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It brought a further measure of relief to Dorothy's nerves when Francis willingly played along, catching onto her poorly disguised request for a tête-à-tête. There had been the chance that even though he had been perceptive, he wouldn't be willing to oblige her. He easily could have given her instructions without leading the way. But her first clue that Francis would be an easy ally was when he set aside his instrument upon seeing her distress.

Now alone in her dressing room, Dorothy thought again of Michael. Not of what he'd said, or done, or taken but of the imposing presence he perpetuated in comparison to Francis. She was surprised she hadn't been more observant of it the previous night.

Dorothy allowed the full degree of her emotions register in her face, posture, and tone as she replied, "No, actually. I'm quite sure that I'm a great deal less than alright. But I didn't ask you in here to flap on about all that, don't worry. We hardly know one another, but I am lacking for persons to turn to. And you strike me as the resourceful type. Kind too."

She offered Francis a weak, assuring smile and continued, "You should first know that I'm not in any trouble. Not the threatening sort. In an case, I've found myself without a place to stay. I was wondering, well, hoping actually that you might know of a place where I could stay until I find something more permanent? Something affordable."

While she waited for him to consider the places within New Orleans that might match her criteria, and assuming that he'd understand that safety and relative cleanliness were also preferred, she moved to set the folded note upon the table top under a vase. It simply read:

Mr. Rivarde,
My apologies for the short notice, but I have chosen to take care of some personal matters this evening and will not be coming into work. I have made arrangements to cover my absence. - Helen

"And would it be a great burden to find a replacement for me this evening? Based on some...recent and unforeseen events, I won't be able to perform tonight." Dorothy knew she was asking a lot of Francis with this last question, and hoped he wouldn't and up taking any heat for her choice. She planned on finding some way to repay him for helping her.

Francis looked back at her thoughtfully. For a dame who, according to her, wasn't in any trouble, she sure did seem desperate. He wondered what had happened to her red-headed pal and the mac they'd been staying with; Otto, Rivarde's right-hand man. Still, it wasn't his place to ask. You got used to not asking questions anyway, after gigging in the Lagniappe for as long as he had. All he knew, keen as the doll was, was that he preferred a drama-free squeeze. So it was with only with truthfulness and a genuine helpfulness that he told her where she might stay.

"Sure, I know a place. I'm staying there myself," he said. "A real nice joint in the French Quarter on Thalia Street. It's owned by this dame called Mrs Winston. She's not one to cross but if she takes a shinin' to ya then she'll bake ya more fritters than you can possibly eat."

"An' it's not a lot of jack, either. I'm sure she could fix you up in a nice little room at the back of the house," he added.

"But as for a replacement... Chick, you might be askin' a little too much of me there," said Francis, trying to think of anyone who might be able to stand in as canary for tonight. No matter how good they were, though, Rivarde wasn't going to be pleased. And there was no way Francis would be taking the blame for it, even if Helen turned her big jade-green eyes on him. For his sake, the note she had just placed on the dressing table had better contain an explanation that would satisfy Michael Rivarde or else Francis was simply going to feign ignorance and get on with playing his sax.

A thought suddenly struck him and he grinned in anticipation. It was a long shot, but if she agreed...

"But I can think of someone... I'll need to ankle back to Mrs Winston's now, though, so I'll take you there, if ya want," he said, opening the door to the corridor. "Ya got eveythin' ya need?"

Dorothy could have kissed Francis (on the cheek) for his response. Not only was he finding her a place to stay, which sounded perfect, but he did have an alternative that allowed her to take the night off without leaving Michael without an act. Somehow she doubted that would save her any grief, but in the moment she cared about nothing more than staying away from anyone connected to her current state of emotions. Which was basically everyone in New Orleans that she knew. So solitude sounded wonderful.

After being assured by Francis that he was really alright with accompanying her to Mrs Winston's, and trying to stifle her guilt at interrupting his band practice, the two exited the Lagniappe back into the sun that greeted them with an instant kiss of heat. The humidity gave even Dorothy's naturally straight hair a gentle weave.

It wasn't long before they arrived at the edges of the French Quarter. Somehow the varying shades of red meshed together perfectly, whether draped as curtains, wound around poles in flowery vines, or splashed in pieces of art displayed in street windows. Though it was the same town, somehow this artsy district of New Orleans felt altogether like a far away place. Thalia street proved to uphold the same standards, if not more so. Dorothy could already tell that this had been the right decision.

"So who is it that you were thinking could take my place tonight?" She inquired as they slowed in front of what she assumed was the guesthouse Francis had spoken of. She followed him as they ascended a triplet of stairs and entered through a door whose chipped paint and wear only added to its charm.

"Oh, just this doll who works-" began Francis.

"Franny!" cried Maggie, looking up as the two of them entered the airy kitchen. The sleeves of her floral cotton dress had been rolled up past her elbows and her forearms were covered in suds from the pile of dishes in the sink. "What're you doin'-" She paused as her gaze alighted upon Dorothy and though the sincerity in her smile remained, a little of the expression in her eyes fell. "What're you doin' back so early?"

"I was just takin' Helen back here," he said, with a placating white-toothed smile. "She works at the Lagniappe and she's lookin' for a place to stay. An' I've got a quick favour to ask ya, whilst we're on the subject..."

Maggie brightened but wrinkled up her nose in confusion at Francis' request. "Oh! Well, it's mighty nice to meet ya, Helen. Mrs Winston's just mopping the decking out back; just through that door there. I think there's a room spare upstairs. Now, what on earth did you want me for, Franny..."

Francis did his best to look charming and took her over to one side. Getting Maggie to sing at the Lagniappe would be no mean feat.

Outside, Ben had come back from the Picayune a hour ago. Rather than write in the shady but humid confines of his room, he had kicked off his brogues and padded across the wooden floorboards of the deck outside the back of the house. Underneath the curtain-like branches of a willow not far from the house, he'd sprawled himself out on the cool greenness. With his back to the bark and enjoying the feeling of the soft prickle of grass between his toes, he'd chewed on the tip of his pen and tried to lose himself in writing.

Dorothy found herself instantly charmed by the girl who'd referred to Francis as 'Franny.' Her smile reminded Dorothy of herself a half dozen years ago; sweet, sincere, and heart warming. Though she hadn't been properly introduced to the girl, Dorothy took notice of the way she looked at the sax player and decided that proper greetings could be exchanged at a later time.

"Thank you, it's a pleasure to meet you as well." Dorothy raised as eyebrow to Francis. She doubted that this bright thing was 'just a doll' as he'd begun to describe her as, "I'll go find Mrs Winston then."

She excused herself from the room through the prescribed door. What this woman looked like, Dorothy had no idea. Apparently she'd be mopping the deck.

But her intentions of finding Mrs Winston were soon forgotten, because as her eyes had begun to scan the backyard to find her, the green eyed gaze froze on the relaxed and all too familiar figure leaning against the base of a tree. The slight breeze tousled his hair as he concentrated on the paper underneath his hands. Hands that she'd held; that had held her.

Dorothy remained riveted where she was. He hadn't seen her yet, and a rush of emotions similar to that of the night before, confused her judgment of how to proceed. If she moved at all, he'd surely look up and see her. She didn't want to hurt him any further than she already had, and for him to look up and see her walking away...

Approaching him didn't seem a plausible option either. For approaching him meant saying hello to him, and saying hello would lead to a conversation, and conversation would likely lead to him wanting explanations for why she'd left, why she was here, and why she'd pretended not to know him. The memory stabbed at her heart.

What were the chances that of all people and all places, she'd ask Francis and he would lead her to the very place that Ben happened to be? Dorothy found it frustrating that she wanted to be caught in his blue eyes. She hated the way her head told her to flee while her heart instructed her to rush into his arms. How could she still long for such comfort from someone she was trying so hard to forget?

"Ben..." Dorothy spoke his name, not trying to call out to him, though it would inevitably gain his attention. She said it for lack of knowing what else to do, and because saying his name -even in a hushed tone- gave her a sliver of comfort that she hadn't been able to find elsewhere. Once again she found herself wondering why he was here.

At first Ben was sure he'd just imagined the sound of a voice saying his name. Especially because that voice had sounded an awful lot like it had come from Dorothy's lips when the only people in the immediately vicinity were himself, the shade under the willow tree, and Mrs Winston, who was a few dozen yards away leisurely mopping the decking at the back of the guest-house. But something caught his eye and he turned to look in the direction of the voice. To a mixture of surprise, pleasure and apprehension (which felt like he'd been punched in the stomach) he found Dorothy.

She lingered by the back door, as if unsure whether to walk across the grass towards him or escape back into the cool depths of the house. She was dressed far less glamourously than when he had seen her at the Lagniappe but there was a simplicity about her appearance that made her more eye-catching against the tumble-down detail of her backdrop than if she had appeared to him in feathers and sequins.

He had not expected her to come to see him so soon. He wasn't sure if he'd expected her to come at all.

"Dorothy?" he said, hastily standing up, leaving his notepad at the base of the tree. Beyond the two of them, Mrs Winston carefully leaned her mop against the wooden wall of the house and, as quietly as she could, opened the screen door to go into the kitchen. So this was her newest lodger's long-lost doll? Well, she was a pretty little thing. And, if she wasn't very much mistaken, from the looks on the faces of the pair, she wouldn't be long-lost for much longer.

Ben wasn't sure how to react. She had come, after all. But what if she had come only to tell him to go back to New York?

"I- I didn't know if you were gonna come..." he said, vulnerably, lamely, digging his hands into his pockets to fight the sudden urge to close the distance between them and put his arms around her slender shoulders. He imagined she would be soft and cool to the touch, even in the heat of New Orleans.

"So, the Gin Blossom for the Lagniappe, huh?" he added, with a little hardness to his tone now as he willed her to explain. He didn't want to have to wrench it out of her. He'd rather go back to the Bronx tomorrow than do that. "Food better down here? Or was it the weather you came for?"

Dorothy ignored the subtle urge within herself to correct him and say she was going by 'Helen' these days, simply because it felt so good to hear her name from his lips, with his voice. Ben. Ben was actually here, saying her name and standing before her. She could have reached out and touched him just to make sure it wasn't a dream, but she knew it would be like touching fire.

"Didn't know if I was going to come?" She echoed back stupidly. Why would Ben be expecting her here?

While she tried to figure out what was happening, Dorothy made a mental note of Ben's quick use of sarcastic humor in a moment that was clearly serious. It brought her relief, but not the sort that broke the tension of the moment. Instead, it reminded Dorothy of why, in part, she'd said goodbye. His use of kisses and quips when she wanted conversations had brought her to a point of frustration then, and threatened to do so again now. Hearing it again now gave her a sad but needed affirmation that she'd done the right thing. Somehow the 'right thing' didn't feel very good.

Rather than responding to the sarcasm laced inquiry, she ignored it in an attempt to make sense of the situation. Ben looked far less surprised to see her here than she was to see him, "Do you know Francis or something? Is that why he brought me here, because you wanted to see me?" She was slightly flattered, but more so flustered, "Listen, Ben, I was just looking for a place to stay. I didn't know you were here." She felt bad admitting it, as it would likely hit a sore spot. But it was the truth, and she hadn't honestly traveled there to see him. She wanted to escape the confusing feelings he'd caused her. But if you wanted to talk to me, you shouldn't have used Francis to trick me into coming."

Dorothy pushed down, temporarily, the urge to add a question to the end of her statement: 'Why are you here?' he answer to that question was one she was certain she was unprepared to hear. Provided that he didn't come back with something smart like 'Why, I'm here because I needed a place to sleep, of course.'

"What?" said Ben, confusion of one kind replaced with confusion of another. "Francis-? He brought you here?" Well, it made sense for the two to know each other; they both worked at the Lagniappe after all. But why was she looking for somewhere to stay? Wasn't she staying with Otto Newbury?

"I thought- I left you a note in your dressing room with the address for this place. You didn't find it, then," he added, more a statement than a question. He was still smarting a little from her 'I didn't know you were here' which seemed to imply that if she had known, she wouldn't have come. Still, even if she here against her better judgement, he thought bitterly, she was here and he could find out once and for all why she'd decided to run and, from the looks of it, keep running.

"But why're you looking for a place to stay? Aren't you already staying somewhere?" Ben said, taking a few steps towards her across the grass. He'd almost said 'with your cousin' but that probably wasn't the best idea. He didn't want her to think badly of Missy or Clyde for helping him find her. For now, he'd start with this question. Then maybe he could ask the bigger ones that seemed to be hanging over his head like the branches of the willow. Questions like 'why did you leave?' and, bigger still, 'will you come back to New York with me?'.

Behind Dorothy, in one of the sitting rooms that overlooked the garden, Francis was interrupted.

"Oh, come on! Maggie, your voice is great; I've heard ya-"

"Franny! Shh... That doll's name was Helen wasn't it? Not... Who was Ben lookin' for? Dorothy?" said Maggie, pushing him away and going over to the window.

"Yeah, why?" said Francis, frowning and going over to stand behind her.

"It's just... It looks like they've met before..."

Dorothy's gears were once again struggling to spin, and to piece together the bits of information that she was gaining from Ben's questions. Once again Dorothy dodged his questions -though this time unintentionally. The mentioning of the note once more caused a new fire to burn in Dorothy's chest, and she forgot for a moment who she was talking to and all of the feelings that he caused her.

"That note...I never got to see the note, well, not more than a glance." She bitterly remembered the way Michael had snatched the note out from under her nose before she could blink. How he'd stated with such ease that 'she wouldn't be needing it.' Dorothy bit her lip and frowned, then looked back to Ben sympathetically, "I'm sorry, Ben. He- well, someone took the note from me before I had a chance to read it."

So Ben had tried to reach out to her, even though she'd been so rude to him. Rather than confronting her in front of her new friends and her new persona, he'd left something more subtle that, if she'd read it- would have spoken volumes to her. In a way it still did. And now Michael had the note that was meant for her. A note from another man, held in the hands of a man who had so possessively claimed it as his own; and had tried to claim her in a similar fashion the night before with his devouring kiss.

Her green eyes widened to look up at Ben as she took a concerned step forward. Without thinking, her hand reached to touch his arm, "Wait, Ben. What did it say?"

Ben tried not to flinch as she touched the bare skin of his forearm, exposed by his rolled-up shirt sleeves.

"It said..." He decided to leave out the first part of the note. "It just gave the address of this place. And I signed it off as- either 'B' or 'Ben'; I can't remember..."

Although a little flood of anger washed over him at the thought of someone taking it from Dorothy by force but there was relief there too. So there was a legitimate reason that she had been so surprised to see him, that she hadn't come earlier. But what kind of situation had she got into, what kind of company was she keeping at the Lagniappe?

"Listen sheba, who the hell took the note off you? It wasn't that mac you were with backstage, was it?" he said, sharply.

The guy who had looked like a big egg at the Lagniappe. Maybe he'd thought that she'd been letting members of the audience backstage... Maybe he'd been jealous. Ben remembered the look the dark-haired man had given him backstage at the club and thought it might be the latter. He'd been given looks like that before, but that had been at the New York Aquarium and originating from eyes situated beneath a large grey dorsal fin. Either way, he wasn't comfortable with the fact that the man must now know where he was staying.

"You're gonna have to give me more than this, Dorothy..."

Something at a subconscious level yearned for the protection and care that accented Ben's words, and Dorothy found herself nodding absently, and moving fractionally closer. She hadn't had anyone else to speak to about her problems after all, and so she rambled.

"Yeah, it was Michael, and -well he kissed me, and of course I pulled away. The next morning when I found the note he snatched it away from me and said..." Dorothy trailed off as she looked up at Ben's face. Why was she telling him this? Wasn't she trying to put distance between herself and Ben, thoughts of Ben, fellings for Ben, etc?

A sudden anger took to her tone and she put back up the walls that it had only taken Ben minutes to dissolve. Not an anger at Ben, per say, but an anger at herself for wanting to confide in him all of her problems, and for staring with longing into those ridiculous blue eyes. "His name is Michael Rivarde, and if I were you I'd find a new place to stay. I'm only telling you that for your own good, seeing as him having an eye for me and an address for you isn't a good combination. But no, actually, I don't have to give you anything. I didn't come here for your help. I didn't come here for you at all! You wanted me here, and I still don't know from nothin' why!"

Dorothy snatched her hand off of his arm, pointed one finger to prod him in the chest, and then there they were; right back at the very place they had left off in New York. Well, almost. In his apartment there had been a touch of tenderness after the heated utterances of frustration, but once again they stood face to face making expectations of one another without any authority to do so. Who was she, after all, to have any say on his well being after discarding him? And who was he to assume that she would give him answers or respond well to being chased after?

With a heavy sigh, Dorothy breathed out the last of her anger and drew her finger away to tuck a stray hair behind her ear. Without looking at him she asked, "Why did you come here, Ben? Was seeing me at the Lagniappe just a coincidental side show on a vacation of yours or somethin'? Because you don't owe me any favors, you know. Might as well let me untangle my own knots and go on your own merry way."




"I swear, that's exactly what was said 'tween us. I don't want to go over it again!" Cora pleaded in a tone that sounded very much like a whine. She stood at the foot of Otto's bed, and Anthony Rivarde occupied the chair near Otto's side. Tears looked to threaten brimming in her eyes.

In a cool manner that would have made his older brother proud, Anthony held up a hand and stood from his spot. He smoothed any creases that had been caused by his brief sitting, cleared his throat, and moved as though to place a comforting hand on Cora's slumped shoulder. Instead he drew it across her face, the crack of flesh on flesh filling the room. He cleared his throat once more, and returned slowly to his chair.

"I don't recall asking what you wanted or didn't want, mademoiselle." He said, trailing her shocked reaction as though he were observing passing clouds in a sunny sky. He looked for confirmation of this to Otto, who nodded his head, and then focused on Cora again. He knew that she was telling the truth. It was clear that her altercation with Helen had done some damage to the auburn haired dame, in more ways than one. She was angry, and though she wouldn't admit it, hurt. "It appears that our little singer has arrived at the conclusion that you and Otto are having relations and that you've betrayed her in every way by doing so."

Cora, with cheeks reddened from embarrassment and one more so from the recent slap, lifted her glistening eyes to meet Otto's and stared at him hard. But she didn't speak.

"You'll do nothing to correct her of this assumption. Nor will you, Otto." Anthony continued, and on a second thought added, "Though neither will you go out of your way to add to her illusion. Just leave things as they are, and let her provide the words and meaning. It works brilliantly for our situation, actually. Wouldn't you agree Otto? Helen has provided us an alibi. Now you can continue with us Cora."

Otto nodded, "You'll be helping us more in the future, Cora. Especially since I've come to need some recovery time. Now whenever we need your willing assistance, you can simply tell Helen that you are doing something with me. Nothing fancy; she'll assume the worst." Otto and Anthony had talked previously, and Anthony had previously talked with Michael. Even if he hadn't, the younger Rivarde brother was well aware of Michael's infatuation (if you could call it something so innocent) with Helen, and understood the angle he was taking in stoking coals between the girls. Otto, now understanding this, continued with a shrug, "If you find the time to talk to her, that is. Now that she's rooming with Michael she won't have much time before or after her shows to speak with you. And that's supposing that she wants to."

"Now go get dressed, Cora. We're going into the Lagniappe early. I've some business to take care of with my brother, and have a little stop to make along the way." He stared at the girl blandly before shouting, "Go!"

Cora rose, startled, and stormed from the room with a slam of the door behind her. Her insides felt like churning lava, and she didn't know who exactly was to blame.

Who was Michael Rivarde? And he'd tried to kiss her? She'd only been here a few days and already she'd attracted the attention of another man, and a man who sounded like a piker at that...? Ben tried to suppress his jealousy. After all, what right do you have over her, Goldberg, he told himself. You lost any right when she waltzed out of your apartment door what seemed like so long ago. What he didn't bother to suppress, however, was his instant dislike for a man who had snatched a note that was clearly intended for her and her only, right from Dorothy's fingertips.

He was about to tell her that it was OK, that it didn't matter now anyway, since some act of fate (though Ben was of the type that tended to believe more in coincidence than fate) had caused them to find each other without the note, when her tone changed from worry to anger. Ben stared at her for a moment, stung, then looked down at where her finger prodded him in the chest. She must know why he was here in New Orleans. What other reason would he be here but for her?

"Damn right I don't owe you any favours," he said coldly, but willing her to raise her green eyes to him. He felt a familiar sense of resignation creeping into his mind, one that he recognised from the last time she had come round to his apartment. The coincidence had occurred; they'd met once again and now she'd tell him she didn't want him once again and he'd go back to New York, leaving her behind in the hazy underworld of New Orleans.

"But why the hell do you think I came here? I heard you left New York and about-" He hesitated, not sure if he wanted to refer to Wallenstein or anything else that had happened back in the city. It seemed almost like another life. "So I came down here to find you. But I had no idea I'd find you so quickly..."

He frowned and it was his turn to look down at the grass beneath his feet.

"You told me that I didn't fight for you, right? Back in New York. Well that's why I'm here. I'm fighting for you." He shifted his pale gaze back towards her, the heat of the afternoon sun suddenly seeming ten times warmer, and crossed his arms over his chest so Dorothy would not notice that they were shaking.

Dorothy well remembered what she'd told him in New York, and what he'd told her. With a lifelike vividness she could replay the entire transaction with hardly an effort, including the portion Ben had just mentioned.

She had narrowed her eyes while she gazed passed him as he said that he'd heard of her leaving New York. Clyde. It could be none other, unless someone at the Gin Blossom had tipped him off. Whomever it was knew enough to give him a hope to believe that he had a fighting chance. That she hadn't chosen Charlie after all.

A snarky 'well, you're about two weeks too late' nearly slipped from her lips, and would have...if it were true. And Dorothy would have believed that it was true a day or so ago, but now?

Now Dorothy found herself deeply appreciating Ben's sacrifice in voicing his intentions. She'd come to learn that it was difficult enough for him to verbalize these sorts of things to begin with, let alone just after she'd shouted at him to leave her alone. Her eyes softened, and for the hundredth time that day Dorothy released a ragged sigh.

"You're fighting for me..." Again she parroted his words. How else could she respond?

Dorothy couldn't decipher her feelings enough to know if she was acting in compassion, out of need for a familiar face, or something deeper...something that had given her heart a throbbing ache every morning ever since she'd closed the door to his apartment. In any case, she slipped her hand into the crook of one of his folded arms (to be appropriate and in the case that anyone was watching, though she'd much rather have held his hand), and gestured away from the guest house, "Want to take a walk?"

It was her own stubborn way of accepting what he'd just said, and of agreeing that she did, indeed, owe him quite a lot more in terms of explanation.

"Oh! Oh, look, Franny, she's taken his arm after all. For a moment there, I thought she was goin' to storm off. I mean- I couldn't hear what they were sayin' at all properly but I could tell it wasn't sweet nothin's..." said Maggie, smiling and taking Francis' arm herself.

"I wonder what happened a'tween the two of them," said Francis curiously, shrugging away Maggie's hand and putting his arm around her waist instead. "Anyway, you know what I was askin' you about singing at the Lagniappe tonight..."

Maggie span around.

"I can't! What would- What would papa say if he found out, Francis? If he found out that you asked me..." she said, any hint of delight at the scene unfolding outside the window completely disappeared. All that was left was apprehension and even fear in her wide blue eyes. "He already hates it that I work for Mrs W."

Francis tried to grin but his normally wide, white-toothed smile faltered slightly.

"It's only for tonight, Mags. Just to get me out of a tight spot." A flash of inspiration hit him. "It's because of Helen. I mean Dorothy. Whoever; Ben's squeeze. She's taking the night off to make it up with Ben so we need someone to fill in. Please..."

Maggie frowned and looked down at her hands.


Outside, Ben blinked in mild disbelief. He'd been expecting for her to throw his words back in his face, make some sharp comment and stride right back inside the guest-house. But instead she'd taken his arm.

"Yeah," he said, numbly. Then the life came back into him, spreading outwards from the exact point at which Dorothy's hand was wrapped around his arm. "Yeah, sure."

They started to walk away from the tumble-down building behind them, into the sprawling garden that seemed to have grown gloriously wild in the last few years. Vines crept up trees that spread their canopies over the path that wound its way around their trunks and wild flowers could be glimpsed, jewel-like, amongst long grasses.

There was silence for a little while, a silence that was filled only by the whisper of leaves in the breeze, the melody of birdsong and the faint hum of voices and traffic from the street. Ben almost didn't want to break it and spoil it by conversation that would inevitably complicate what was a gorgeous moment. He watched light dappled on the pale skin of Dorothy's features then spoke.

"So, what happened, sheba?" he said, simply, willing to let her set the pace of her explanation.

A faint smile appeared on Dorothy's lips at Ben's use of the once common phrase, now sentimental nickname; sheba. She was glad that he'd taken her advice to continue using the term of endearment. But while it gave her a small amount of joy, it also caused an unusual pinch underneath her ribs. She hadn't expected to ever hear that term from Ben again, let alone so soon.

For a moment Dorothy wondered at how to respond to Ben's question. Was he wondering what had happened to make her change her mind and take his arm, what had happened with the letter, what had happened since she'd been in New Orleans, or what had caused her to leave New York in the first place? To a degree, he might have been asking about all of those, but Dorothy was pretty sure she knew which he cared to know about most.

The deep breath of air that Dorothy drew in through pursed lips was the only sound for a moment, and then she spoke, "Well, I suppose I didn't care much for being in a city that reminded me of so much...there was Wayne, Charlie, you...and every street corner had a streetlight." Dorothy was referring, of course, to one of their kisses. It was for memories like that, which splashed themselves across her mind at every turn, that she felt haunted by guilt and pain in the Big Apple. "So I made some quick correspondence, quit my gig and the Blossom, grabbed a friend to make the journey with, and here I am. I tried to make it out without anyone knowing where I was headed, but you're evidence of how successful I was."

She was giving him the abridged version, of course. One that would hopefully answer most of his questions without a novel of a response. Then again, he was a writer. Maybe a novel is what he needed.



Cora shook like a leaf on leather in the backseat of the dark windowed car. Anthony, since Otto couldn't trust the functioning of both legs in the case of an emergency, was dressed as the driver and maneuvered the vehicle around the bustling streets of New Orleans. The car had no plates, nor any other distinguishing characteristics. Everything appeared perfectly ordinary, including the casual stop at a patisserie where Cora was instructed to purchase something for herself. She was obedient, despite her lack of appetite.

It was all about appearance, Otto was saying. He remained in the backseat whilst she ran these faux errands, slouched down so as not to be seen. To all passersby it would appear that a wealthy young woman was being driven around town on a leisurely day. But as Otto was explaining the importance of a facade, all Cora could hear was the thudding of her heart in her ears.

Her task was simple; exit the car once they turned down the designated street, approach the man in the yard, and play the helpless young thing from out of state who seemed to have gotten herself lost. Her New York accent and bizarre sense of style should lend themselves perfectly, Anthony had said. It would be simple. Sure, simple for someone who was actually asking for directions. Not simple for someone who knew that the man she was batting her lashes at was about to have his heart pierced by a bullet.

Before she even realized, she found herself frowning in mock confusion at a man who was gesturing in the direction of the city. She found herself biting her lip while twirling a strand of hair, and asking if he wouldn't mind telling her driver, she being such a silly girl with a terrible memory. Then she was leading him to where her driver had just turned around, conveniently shaded by a large willow tree, where she was snatched into the back seat with Otto's hand clamped firmly over her mouth. Which was absolutely necessary, else she'd be screaming as she saw the deep hole in his chest and the accompanying explosion that left him without much of a face.

How could Anthony drive so smoothly away after what he'd just done, as Cora heaved into the paper bag containing what was meant to be her breakfast? But he did, slowly, casually, expertly. An entirely different route was taken back to the Lagniappe, and once there Anthony pulled the pale faced Cora out with him.

"Clean her up." He ordered, and for a moment Cora thought he was talking about her. But then Otto removed himself from the back of the vehicle, and replaced Anthony behind the wheel, and drove off. Anthony looked down at Cora with a grin that caused her to shiver, "Well done. It looks like Helen may have some competition after all. Come. Michael is waiting."

Ben guessed that Dorothy might not have expected him to get such a vague reference, but for some reason he knew exactly which streetlight she was referring to. He longed to ask her more; why had she left the city without coming to see him? Had it been because of her previous promise that she would never see him as 'cheap'? Because, right now, with something tugging painfully whenever he looked at her, he could be as cheap as she wanted him to be. Or was it because she simply hadn't wanted him anyway? Perhaps ditching Wallenstein had nothing to do with him after all.

But he sensed that those questions would come later. He decided to deal with the immediate present.

"So where's your friend?" he said, as they walked deeper into the sprawling gardens. Over the delicate scent of honey-blossom and the rich lushness of the vegetation, he could smell her perfume. "Why have you come here to stay?"

They came to the ivy-wound fencing that demarcated the border between the gardens of the guest-house and the house behind. The path petered out and Ben came to a halt. He turned to her, taking her hand from the crook of his arm and holding it in his own.


Back at the guest-house, Maggie looked up at Francis.

"Alright," she said, breathing in. "I'll tell him I'm stayin' over here to do an early shift tomorrow."

Francis grinned, wider this time and picked her up, spinning her around. Her frown was replaced by laughing outrage.

"Franny! I've already tol' you to stop doin' that! Stop it, stop it, stop it!" she squealed, grabbing the cloth from the counter behind them and wringing it down his neck.

"Christ, Mags, that's freezin'!" said Francis, putting her down and trying to look angry. He failed, of course; his relief at her acceptance was still evident on his open features. "Come'on, let's get going. It'll be opening in a couple of hours..."

Dorothy had to fight several instinctive reactions when Ben took her hand. One was to grab his other hand into her own and give in whole heartedly to his penetrating gaze, one was to exchange the grasp for an embrace, and another still was to pull away altogether. Instead, she glanced down at their linked hands for a long moment before entwining her fingers with his. She nearly sighed at the comfort that such a simple gesture gave her.

She wondered if Ben meant New Orleans, or Mrs guest house and chose to respond to the later, still gazing at their hands, "I was going to stay with mister Rivarde until the incident happened this morning. I was staying with him because of my friend."

Dorothy couldn't help but frown at the thought of the choices Cora had made. She shook her head, "Do you remember Cora? She wasn't at the Gin Blossom for very long but she was a cigarette girl there. She came with me after ditching her bum of a boyfriend, and we moved in with my cousin. Otto is considered rather unsavory by my family. But he seems alright."

With a frustrated sigh Dorothy pulled her hand out of Ben's, and paced slightly as she continued, "Evidently he and Cora have become rather taken with one another, and last night they..."Dorothy still found it difficult to believe, "...well, they needed the house to themselves is putting it politely. Left without letting me know. I didn't have a way back or a place to go, so Michael offered. You know how that went, and so now I guess I just wanted a place to get away from everything and sort out my thoughts alone. I took the night off."

Dorothy slowed her pacing and stopped again, placing both hands on her hips as she regarded Ben once more. Her green gaze traced all of the features that had already been burned to memory, and reflected on the fact that she wasn't sorting through her thoughts solo. Ben was trying to help. Despite what she previously believed that she needed -solace, quiet, solitude- Dorothy was glad to have the help.

"Ben, I-"Dorothy mulled over her word choice, "If nothing else, I'm glad you're here."

Ben wholeheartedly agreed with Dorothy's assessment of Cora's boyfriend and he nodded as she spoke. He watched as she let go of his hand and walked up and down distractedly as she recounted the events of the previous night. He frowned at the thought of her cousin and her friend abandoning her to the shark-like man who thought it fit to snatch a private note straight out of her fingertips. She'd only been in New Orleans less than a week and already she was in deep.

He snapped out of his reverie and looked back up at her as she stopped pacing. She was looking at him. He'd almost forgotten how green her eyes were.

He smiled a crooked smile at her 'if nothing else'. "Yeah, me too, sheba," he said and there was another moment of silence in which the unasked questions weighed heavy on him. Then he looked back towards the guest-house.

"Come on, let's go and ask Mrs W if there's a room for you," he said. The thought of Dorothy here, even if it was just for tonight seemed to be a gloriously uncomplicated island in a sea of tangled lives and even more tangled emotions. He wouldn't push her for anything else and ignorance would be bliss until tomorrow morning when, it seemed, he'd have to find another place to stay. As much as it irked him to have to hide from this Michael Rivarde, he didn't want to give the other man any information about him until Ben could find out more about exactly who he was.


Back at the guest-house, a man, dressed smartly but unassumingly, knocked on the front door. It opened and Mrs Winston appeared. Once Ben and his girl Friday had walked off into the depths of the over-grown garden (Albert would be doing something about that soon, she reminded herself sternly), she set about shelling the shrimps for the gumbo tonight. It had been to her surprise that someone had come knocking. Even in the summer months when the tourists were in town and around Mardi Gras, the tumble-down guest-house was rarely full. But if Ben's girl decided to stay, there would only be one more room left.

"Evenin'," said the man. He was a short, slim-built man in his late thirties with unmemorable features and shrewd, dark eyes. He wore a smart but slightly old-fashioned suit and carried a leather suitcase "I was told you have vacancies?"

"Indeed we do, darlin' and you've been lucky enough to get the last one. Come on in and I'll show you up to your room. How long you wantin' to stay?" said Mrs Winston, bustling along the narrow hallway and beckoning him upstairs.

"Just a week," he said, with a small, self-assured smile. "I'm here for business."

"Uh-hmm," said Mrs Winston amicably, pushing open a door at the back of the house upstairs, on the other side of the writer's room from Francis. "Is that so?"

It was strange, she thought, as she showed him around then left him to unpack, the proper turn of phrase would have been 'I'm in town for business'. After all, he'd hardly come to her guest-house for his job, had he?

It had been with much apprehension that Cora had followed Anthony into the Lagniappe. Surely everyone there would notice the pale of her face, the every so often tremble in her lips, and the mindless wringing of her hands. But to not follow would earn her some form of punishment, much like the slap she'd received in Otto's room.
Anthony was gracious enough to allow her some personal space to get ready for the evening, even if it was in Dorothy's dressing room. Though she wouldn't admit it, being where she was reminded of her friend helped to lighten her distress. Cora took her time, knowing that the Rivarde brothers would be occupied with one another for awhile. For the first time since she'd laid eyes on him, Cora allowed herself a sliver a doubt regarding her interest in Michael.

When she did finally exit, after a good amount of time had passed, it was with more confidence. And a note, one that she had found folded upon the vanity. With it in hand, she strode towards Michael's office.



Dorothy was a bit leery to stay, but tried to convince herself that Michael wouldn't be looking for her so soon. Maybe he'd just been acting out of embarassed anger, and wouldn't look for her at all. She offered Ben a simple 'OK' and they sauntered back towards the door from which she had earlier emerged. There remained less tension in her posture as she walked in slow, deep silence next to him.

There was no sign of Francis or the bubbly girl whose attention he'd easily gained. In fact, as they continued to look for Mrs Winston, there wasn't much sign of anyone. A quiet, unassuming day that would continue into a night of a similar nature. Dorothy believed a bit more strongly that everything would be alright.

"Are you sure that she's around?" Dorothy asked, retrieving her items from the floor that she had packed in haste earlier that morning. "If not, I don't suppose I can count on you to help me bide the time while I wait?"

Dorothy made a meager attempt at humor, feeling as though she and Ben had come to some form of leveled grounds, even if there was much more to discuss.

Michael was sat, as calm as ever, behind the desk in his office conversing shortly with his brother. And, as ever, he was dressed to the nines in a smartly cut and quietly expensive dark suit. He had spent the day conducting business, particularly business involving dispatching a trusted associate to the address of 'B'. The trusted associate in question was a Mr Shaw.

Mr Shaw always insisted on calling himself, and having others call him 'Mr', never by his first name of Ezra. Michael was willing to over look this pretentious indulgence simply because he was so very good at what he did. Mr Shaw worked undercover. He could blend into almost any situation, any class or social circle, with absolute ease and unassuming confidence. He was a chameleon and Michael had seen those bland, uninteresting features take on the guise of anything from a dope runner to a wealthy aristocrat. He was extremely useful, not only for this reason but also because he would do anything for the right amount of money. Mr Shaw had the stomach to do things most others would not.

So, with a small (relatively-speaking) but not insubstantial dent in his bank account, Michael rested assured that by this time tomorrow he would at least know 'B''s name and whereabouts. It gave him a cool satisfaction that Helen's secrets were slowly being unravelled.

---

"Well, I have learnt to juggle since the last time I saw you..." joked Ben, happy to follow her lead and engage in the easy banter that came so naturally to him. The difficult conversations would undoubtedly come later. "But I'm sure I saw Mrs W around here somewhere..."

He frowned, venturing into the hallway and almost walked straight into the ample form of Mrs Winston as she descended the narrow stairs.

"Watch yourself darlin'!" she exclaimed, holding onto his shoulders to steady herself and adjusting her apron. "Were you a'looking for me?" she asked, smiling at Dorothy. Of course, she had been just as excited as little Maggie was at seeing Ben's girl Friday arrive (after all, what woman didn't love romance) but she did not wish to embarrass the young writer, who already looked tense enough, and made no reference to the new arrival until Ben prompted her.

"Sorry- What? Oh, yeah, this is-" Here, Ben paused for a brief instant. "Helen. Do you have a room free? She's looking for a place to catch forty tonight."

Hadn't he said she was called Dorothy? Mrs Winston decided not to ask any questions.

"A room? Sure I have. My last one in fact; I gave the other one away just now... Come on sweetheart, let me show you upstairs," she said, to Dorothy, touching her arm and leading the way up the rickety flight of stairs. At the other end of the house from Ben's room, she led the pair into a small but cosy room that overlooked the garden at the back. A narrow single bed framed in ornate white-painted metalwork stood in one corner and a sturdy blue and white wash stand stood in the other. Beside the bed, a battered antique cupboard almost reached the ceiling. The dying light shining through the leaves of the willow just outside the window bathed the place in a strange but lovely green light.

"Breakfast's at eight-thirty and the room will be two dollars-fifty for the night, but I'm sure Ben can tell you all that," said Mrs Winston, going over to the door to let herself out.

Just before the door clicked shut, Ben could have sworn that she winked at him. He stared at the back of the door for a brief moment and then turned to Dorothy.

"I'll ask about finding somewhere else to stay tomorrow morning," he said, now unsure of whether he should leave her alone to go to bed (even though it was barely nine o'clock) or whether he should stay and talk. He longed for the latter after so long without seeing her.