a towel and lightly patted her hair line and neck. Hot in temperature under the blazing lights, sure, but Dorothy was referring to the agreeable crowd. She'd done small numbers in speakeasy's up north, and had really grown in character and talent at The Gin Blossom. While she was appreciated there, the customers were also used to her. Tonight had been her first 'first' in a long time, and she could hardly believe how well she'd been received. She knew it was largely in part to the music backing her up, "I couldn't have done it without you, to be sure!"

The wait staff was upturning chairs, sweeping, and closing the house for the evening. As she took another deep breath and peered out across the vast room, Dorothy remembered Cora and the trepidation she'd seen in her eyes. But now there was no sight of her red-haired twin.

The wound tourniqueted, Michael ducked underneath Otto's shoulder.

"You can stand?" he said and, without waiting for an answer, heaved the injured man upright, supporting his weight easily on his own broad shoulders. With a nod towards Cora, indicating that she should follow them, Michael helped Otto limp back down the deserted corridor towards the back entrance. It was imperative that none of the other staff saw Otto's state. Of course, most knew who they were working for and rumours of Michael's involvement with the Rivarde underworld empire were rife but it would not do to have them confirmed in this manner.

Such actions were irritating, but necessary to preserve his image. He would be enquiring how Otto managed to allow this to happen to him later.

By the entrance, Michael waited until he heard the familiar sound of a well-tuned and expensive motor outside then pushed open the doors.

"Help him inside, Cora," he said, as they neared the door to the car. Michael noted the blood that was smeared unpleasantly across the concrete underfoot. That would have to be cleaned up.

"I will send for my personal physician immediately," he said. "Unfortunately, I cannot leave the Lagniappe unattended but I will ensure Otto gets the best treatment possible," he said, mainly to Cora. He took her hand to help her into the car after the injured man. "Mademoiselle, I thank you. I will pay a visit tomorrow."

---

"What can I say?" said Francis, with enthusiastic immodesty. "It's a gift, I'm guessin'. And you've got one of ya own, there. And if it's hot in here, chick, it's 'cause you be gettin' hot."

The rest of the band were packing up; closing guitars into their hard cases or pulling covers down over pianos. Francis pulled the strap from his saxophone over his head and grinned breathlessly at her.

"What's your name, anyway? You're new here, ain't ya? I'm Francis Austin," he said, extending a pale-palmed hand towards her. Across the stage, the bassist made a comment about 'everyone callin' the cat Franny' but Francis ignored him serenely, despite a chorus of sniggers that arose from the rest of the band.

"Where did Mister Rivarde find a gem like you, huh?" he went on, putting his sax into its case and glancing around the chair-strewn place. Where in the world had Ben Goldberg gone? He was nowhere to be seen in the rapidly-emptying club. Maybe he'd found the baby vamp he'd been looking for after all... Wouldn't that be just the coincidence?

---

Back in the humid dimness of his room back in Mrs Winston's Guesthouse, Ben sat down at the desk in the corner, pen poised above his notebook. He knew that the tight feeling in his chest would not be completely alleviated any time soon but that it could be lessened by putting pen to paper. With fluidity, a letter addressed to Missy Greenbank began to form itself rapidly in an angular hand across the page.

The door had hardly closed after Cora, and Anthony careened out of the alley expertly. A sitting car was an easy target, even if he was sure there was no longer a threat nearby. Once onto the busier main streets of the city, he looked in his rearview to make sure his injured passenger was faring well. He was, and in fact, opened his lips to give Cora some important information.

"What happened tonight was not something you were intended to see, Cora." Otto closed his eyes against the pain. Of course they'd have shot his already bad led. "You don't speak of this to anyone. We take care of our own problems, understand?"

Anthony studied her reaction carefully. As a cigar singer in the Big Apple, she could hardly be unaware of how this sort of situation unfolded. she seemed to understand, and nodded agreeably. He wasn't so sure that she'd keep her mouth shut, however, "They've seen your face, you know."

Cora's eyes flicked nervously to the back of Anthony's head, "Wh-what has that got to do with anything?"

"It means that if you don't keep this under lock and key, they know what you look like, where you work, and who you're associated with. It wouldn't take 'em long." Otto explained. He didn't elaborate on what it wouldn't take 'them' long to do. In fact, chances were they wanted Cora to rush around with whispers of what Etienne Rivarde had done to his own brother and associate. But she didn't have to know that.

Anthony added the last layer of security, "Not to mention, Michael trusts you deeply with this. He is counting on you, Cora, to help him in this. Not even Dorothy can know."

Cora remained silent the remainder of the drive home.


"New here, sure. Not new to singing though. I flew south, so to speak, to spend some time with my cousin. The name's Helen." Dorothy extended her hand, but neglected to offer her last name. As of now there wasn't a need to use it any more than she had to. "It's a pleasure to meet you, and more so to sing with you Francis. Or Franny. Tomorrow night then?"

Dorothy excused herself from the stage with an overdramatic curtsy, and trotted off the stage with a laugh. But as soon as her steps clicked on the floor below her thoughts returned to the fellow New Yorker that she'd shared a brief exchange with. Though he was no longer occupying a place in the room, she could envision him as though he'd never left. And he had left...her heart constricted painfully when remembering the pained way he stared at the floorboards, and she wished she couldn't remember the exact sound of his voice mumbling an apology for his mistake.

Why was he here?

Seeing Michael return to the main arena, Dorothy gratefully let her thoughts be swept towards Cora, who was still nowhere to be seen. By this time she expected the bubbly young woman to be gushing about the people she'd met, and excitedly retelling stories of flirtation and fun. Dorothy approached Michael, who looked pensive, "Have you seen Cora? I haven't seen hide nor hare of her or Otto all night."

"Tomorrow night, chick," said Francis, hefting the bag containing his saxophone over his shoulder. He, along with the rest of the band, gave brief waves and calls of goodbye to the disintigrating audience. Venturing back down the corridor behind the stage, Francis frowned. Ben was nowhere to be seen.

"Where'd that pal of yours go to, Franny?" said the drummer, scratching his head with a drumstick, as the rest of the band followed him up the stairs and out into the tobacco shop.

Francis shrugged. "Dunno, Sal. Still, Goldberg's a grown-up, he can take a'himself. I'll see you cats tomorrow night."

With a nod, the saxophonist disappeared into the buzzing night-time of the city. As he walked back through the dark but crowded streets, he thought on the events of that evening. The new singer Mister Rivarde had roped in was really something. What a set of lungs she had! A real baby vamp too, though a little too sharp for Francis' tastes. He had enough to keep him on his toes without his woman doing the same. Nah, he went for softer-edged types...

Where the hell had Ben gone to?

---

Michael was mildly startled by sudden appearance of Dorothy but covered his surprise well. The staff were beginning to clear up and her set had obviously already ended. Otto. Why did he insist of getting a chunk shot out of his leg on The Nightingale's opening night? Still, Michael would have all the time in the world to hear her sing again...

Seeing an opportunity to lever open the crack that was starting to separate the two women, not to mention drawing Helen inexorably closer to him, Michael answered her smoothly.

"Your friend left with your cousin just a few moments ago," said Michael, with a knowing smile. "It seemed that they had rather urgent issues to attend to, if you understand me, Helen."

He glanced off to one side, as if contemplating the ways of lovers. In reality he was congratulating himself on phrasing his answer in such a way that he had avoided telling a single direct lie.

"May I offer you one of my spare rooms, Helen?" he said, looking forward to being able to show off the decadence of his grand home. But what he was anticipating the most was having Helen herself there. Perhaps the spare room would not be necessary after all. "I assume you do not wish to intrude..."

---

Missy,

Been in New Orleans for two days now. I'm staying a guesthouse in the French Quarter (the address is at the top of this letter). It's a huge place, colonial, palatial and falling slowly into disrepair but the owner, Mrs Winston, is good-natured and could give you a run for your money in the kitchen. She hasn't made cheesecake yet, though.

I've paid a visit to the offices of the local newspaper; The Times-Picayune and have miraculously acquired a job. Lord knows how that happened but it seems that Edison actually put in a good word for me. Edison! Hell, I might even have got the idea that he values my writing were it not for the fact that he's tried to skim fifty dollars off every pay-cheque since I started working as a freelance for The Times.

I don't know if you remember Evie- an old squeeze from way back when I used to work for The Globe- but she's a reporter down here now. No luck asking for help on this Newbury mac you told me about. I don't think she would have given a me clue even if she had known.

Anyway, I might as well not have bothered. Dorothy's working as a singer in a speakeasy called The Lagniappe just a few blocks away. I went down there tonight with a new pal who plays sax for her backing band. I saw her backstage and she pretended she didn't know me. Calling herself Helen, now. I left a note in her dressing room but, damn it Missy, I feel like such a sap.

Why the hell did I come down here? If I don't hear from her in a couple of days then I'm coming back home. Cheesecake would be appreciated.

-Ben

Ben tapped the ash from his third cigarette since he'd left the Lagniappe and put the envelope into his pocket before heading downstairs.