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Ben avoided meeting Marty's eyes as he shut the door after them and only glanced at Jo once, with a look that conveyed sudden weariness. He left them with a obviously distracted nod of goodbye before he turned around to face Dorothy with an odd mixture of dread and anticipation. So she'd come to pacify her guilt, confess to him that she was walking out with Wallenstein, then leave. Despite this bitter realisation, to have her here and to talk to her sparked a small, brief joy within him. That, and deep down a tiny ember of hope burned (she wasn't with Wallenstein, actually Missy had been mistaken, it was him that she wanted).

She looked just as he remembered, of course; for it had not been so very long since he'd seen her last. Dark bob, in contrast to pale, perfect skin. Eyes the colour of absinthe or maybe the light through the leaves in Central Park. Though she was the one who had come to visit, he felt out of place in his own apartment; barefooted, five o'clock shadow accentuating the angles of his face, shirt untucked.

Crossing his arms, Ben stood awkwardly by the door and resisted the urge to light another cigarette. The last time she'd been here the sun had been streaming in at the window but now it rained. Drops pattered against the thin panes of glass at his window and the faint sounds of cars splashing through puddles filtered up from the street below.

"Hey, sheba," he said and there was an unsummoned undercurrent of coldness in his tone. He prepared to blot out the ember. "How're ya doing?"

Dorothy had been wrong. Dead wrong. Earlier that day she had strongly felt that seeing Missy was far worse than seeing Ben himself. After all, he'd filled her with bitterness and pain the last time they'd been together and those icy feelings didn't sit well whereas Missy hadn't done a thing wrong. Upon seeing Ben's face, that ice quickly melted into a pool of uncertainty and guilt that also failed to sit well. She had been wrong indeed.

His use of the term 'sheba' stung. Just a common place nickname, right? Dorothy's eyes instantly flew to his as he coldly ushered the term that she'd only days ago swooned over, searching for malice, anger, or pain. She wasn't sure what she saw in his pale eyes.

"How kind of you to ask, Ben. I'm well, how are you?" Dorothy let the question hang heavily in the air. Her green gaze held his firmly, and she wondered how this meeting would end. How would it even begin? What was it that she wished to accomplish anyway? She was starting to regret making to venture in the first place. Instead she stepped a bit farther into the apartment, letting her eyes trail over a more well developed mess than the last time she'd visited. She couldn't help but eye the disheveled bed that Josephine Levard had been draped on, and frowned at the tinge of jealously that flared when she did so. "We had another meeting with the Italian thugs who threatened George before. Well, only one came to the stand today. It was still just as unnerving, what with him leering at myself and Maddie."

Idle banter? Small talk? Dorothy wasn't sure why she was beating around bushes, but she honestly didn't know how to set about a discussion that would hopefully bring her the closure she sought after. She purposefully avoided the next sentence that would follow in sequence: But fortunately Charlie was there to back Clyde up.

Dorothy peeled her attention away from the bed and back to regarding Ben - as painful as it was, "I didn't mean to interrupt anything here. Jo and Marty didn't have to leave on my account. Is it a bad time?" She half hoped he'd say yes and toss her out the door. Maybe then she could say she'd given it an honest effort and tried to resolve things.

Ben didn't bother to answer her sarcasm-laced enquiry as to his well-being; that obviously wasn't what she was here for. He watched her look around at the mess of papers, ashtrays, books and coffee cups that surrounded her and frown. He'd never before felt apologetic or ashamed for his... haphazard way of life but both of these emotions were creeping up on him now. He'd be willing to bet that Wallenstein's place didn't look like this. He'd bet he didn't smoke too much or drink too much overly-expensive coffee or walk in his socks through a busy New York street to coax a few words out of a gangster for a story that might never run. He'd bet he was out there right now, spreading truth, justice and apple-pie or whatever bushwa the fuzz were pushing these days.

As she apologised for intruding on Marty and Jo's visit, he shrugged and shook his head, feeling the resentment begin to trickle away. Was there ever a good time to be told he'd been dumped by the only dame who, well, who'd cared about this much, for a tall, irritatingly good-looking cop with a past straight out of a pulp novel and the kind of righteous naivety Ben didn't think he'd ever possessed?

He frowned as she hestitantly made small-talk about one of George's bimbo 'friends' and could not help but feel a twinge of concern. The debt collectors for the Italians (or any of New York's numerous gangs) were a bunch of vicious bastards. Ben had worked on many a story starting with an innocent loan or gambling debt and ending with a Harlem sunset down a backalley and a terrified widow left with nothing.

"Maybe you should call the fuzz, sheba," he said, pointedly, making it clear he knew about her and Wallenstein. He met her eyes. Something tugged unbearably underneath his ribs and he was struck with the sudden urge to first demand to know what had made her choose Wallenstein over him, then to kiss her. Perhaps just the last one. He probably didn't need to know the answer to the first.

Ben's pointed comment was well taken.

"Maybe I should call the fuzz, Ben. A novel idea." Dorothy couldn't help but let herself chuckle a bit at Ben's joke. Her short chuckle quickly turned into stomach pinching laughter, which surely made her look slightly off her rocker. When it eased up a bright smile lit her face, though the corners of her eyes still showed the underlying pain this moment brought her.

"We never have had trouble with sarcasm, did we?" In fact, joking and playful banter characterized much of their relationship. In fact, it hardly seemed that they could ever be very serious. The one time she'd tried to ask about the direction their relationship was going, she'd received a kiss. Well, kisses and humor only got you so far. "Perhaps that was part of the problem."

Dorothy's thoughts now quickly spun to the recent discord they'd experienced in The Gin Blossom. At that point, Charlie was just beginning to be a possibility on her horizon with his sweet nature, willingness to help her at any juncture, and boyish charm. It was only that night that Charlie had first hinted at having an interest in her. And when Dorothy had tried to approach Ben..."Or were you under the impression that there were no problems? With us, I mean." She paused, her smile fading away. "Anyway, I saw Missy today on her bike. That's why I'm here."

Being here, so near the man she'd first held interest for and had fully intended on pursuing that interest, made her decision favoring Charlie seem less stable. Less founded. She'd somehow quickly forgotten how fun and funny Ben could be. Sure, Charlie was funny too. He tipped over boats and ate ants, after all! But Ben wasn't even close to the 'bad 'guy' she'd chosen to imagine after that last night near the stairs of the Gin Blossom.

At first, Ben stared at Dorothy as if she had gone off her rocker.

But her laughter was infectious and a grin caught at the corners of his mouth, even if there remained a bitterness in the lines about his eyes. Sure, it had been a joke, but it was on him.

Had it been a problem? The thing was, Ben didn't have anything to compare it to. His previous relationships had been brief and rarely 'serious'. To him, to be deadly serious was to sap the vitality out of anything. He was used to playful flirtation, to casualness. But he was beginning to realise that this was not the case for Dorothy. She had been married before (he'd found this out from an interested Missy a week or so back). She would be used to stability. She might have been married for years. Ben had never been out with a doll for longer than a few months and he felt wrong-footed when confronted with the need to talk about something like this.

But, damn it, he could have adjusted. Just like Dorothy, through her persona of Birdie, was adjusting. She just hadn't given him the chance before Wallenstein had turned up and offered, presumably, what she wanted.

"Maybe," he said, awkwardly ruffling his fingers through the hair on the back of his head. "But you conjured a few more out of thin air before we could do anything about them."

Impulsively, he moved away from the door, towards her. But, hastily checking himself, went into the cluttered kitchen instead. There he began to rinse a couple of the coffee mugs from before and turned the stove on.

"So," he said, far more lightly that he felt. "You wouldn't have come here if Missy hadn't seen you, huh, sheba? You want some coffee, by the way?"

He didn't really want some more java but this gave him something to do, short of lighting up another gasper.

Or making a move on another mac's dame.

For a moment after Ben's response, Dorothy had felt that he was going to move towards her. Her thin frame straightened a little with rigidity, and she tried to prepare herself for being even closer in proximity than they already were. Apparently she had misjudged, as Ben clearly was only moving into the kitchen. He set about preparing a pot of joe.

"So you're going to move right in for the guilt trip, huh?" Dorothy countered, answering his last question with an inquiry of her own. Why was she being so defensive? With a sigh she shook her head, "It wasn't just Missy that made me come. I wanted to...have been wanting to. It might have taken a few days more if she hadn't rode by as I was trying so hard to stay angry at you."

But now she wasn't angry with him. At least, not angry with him in the same way or over the same things as she had been when she'd started out for his apartment. When it came to arguments, such as the one they'd heatedly shared in the stairwell, Dorothy forgave and recovered quickly. It had been like pulling teeth, trying to hold a grudge for the past days since she'd seen him. Now the anger was replaced with a wariness that Dorothy wasn't sure how to recover from.

"You don't have to make coffee, Ben. Playing host isn't really your thing, I've gathered."

"I might not be able to make a four course meal but I can manage a cup of joe. Just about," Ben said, his back to her as he set the pot onto the hot stove. He ignored her comment about the guilt trip, which certainly had an element of truth.

The rich smell of coffee rose into the air to fill the cramped apartment and he stared at the green tiles on the wall in front of him before he forced himself to turn around.

She was still standing there, tension shot through her slender limbs, and he could feel a similar tension in his own muscles as he leaned back against the counter next to the coffee pot that was beginning to funnel steam. He wasn't sure he bought that she'd been wanting to come here. What had she come here to do, anyway? Tell him she was with Wallenstein? Because it was obvious that he already knew. Did really she think that by telling him herself it would soften the blow rather than make it ten times worse?

Don't kid yourself, Goldberg, he told himself, deep down. You'd rather have another chance to see her, even if she is going to rub salt in the wound, than not see her at all.

"I still don't get-" he began, about to launch into a rehash of the argument down in the Gin Blossom. How that had managed to come about in the first place was still hazy in his mind. But what did it matter now whether she thought he had kissed Jo? She was with Wallenstein.

"Actually, forget it. Why are you here, Dorothy?" he said, finally. Any humour in his tone, bitter or not, had evaporated and he merely sounded tired.

Aromatics of quality coffee soon filled the kitchen and Dorothy realized that perhaps, a good cup of brew was just what she needed on such dreary day. Plus, a mug in hand often gave the one the advantage of biding time while taking a long sip of hot liquid.

Unfortunately, a mug didn't make it into her palms before Ben could stab right at the heart of her visit. Gone were the niceties, evaporated was the sarcasm; now his voice seemed to plead simply for answers. His 'why are you here' came across more as 'let's just get this over with.' Ben's stature matched this attitude as he looked tired and ready to give up. Though what there was to give up Dorothy wasn't sure.

"So eager to have me leave then, hm? You can finish your question you know. What is it that you still don't get?" She raised an eyebrow at Ben, wondering what he was wondering. If his thoughts mirrored her own at all, he was still trying to sort out all the confusions of their previous altercation. Though he didn't sound willing to take the time to work through. "It's exactly for questions like that one that I came here in the first place. Regardless of what you heard from Missy about a certain detective, I do care about you. I do care to not have discord and animosity hanging between us."

Dorothy hoped she wasn't coming across as implying anything in the wrong direction. By saying she cared for Ben she wasn't denying her relationship with Charlie and insinuating that what he'd heard from Missy was wrong. She was simply saying that regardless of the presence or absence of romance in their relationship, he meant something to her and she wasn't comfortable leaving things on a bad note.

"Eager for you to leave?" Ben shook his head incredulously then turned back round to pour the coffee from the pot into two waiting mugs. Steam rose from them as they filled with dark liquid. "Bushwa, sheba, I don't want you to-" He frowned and put down the pot with a clunk onto the countertop. If there had been a motivation to wanting to get to the crux of things, it was not because he wanted her to leave. It was because he wanted to say whatever it was she had to say about her and Wallenstein as soon as possible so he could get it over and done with. Like ripping a sticking plaster off in one tug rather than drawing it out by skirting around the subject.

"Look," he said, as his stomach clenched uncomfortably at 'I do care about you'. Just not enough, huh, sheba? was on the tip of his tongue but he bit it back. "What I don't get is what happened in the first place. It's not like I went to the Gin Blossom for the quality of the gigglewater. I went to see you. But then you brush me off and accuse me of necking with Levard before, I guess, throwing yourself into Wallenstein's arms."

He took his mug, leaving Dorothy to take hers from the kitchen counter, then went to sit on the edge of his desk, dislodging a few papers that drifted down to the floor.

"So, do you want me to say that it's fine, sheba? 'Cause I can, if it will make you feel better about yourself." That was too far, Ben knew as soon as the words had left his mouth, but he was angry that she had apparently only come here out of a combination of pity and to tie up guilty loose ends.

Dorothy tried to listen with a measured expression; one that allowed him to speak his thoughts in what must certainly be uncomfortable circumstances. It didn't appear as though Ben was awfully good at expressing such things in the first place, let alone in front of the girl he'd lost to another guy. So as he vented in frustrations from that infamous evening at the Gin Blossom she tried to remain empathetic. Tried.

His last comment, starting with the throwing of her person into Charlie's arms and ending with what might as well have been a slap across the face, broke her otherwise successful cool. His words hurt; trapping her between a desire to dash out of his apartment, throw the scalding coffee at him and shout, or cry. She should have known that trying to work things out with Ben wouldn't carry easily.

Dorothy slowly pulled her hand back from the mug she was about to grab, feeling nothing like the sort of company that could comfortably accept coffee from her host. She tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear, pursed her lips, and met Ben with a square gaze.

"I'd prefer that you call me Dorothy." She said slowly. Coldly. Sarcasm oozed around her next sentences,"And yes, Ben. You must have such fast spinning gears in that head of yours. I was coming over simply for absolution so if you cold just quickly give it to me, I'll be on my way back into my lovers arms."

Just as quickly as she'd shifted from cold to sarcastic, her tone now rose in pitch with anger as well as volume, "Do you really have to be such a child? This is precisely why we never got anywhere, Ben! My effort goes to waste with your untimely two-bit jokes and denial. You close yourself off and refuse to commit. Well then fine, but don't say that I haven't tried. I've tried all along only to have you storm away from me in the market, and then dash away from me in the stairwell. If this weren't your apartment, I'm sure you'd be running away again. I am always chasing after you in order to resolve conflict. It is you who should be pursuing me. Charlie doesn't run. He fights for me, Ben. Fights!"

Dorothy was now trembling, the last sentence followed by an aggravated cry.

"I'd prefer that you call me Dorothy."

Ben felt like George had just given him another right hook. With one sentence she'd deftly knocked down and stamped on what had started out as a term of flirtation but had quickly turned into one of affection. He too left his coffee where it sat and stood up suddenly out of hurt and anger. The desk wobbled, sending coffee spilling onto his papers but he didn't seem to notice.

Truth rang in her words. Yeah, he probably had been too quick to turn and walk on some occasions (even if on others, he'd had half the Irish mob chasing him). But what about her? She was no angel, no matter how high the pedastal that Wallenstein had put her on was. And he didn't mind; she was still her. This was New York City, not a fairytale.

"So it should always be me running after you? Even when you veer from one persona to the next, swapping between macs each time? Or am I being childish to think that it's not all my fault?" he said, also raising his voice. He took a step towards her, closing the distance between them. There was an unusual anger in Ben's normally good-natured pale blue eyes.

"You didn't give me a chance to fight, Dorothy! What do you want me to do? You want me to tell you I'd happily cool Wallenstein if I got the chance? Because I'm pretty sure all that would do earn me a pair of bracelets and six months in the clubhouse. You want me to tell you I've been going crazy sitting at that stupid typewriter since the night at the Gin Blossom? Because this crap is testament to that," he said, furiously grabbing a pile of papers and dropping them back on the bed.

"You want me to tell you you're the best thing that's happened to me since I first picked up a damn pen? Because it looks like it's too late for that; you- you've made your decision..." Ben trailed off, surprise at his outburst shaking a wearing down a little of his anger. He looked away.


Dorothy listened to Ben rant, his own tone and demeanor raising to match her own fury. She detested fighting and avoided conflict if possible, but at least they were getting somewhere. The flash in his blue eyes as he stomped towards her at least showed that he gave a care. He lifted a handful of papers, tossing them behind him with a frustrated comment or two about his inability to compose anything decent. She frowned, unsure of what his poor writing had to do with her. Was he blaming Dorothy for this too?

While Ben looked away, his anger giving away slightly to wariness again, Dorothy milled over all that he'd just shouted. He'd made a few more ridiculously sarcastic comments, such as getting sent to jail for accosting Charlie, but she tried to sort through these for the actual accusations and tried to address them one by one. Did she want him to always run after her?

"No, Ben! It's not that you should always be running after me. God, you're dramatic! It's that you were never running after me. I tried to ask you what we were and you did a great job of giving me a heart stopping kiss. But for a man that makes a living out of spinning words, you sure didn't have many for me. "

Was it all his fault? Was she playing two fields, pretending back and forth between Dorothy and Birdie just for her gain? Stringing men along and dumping them when she'd had her fill? Absolutely not. Dorothy was certain that she'd never anticipated Charlie becoming an interest, and had only agreed to date him after seeing Ben kiss Jo...which apparently she had only imagined happening. Then again, she did enjoy being Birdie by night. It gave her a freedom away from the sweet, composed, Dorothy by day. She took a deep breath, not liking where her thoughts were heading.

"I have a part in this too, Ben. I'm not placing all the blame on you. But I'm saying I tried. I tried to approach you in the Gin Blossom even after I'd seen you kiss Jo...er- well, after I thought I saw you kiss Jo. But I got the cold shoulder... and if I'd known..."

And if she'd known the kiss hadn't happened? If she hadn't argued with Ben right before going to dinner with Charlie, what would have happened? Did this all mean that she'd chosen Charlie out of anger for Ben? No, it wasn't that extreme. Her feelings for the detective were real. But maybe she hadn't given Ben enough of a chance. After all, it was while living the Birdie-life that she loved that she had met Ben in the first place. Singing at a speakeasy wasn't exactly copacetic with dating a cop.

"Ben..." Dorothy too trailed off, not knowing where to go now in their conversation. She didn't want to hear that she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Wouldn't believe it, as they hardly knew each other. "You think by phrasing questions, that you're not telling me? Apparently you're still holding hope that it's not too late." She rubbed a hand across her face, and stepped away. His closeness was more than she could handle and it felt too close to be appropriate.

Ben continued looking at a point somewhere a foot to the left of Dorothy's shoulder. She was wrong. Words were cheap. He knew that well enough; he'd written millions of them. Mountains of sweet-nothings, every cliche in the damn book, endless reams of saccharine dialogue; it was all worth jack in the end. If there wasn't a spark, some indefinable mutal equality of thought and feeling then what the hell did it matter? You were just kidding yourself. Sure, some people were fine with that, some people kidded themselves for years. But Ben had felt his way through the relationship, if you could call it that, with Dorothy with the easy assumption that she would be doing the same, rather than needing some kind of confirmation from him that this wasn't just a fling that would start and finish in some speakeasy.

Maybe Ben wasn't good enough with words. At the time he had thought that a kiss, an introduction to what was left of his family would communicate to Dorothy what she meant to him and thought no more about it. Apparently, he had been wrong.

Maybe he'd feel the same way if he'd lost a spouse so young.

She stepped away and he felt the distance between them gape wide again. Managing to meet her eyes, he too stepped back and leant uneasily against the edge of his desk. Now that the anger had almost evaporated, he was beginning to feel like a first prize pill.

"Is it?"

He was almost certain he knew what the answer would be. The ember was dying a quiet death.

Dorothy returned his disheartened stare, letting several long seconds pass by. Dorothy knew the answer to this question, knew what he was asking. The answer flashed into her head instantly, because in the time that Ben had been contemplating the usefulness of words, Dorothy had been remembering where she was at exactly the same time one evening before: Daisy Wallenstein's house.

It wasn't the warm and inviting dinner Mrs. Wallenstein had prepared. It wasn't the jokes she'd volleyed with Charlie's sisters about the danger prone detective. Nor was it the sweet kisses or the hints of his love for her that caused her to make her decision. It was the quickly whispered words that Dorothy had confided in Charlie's father, and all that had provoked her to utter those secret words. Regardless of family, friends, or other factors...Dorothy knew Charlie meant more to her than she knew how to express. This realization scared her near to death; caring about someone that much...well, it just wasn't easy. Dorothy had already gone down that road; fell in love, got married, moved to the city...and lost it all. She wasn't sure she was willing to put herself through even the memory of those emotions again. But regardless of her fears and what would or would not happen with the detective, the answer to Ben's question was glaringly and painfully obvious.

"Is it too late, you mean? Yes." Her answer came quietly. If it would have been even the slightest bit appropriate, she would have hugged him. Worry filled her features, but she remained where she was. "I know you believe that I switch masks and men, but I hope you see that isn't true. I invited both you and Charlie into my night and day. Birdie and Dorothy aren't separate entities; they sing the same songs. It's you and I, Ben, that were on different stanzas."

Dorothy finally looked away. When she spoke again, she tried to keep her voice from cracking. She tried to will the tears from building with a painful pressure in the corners of her eyes. Despite her choice, Ben remained significant and her words were piercing her own heart, "I'm sorry...if I've hurt you, I mean. I never meant for, well, any of this but I especially didn't mean to hurt you."

Ben heard the word he was expecting to hear and, even though he'd been anticipating it, the blow was not softened. It was as if as someone had grabbed him at a point somewhere underneath his ribs and twisted. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at his bare feet against the bare floorboards.

As much as he felt like launching into a tirade into why Wallenstein was no good for her, that if she and Ben were on different 'stanzas', as she had so painfully put it, then her and Wallenstein were playing in different joints, he knew that it wouldn't help. He also knew that, even if the sight of Missy had been the nudge she'd needed towards doing it, her intentions for coming over here were good. Ben didn't like the idea of leaving things untied and resentful any more than she did but, at the same time, he didn't know if he could be around her purely as a friend whilst pretending everything was fine.

He had been wrong about her, probably still was. But she had been wrong about him too. And now they wouldn't get the chance to right those wrongs.

"Yeah, I know you didn't," he said, his own voice cracking as he moved his gaze from a knot in the wood of the floorboards to her eyes which were bright with unshed tears. "It's OK, Dorothy." He desperately wanted to embrace her but forced every muscle to remain still. There was silence for a few moments.

"But hey, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me. If I'm not wearing a Chicago overcoat courtesy of the Muirenns by then, that is," he added, not wanting her to leave when she was like this. He forced a smile and willed another to appear in those green eyes of hers.

Ben's smile did nothing to lighten her countenance, but rather made Dorothy wince with a fresh flood of pain. He was trying so hard to make this easy, now. She could see the strain and sacrifice his every muscle was making, the weight that he was fighting against to keep the corners of his mouth up. A part of her wished he'd thrown her out of his apartment in a tirade of fury and slew of curses; it would have been easier and perhaps a bit earned.

"The Muirenns..." Dorothy parroted his words back to him, still staring at a knot in the wood floor. Fiona Muirenn was another element of her life she'd have to cut out with Charlie at her side. Not that she and Fiona were on close terms, but Dorothy (or Birdie, rather) had been introduced to Fiona's close friend Jack and had even been harkened by Fiona for a private discussion. Certain events, such as a raging bar fight, kept that meeting from happening. But Dorothy wouldn't fixate on this now.

"No, Ben, it really isn't OK. Neither of us will walk away from this feeling OK about things, despite all the good intentions in the world. You're sweet to try that line, though. And if I ever changed my mind, well-" Dorothy shook her head, finally lifting her pained eyes to meet Ben's. She took a timid step forward, the distance between them still wide enough, but she couldn't stand still any longer. "My coming back to you would register like a punch to the stomach. You wouldn't want to me after I got my fill of someone else. Not only would it confirm what you said about me swapping macs," Dorothy's lips twitched briefly, "but it would make you cheap."

She finally allowed a small smile to grace her features, though it was probably appeared rather sad, "And you're not cheap, Ben."


Ben watched as she repeated his sentence uselessly and took the smallest of steps forward. Though he didn't want to, he remained where he was, instead uncrossing his arms and the lean fingers of one hand tapped soundlessly against the grain of the wooden desk. They were the only external sign of an internal agitation.

He privately thought her coming back to him would register like a fix of snow rather than a punch in the stomach.

Ben shrugged, and forced another grin. But this one came easier than the last but for some reason, brought tears closer to welling in his eyes than before. He successfully fought them back and ran his fingers awkwardly through his unruly hair.

"I could be," he said. The words for you were implicit but too close to cliche for him to allow himself to say out loud.

Pause. He looked at her, gaze travelling over every feature, every blemish on her pale skin, every laughter line about her eyes, every shadow at her throat and every plane of her figure. He supposed that this would be the last time he would ever spend alone with her and was determined to etch it into his consciousness as vividly as any scene he had ever written.

"But I'm glad you don't think so," he added, finally.

Dorothy tried to read the expression on Ben's face as he spoke the words, I could be, leaving them to trail off before concluding. She couldn't tell if he was reviving sarcasm, being serious, or hovering in some grey area between the two. In any case, Dorothy would feel nothing less than a bully if she were to come flying back to the writer's side if she ever grew tired of walking out with the man of law. Her petite figure struggled to maintain compsure as Ben dragged his eyes over her in entirity. Under different cicumstances with a different fellow, she'd have rushed forward to offer a swift slap across the face. But she could tell his lingering gaze bore no indecency, but perhaps a good measure of melancholy.

"It would be impossible for me to do so..." She said candidly, an honest smile lighting her face. Then Dorothy folded her arms, pressed her pink lips together, and let her eyes rove his living quarters as though a handy sentence or easy farewell would be scrawled along the wall for her disposal. Where was she to go from here? Though she had nothing more on the topic to say, things seemingly resolved as she had so wanted, neither did she have the voice or heart to yeild another conversation. It wouldn't carry the same to start speaking of friendly things after all that had just transpired, at least not yet. Departing seemed the most viable option, but Dorothy found her heart grounding her feet to the wooden floorboards beneath her.

"I guess I'm not sure what happens from here. I don't know if I will see you around or not...because I'd like to. Really, I would. The Gin Blossom and our produce stand, well...they're always open to you, Ben. If you want to or can bring yourself to visit, that is. We've been through a lot..." Once more her words trailed off. The green eyed woman could feel her heart pounding slowly but forcefully in her chest. A peace, truce, middle ground, or whatever the hell they wanted to call it had been reached. Who knew that this would be the most difficult part? Standing there, watching Ben, watching Ben watch her...knowing that once she walked away, nothing could or would ever be the same; the essence of decision making. She wanted to cultivate their friendship, because regardless of her choice, there was so much that she appreciated about Ben. But would he want the same? "I suppose this is the part where I leave, then. Right? Can I...would it be too much if...?"

Well, for all that had happened, Dorothy realized she didn't care about decencies. She had cared and did care about him, afterall, and at the core of who she was Dorothy couldn't just stand idly by while it was so obvious that the both of them were hurting. He could shove her away if he wanted to, but Dorothy was willing to take that risk, and traversed the remaning distance between them to envelope him in what would likely be their last embrace.

Ben tried his best to look as if he was considering the idea of coming to see her at her stall or at the Gin Blossom. The former was definitely not going to happen. As much as he wanted to speak to her again, seeing her in that context with Wallenstein would be unbearable. As for the latter... Perhaps. Once the fuss with the Muirenns had died down, when the wound was feeling a little less tender he might venture down into the dark warmth of Shin's joint and stand at the bar to watch Birdie perform. But he'd force himself to leave before the end, so he didn't have the time to drink the amount of firewater that would make going backstage seem like a sensible idea.

He met her smile with a grin of his own, summoned from his last reserve. Now that the conversation was over, what he'd both been dreading, yet knew was going to happen, had happened, he suddenly didn't want her to go. He could start up some painfully trivial conversation, or ask her if the coffee he'd made was going to go to waste, or...

Ben's train of thought was interrupted by her unexpected embrace. He felt her hands on his back, between his shoulder blades and her thin frame against his own lean one. Gingerly at first, but then with more strength, he put his arms around her. He was struck with the physical paradox of somehow needing to feel closer to her whilst nearly being as close as possible. Emotionally, he supposed, there was no paradox.

"You trying to make this as hard as possible, sh- Dorothy?" he said, a smile in his voice as he spoke into her hair. He turned his head inwards ever so slightly, mouth almost at her temple. It took Ben every ounce of self-control to maintain that almost. Hell, giving up gaspers would be easy compared to this, Goldberg, he thought as he turned to face forwards again and looked down at her at his shoulder.

Words wouldn't even begin to express the relief that Dorothy felt when Ben returned her embrace. Though she'd been prepared to feel hands on her shoulders pushing her away to arms length, demanding her departure, she favored this outcome much better. It meant that he accepted that she still cared for him. It meant that he still cared for her. Most of all, it meant that she'd gauged correctly in assuming that - despite all things- they were still able to offer one another solace.

She let her lashes flutter down over bright eyes, squeezing them tightly closed while breathing in deeply to take in the moment, the comfort, the meaning. The pounding against her ribcage receded gradually with each inhale, her tight embrace less tense upon every exhale.

"This already is as hard as possible," Catching the bit of smile in his tone Dorothy volleyed it back, though her statement held nothing humorous. Dorothy lifted her head from his shoulder and tilted it back enough to smile up into his gentle eyes. Were anyone to walk into this scene they'd assume quite the opposite of what was actually happening. "I was mad when I told you not to call me sheba, ya' know. That shouldn't stop."

The time had well passed for her to draw away, rather than continue to read the unspoken sentences in his pale gaze. But still Dorothy didn't want to let go. There had come to be a handful of occurrences in Dorothy's life where she wished to freeze the spinning world. Moments she wanted to sink into. Live in. Moments she wanted to tear apart to observe from every angle, mull over meaning and choice, and then piece back together again like the delicate puzzle of human nature and emotion that it was. When she'd received her first kiss, upon opening the door to learn of Wayne's death, the end of her first song sung on stage...this now added to the compilation of memories that Dorothy would draw out and rediscover many times later when alone and wistful.

Another crooked and awkward smile bent the corner of Dorothy's lips as she, once again, struggled to find direction from here. She couldn't stay in another man's arms all day, after all. Her words came slowly, "So...Ben..." She adjusted her arms, bringing them out from around his body to rest lightly on his shoulders. The smallest of steps backwards created a small gap between their figures, leaving Ben's hands to linger at her waist. In much like a formal dance posture they stood, a fraction closer to ending what had developed into a tender farewell.

"OK," he said, glad she was letting him reclaim his name for her. Let Wallenstein have sweetheart, baby, whatever he wanted, as long as sheba was his.

"But maybe only when it's just the two of us, huh, sheba?" he added, looking back down at her as she lifted her head away from his shoulder. The likely possibility that the two of them would never be alone again was unspoken. It struck him too, that they had been in a very similar position, even if the situation had been very different, on this very spot in the middle of his little apartment not so long ago.

She drew back a few inches, taking her lips and the temptation to kiss them a little further away. His hands fell naturally to her narrow hips and they remained there, in tableau, as if about to begin a dance or resume an embrace when, in a way, it would be the complete opposite. Once again, perhaps because he knew that this was another step towards her absence, he began a tirade (though more subdued than the last) in his head about how stupid this was. He sensed a reluctance in her too; he was certain he wasn't imagining it, certain he could see it in her absinthe green eyes.

"So."

He looked back at her, willing a similar smile to come to his own countenance. But it didn't and he met her gaze with a mixture of restrained passion, as if he were about to kiss her or start up another raging argument with her, and resignation.

Dorothy's awkward grin shifted to a sardonic smile, and she shook her head at Ben. Though they were both clearly lacking the desire to move things forward and thus end this rendezvous, one of them would need to set things in motion. Ben, repeating Dorothy's "so", would not be that person.

"Alright then, mister decisive." Dorothy joked, allowing half-hearted mirth to spill over her features. She pretended that she wasn't left breathless by the gaze he returned, and she even poked him in the chest playfully for good measure, when all she wanted to do was collapse the distance between them and tell him how badly she didn't want to leave.

But it was she who had ended things, not Ben, and so it wasn't rightly fair that for her to expect him to save her and gracefully lead her to the door. Feelings were hurt. Emotions were raw. In the end, though, Dorothy had another pair of arms to turn to where Ben did not. For this fact alone she wanted to remain there as long as he needed, but on a second (and painful) though she realized that his need wouldn't have her leaving in the first place. Her smile faltered. Obvious discomfiture was defined in her expression, though she quickly worked to hide it by ducking her head.

Dorothy removed her hands from Ben's shoulders and reached to lift his ink stained hands from her hips. She stood frozen with his hands insider hers for a moment, then let them free and turned abruptly towards the door. Oh, how difficult those steps that carried her to her exit. This wasn't like a normal break off, after all. One of them hadn't cheated on the other, revealed some inexcusable blemish in personality, or issued unforgivable cruelties against the other. They hadn't grown to realize that their personalities clashed or that their values were mismatched. It was like claiming dislike of a dish, when you hadn't even tasted it. If it weren't for knowing that her heart was held in such perfect care by someone else, this would be truly impossible. But Charlie was there, even if that fact brought Dorothy a new round of uncertainty.

"So..." She returned conversation to finish both of their sentences. "Which sort of farewell do we choose? Do I simply bid you adieu, or shake your hand, or promise until next time?" She fixed him with her green eyed gaze again, determined to keep her chin up and leave with a smile.

Ben didn't say anything in reply to Dorothy's half-baked joke nor did he flinch or try to playfully dodge her poke at his chest. He didn't really feel like joking now. Instead, he watched her unloop her arms from his neck and take his hands into her smaller ones, bowing her head to conceal her expression. He felt compelled to lift up her chin so he could meet her gaze but he barely had enough time to stroke his thumb over the back of her hand before she'd ripped them away and started towards the door.

He went after her automatically but faltered. Perhaps he should just let her open the door and go without a proper goodbye. Quick and (relatively) painless. Like ripping off a band aid, just like he'd thought to himself before. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Goldberg. Keep pretending like the way that you go about this is important when the end result is going to be the same, no matter what you do.

She turned around and willed a smile into her eyes, keeping up with a Birdie-style narration as if they were in a movie at the picture palace and her words were about to be shown, neatly typed on a board, whilst the band down in the pit forced melodrama from their instruments. He didn't much like the sound of any of the choices she gave him.

On impulse, he bent down and kissed her.

It was not the sort of kiss they'd shared in the street after they went to Missy's place but an onlooker would not be able to truthfully say it was platonic either. Not from the way he looked at her before their lips met. Not from the way it lasted just a little too long than would be appropriate between friends.

He kissed her at the corner of her mouth, where her soft lips narrowed and joined gracefully at their edges, next to where lines formed when she smiled. It only lasted a second or two but the silence for those brief moments was crystalline. As he drew back their noses touched.

"I'll see ya around, Dorothy," Ben said.

At first, Ben didn't answer and for a while Dorothy assumed that he wasn't going to play along. She guessed that her attempts to keep things light and 'easy' were unwanted by the journalist, with none of the options she'd offered being desirable. So she'd have to leave the hard way, she assumed, placing her hand on the doorknob.

Dorothy had assumed wrong. She wasn't going to have to leave the hard way, she was going to have to leave the excruciating way. Though no words fell from Ben's lips, his lips fell to hers. She was, of course, taken by surprise. Her posture tensed again and she felt she couldn't move until he pulled away. Her eyes slowly, slowly, lifted to scan his face- searching with slight trepidation. Her long fingers reached to gently touch his cheek; even she was unsure of what her gesture meant.

Had their lips met full on, Dorothy wasn't sure what she'd have done. She wouldn't have kissed him back, but this kiss saved her from worrying about it. Ben's kiss, though obviously not traditional for a friendly farewell, could be feigned as so. So Dorothy pretended that the way his lips met hers was completely polite; nothing to fret about. A graceful smile touched her lips and she pulled her hand away from his face. A quick return peck was placed on his cheek before she twisted the handle, pushed open the door, and stepped away.

"I hope you do, Ben. Soon." Without waiting for his reply, Dorothy finished stepping into the hallway and tugged his door closed. The last thing she wanted now -aside from another unsettling kiss- was to know that he was watching her retreat. Down the stairs and into the damp streets of New York city, Dorothy finally allowed a lone tear to trace her cheek before she caught it at her jawline with a finger, and wiped away the last trace of her altercation with Benjamin Goldberg.


-------A Week Later-------------

“Are you absolutely sure this will all work out? I need you to be sure.”

“Stop worrying your lip. You’ll make it bleed. Of course I’m sure, Dorothy. Have I ever let ya down before? Trust me, doll, as long as you've secured things with that cousin of yours we’ll be just fine. I meant to ask you if he was a looker. Now lean back.”

Dorothy’s lips seemed permanently pursed, expressing her concern but she obediently tipped her head back over the farmer’s basin sink in Coraline’s kitchen. How the young woman afforded such a lavish place by her lonesome, the green eyed lounge singer decided she didn’t want to know. A putrid odor encompassed the room making her eyes water and nostrils flair in protest, but all in all she didn’t much care. If it worked, it was worth it.

Just under a week ago Dorothy stopped caring all together. Upon fleeing Ben Goldberg’s apartment she quickly made her way to Charlie’s place, hoping to find a welcoming pair of arms to sooth and comfort her. She’d just broken it off with Ben in a fashion that nearly tore her to pieces. His blue eyes had been pleading, piercing a spot in her chest so strongly that she’d had to wince and gasp for a deep breath whenever she brought the memory to recollection. As it turned out, her beau Charlie’s arms weren’t as comforting as she had hoped. Charlie’s boyish smile and good intentions spelled out her future as plain as day, a future she realized she didn’t want; marriage, a white picket fence, and toddling children clinging to the hems of her skirts. She’d been down that road once with Wayne, now deceased. Hadn’t she found a new lifestyle that completely contradicted what Charlie offered? In a near panic, Dorothy had removed his arms from around her and offered profuse apologies. Surely a gal would be hard pressed to find an honest man like Charlie, but his hints and love and a pastoral future gave Dorothy an acute relational claustrophobia. And so she'd ditched two suitors in one day.

“Golly, is there even anything left of my hair? I’ve lost all sensation!” Dorothy cried. Her fingers were wrapped tightly around the arms of the chair she occupied, longing to reach up and tear at her burning scalp.

“Cool it, will ya?” Cora scrubbed furiously at Dorothy’s sopping wet hair, staining a towel with the colorful chemicals that rubbed off. Once satisfied with the result she drew away, regarding Dorothy with a pleased smirk on her face. “Aww, lady, it’s beautiful! People will surely mistake us for sisters, you and I. You were meant to be a redhead miss Byrd.”

“Then why was I born otherwise?” Dorothy sneered.

The plan now was to leave New York city together; Dorothy and Cora. A cousin in New Orleans offered the two woman not only a place to stay, but a pair of occupations to keep them busy and financed. His correspondence had already spoken of his refusal to accept rent from family, and also stated that a friend of Dorothy's was as good as family. She'd struck upon the idea after speaking with Clyde, who mentioned that George wasn't the only family member to be dabbling in illegal activities. Family rumor had it that their cousin, Otto Newbury, was keeping company with shady characters and speak easy owners in the Louisiana city. What her family saw as atrocity, Dorothy saw as opportunity. Though she doubted they'd heard of the singing birdie that far south, her familiarity with the lounge scene and Otto's connections might just be the new chance that she needed to escape a city that bore her not one, or two...but three stories of heartache.

"Remind me of why I decided to accompany you and your sour attitude to some southern city we've never been to?" Cora asked, tossing Dorothy a fiery look. With hands propped on her slender hips and foot tapping, she looked more like a teen throwing a fit than a threat.

"Because going with me and my sour attitude gets you away from that no good boyfriend who takes to slapping you around. Not to mention a change of scenery. New York just doesn't do it for me anymore, and I can't go alone. We both agreed to a fresh start." It was Cora's idea that, if Dorothy wanted a fresh start, she should go all out. And in the sassy, cigarette seller's mind, that meant dying Dorothy's hair a shade of red to match her own. "And it won't be fresh long if we don't get going. Grab your bags, the train leaves in three hours and we've still got to pay Clyde a visit."

Missy closed the door to Ben's apartment behind her then stood stock-still in the hallway, a frown settling upon her petite features. She'd just left her cousin sitting on his bed with his typewriter in front of him and a beef cassarole on the side in his kitchen, undoubtedly destined to be forgotten then eventually thrown away. She'd never seen him like this before. Sure, he'd split up with dolls before but he always seemed to brush himself off and carry on with whatever he happened to be working on at the time. Ben was the most easy-going person Missy knew; he'd always lived in the present and to see him stuck on the waif-like creature that had visited her house just a few weeks ago pained her.

She set off down the corridor, taking a folded-up slip of paper from the inside pocket of her jacket. After reading it once several days ago, when she'd first picked it out of Ben's wastepaper basket from a mixture of exasperation and morbid curiosity, she'd guiltly hidden it away, often going over its contents in her mind but never actually reading it again.

Glancing back at the closed door, Missy set her jaw and narrowed her dark eyes in an expression of determination that was reminiscent of her cousin. Maybe Dorothy didn't deserve him (if she was more inclined to choose some bull over Ben then Missy was sure she didn't) but Ben obviously... Well, he was obviously carrying a torch for her and all the cassaroles in the world couldn't do anything for him if that was the problem. Missy made up her mind. She'd show that bright young thing (as Missy had taken to sarcastically calling Dorothy in the privacy of her own head) the contents of that piece of paper. Even if it meant Ben not talking to her for several years, if the hoofer knew what Ben was apparently incapable of expressing out loud then Missy would be satisfied.

She'd seen (and frequently offered constructive but mocking criticism of) Ben's writing before but in her opinion the brief sentences hastily typed out onto that scrap of paper were worth more than any expose or review or exclusive article he'd ever written.

Outside the apartment block, she unlocked her bike and hopped on with practised grace, adjusting the skirts of her floral dress before kicking the pedals around with stout heels and setting off towards the nearby market. The Knutson fruit and vegetable stand and its stallholder would be waiting for her.

Clyde frowned with an orange in hand, pausing in his work to release it into the air and catch it once more. Repeating this several times he allowed himself to cogitate the transaction he'd just held with what he had originally assumed to be a customer. He shook his head once more before accepting another crate of fruit from Hugh, and continued loading the Knutson produce stand to brimming.

A red headed sheba with more energy than most at such an early hour had approached him. Even if she hadn't beckoned him by name, she would have been difficult to ignore. The flash of a daffodil dress had caught his eye, and he turned to see a young woman with contrasting lilac heels standing on tiptoe to give some apples closer inspection. Clyde wasn't aware that he could see so many colors in one ensemble and when he approached her, was surprised once more with her choice of a thick, red beaded neckless and matching lipstick.

"Clyde Knutson? Help me, will ya?" She'd inquired. Her bubbly voice caught him off guard as did her familiarity with his name. He was certain that he hadn't seen her before. Were he not so overwhelmed with the color palate before him, he may have noticed his own sister Dorothy dashing by to their shared apartment and returning minutes later with a stuffed suitcase. Perhaps not, though, as Dorothy now also sported auburn tresses.

After agreeing that he was in fact Clyde Knutson and offering his ear to her many questions, he was surprised when she replaced the fruit she was holding to dig in her pocket. Retrieving a sharply creased letter, the young woman had handed it to him in a way that was some how a demand. He had no choice but to accept it without question, along with the lingering kiss she placed on his startled cheek.

"That's from the same gal who wrote you that letter. Later, handsome." The young woman called with a wink, dashing off around the corner before Clyde could even wipe the bewildered look off of his face. When he finally did recover, he unfolded the letter. A ginger hold quickly turned into a tense handed clasp of the sheet of stationary that was none other than his sister's. His eyes again and again scanned her letter of farewell.

So now he stood, reviving the interaction in his mind as he tried to come to terms that Dorothy was gone. It was no wonder that she hadn't been there when he, Hugh, and Maddie has woken that morning. If she hadn't explained herself so properly in the letter, assuring him that she had safe arrangements and that she hadn't lost her mind, he might have raced after her. Though where he would have raced, he hadn't a clue.

Meanwhile, Dorothy and Cora held tightly to one another's gloved hands as their eyes flickered over the passing scenery out of the window in their train car. New Orleans was quickly becoming a reality, more firmly placed in their minds with every click and clack of the train wheels that carried them from the Big Apple to the Big Easy.

Missy was used to cycling through the busy streets of New York and it took her less than ten minutes of weaving through traffic and dodging suicidal pedestrians before she arrived at the market. It was as bustling as always, with clusters of people flitting from one stall to the next, chatting and bartering over the fruit, vegetables and bric-a-brac, laid out in a riot of colour on tables or even straight onto mats on the pavement. Missy hopped off her bike and wheeled it through the crowd towards where she remembered seeing Dorothy at her stall not so very long ago.

A group of elderly women parted, trailing net shopping bags in their wake and suddenly a sign that read The Knutson Produce Stand was revealed. Missy narrowed her eyes and set off towards it, gearing herself up for a frosty exchange with the woman who had rejected Benny. As much as her natural instinct was to launch into an interrogation as to why Dorothy had decided to walk out with two men at the same time, she knew that Ben would never speak to her again if he found out. Instead she was going to settle for a curt greeting and an abrupt handing over of the piece of paper currently folded up in her pocket.

To her surprise and irritation, however, Dorothy wasn't there. Behind the stall stood a man with dark hair and a shrewd look to his features. Or at least, Missy imagined it would have been a shrewd look if he hadn't seemed so distracted by the contents of the letter in his hands.

"Excuse me," she said politely, approaching the stall.. Now that she was closer, she thought she might sense a resemblance to the woman she was here to talk to. Perhaps a brother or a cousin. "I'm looking for Dorothy, is she working here today?"

Clyde glanced up from the letter as another feminine voice beckoned for his attentions, this one sounding much less brazen and demanding than the last. The woman in front of him now held onto the bike that had transported her to the market. Though he doubted anything could top the hand off of a farewell letter from his sister, he noticed that an intentional expression had gathered on her features and he could only guess that the question to follow wasn't going to be about produce. It wasn't.

"Well, you've made it to the right place. But I'm afraid you've got some unfortunate timing, ma'am." Clyde offered an apologetic smile, and briefly raised the letter he was holding before letting his hand fall to his side. "Though she was supposed to be, Dorothy is not working here today."

How many times would this happen? Clyde wondered. Surely Dorothy had friends who paid her visits at the stand, whom he didn't even know of. Now they would be coming round only to hear that Dorothy wasn't there that day, nor would she be any other day they tried to stop by. He groaned inwardly at the thought of re-telling the story, and wondered if she'd had the thought to inform the detective she was stepping out with before gallivanting across the country to an undisclosed location. Clyde wasn't sure he'd want to participate in that altercation. The least she could have done was pen him a dear john letter.

"I'm sorry for your trouble. Are you a friend? Somethin' I can help you with?" He offered, returning to the current situation before letting his imagination run wild, turning his worries into unnecessary stress.

She was supposed to be working at the stall today? Missy's own imagination, too, ran wild. Had Dorothy eloped with her beau in blue already? She immediately scolded herself for letting her mind wander so easily into the fantastic. That was precisely the sort of thing Ben would come up with.

"It's just- I have to give something to her," said Missy, intentionally avoiding answering Clyde's first question. A week or two ago, Missy had very much enjoyed the company of the skinny little green-eyed dark-haired thing who had thought so much before replying to her questions, who's eloquence and gentle humour spoke of her intelligence. Back then, she would have been glad to call Dorothy her friend. Now, however, she was not so sure.

"I'd much rather give it in person, too," she added, her dark, bright eyes expressive to highlight the importance of the item. "So, perhaps you could tell me where to find her, instead. Or should I stop by later today?"

It was vital that she delivered the piece of paper sooner rather than later. If she left it any longer, she'd lose her nerve with thoughts of exactly how angry Ben would be if he found out what she was doing. Or any favourable feelings she had towards Dorothy would evaporate and she'd feel less inclined to enable her to correct what Missy saw as a mistake.

Clyde considered the secretive nature the woman held in regards to seeing Dorothy. A simple message couldn't even be relayed, and Clyde did find this a little worrisome. A certain urgency seemed to have forced tension into her frame and speech as well. Did she have anything to do with Dorothy's unforeseen disappearance?

"You can stop by later today if you'd like, but you still won't find Dorothy. I wish I could tell you where she was but I don't know from nothin' where she's..." Clyde paused, considering his next words. If she was a friend of Dorothy's, he didn't want to startle or worry her. He resigned to telling this woman the truth, deciding that he'd try to gauge from her reaction whether or not she knew anything about his sister's departure.

Once more he gestured to the letter in his hand, "She's left town, it seems. A friend of hers slipped me this letter earlier, when we were busy. It's in Dorothy's flowery script so I know it's hers. She's left town with a friend. Doesn't say when. Doesn't say where to, either. She never came home last night and wasn't there this morning. I'm sorry I can't be of more help." He stretched his hand out further, offering the letter. He didn't have much need of it anymore.

Clyde,
I'm sorry that this is of short and unpredicted notice, but I won't be coming home. I've worn out my welcome in New York, and have hurt a few along the way. I'm leaving the city with a friend. Bags are packed and gone. I'll be taken care of where I'm going, so don't be a big brother and worry. I'll write soon. Give Hugh and Maddie, and yourself, all of my love.
Dorothy.

"You're more than welcome to give it a read if you'd like."

Missy's scarlet-stained mouth dropped open a little as Clyde recounted to her what had happened to Dorothy. For all her second-guessing, she hadn't seen that particular turn of events coming. What was Dorothy thinking? Perhaps she'd decided she couldn't chose between her boy in blue and Ben after all.

She took the letter and smoothed out the creases, holding it out into the light so she would read it. Her brown eyes hurriedly scanned the lines, written in a hastily flourishing hand, then looked back up at Clyde who, from the note she'd just read, must be Dorothy's brother.

"But- She didn't tell you anything?" she said, in surprise. "I thought she had a beau, some fella in the NYPD. Doesn't he know where she's gone?"

The letter clearly instructed Clyde not to worry but if Missy was in his place, she'd be worried sick. She suddenly felt very sorry for all the men who were chasing after this elusive little bird.

"I'm so sorry to be asking so many questions, Mr Knutson, but aren't you going to go to the police or track her down yourself?" she said, clutching the shopping basket from the front of her bike tightly in her small hands. "If you need any help, I-" She paused for a second. " She'd been about to say, 'I have a friend who can help you' but she didn't know if Clyde had even met Ben before. Missy didn't want to give anything away until she'd found out what exactly had happened with Dorothy. "-I'm sure I could try to help you."

Despite the current events Clyde found himself chuckling at the fervid questions pouring from the woman's lips. A woman that he still failed to know of how she was attached to his sister. But her inquiry seemed in Dorothy's best interests which implied that she couldn't too harmful. He also observed that her reaction appeared authentic. Truly startled by the information he'd offered.

"Don't apologize, and please call me Clyde. I only wish I could help you more." Clyde's smile slipped away then, and he drew a hand over his somber face. Well, as somber as any expression of Clyde's could be. "I'd only read the letter a few minutes before you arrived. Like I said; unfortunate timing. She didn't tell me much of anything...nothing to give me a hint that she'd be vanishing, that is."

This dame even knew of the particulars of Dorothy's romantic life, having hinted at Charles Wallenstein. But not enough to know his name? This all was rather odd. As far as the detective was concerned, Clyde didn't know how much Dorothy had told him. He doubted that she'd given him any more information than she'd given her older brother, seeing as she'd broken it off with the P.I. several days before. The same day she'd broken it off with that journalistic fellow.

"I know Dorothy well enough to put my worry on the back burner." Clyde continued, "If she doesn't want to be found, I can wait for her next letter. Once she's settled she'll give me some answers though her reasons for leaving are pretty clear. I wouldn't want to hang around a city where I'd lost three loves, either. But," Clyde cleared his throat as he realized he was revealing quite a bit of personal information in voicing his reflections, "How do you figure you could be of help? And excuse me if I come across as rude, but I've yet to know how it is that you have business with Dorothy. You seem to know her quite well."

Clyde, as Dorothy's brother had entreated her to call him, seemed to Missy to be very laidback for a man who had just been told via letter that his sister had run away to an undisclosed location for an undisclosed amount of time. But then again, the bright young thing was more independent than most women (Missy, of course, didn't consider her own substantial independence). She was not only a singer at one of those odious underground speakeasies Ben insisted on frequenting but had even been married once before, after all.

She was also struck by Clyde's turn of phrase: 'I wouldn't want to hang around a city where I'd lost three loves, either'. One, presumably, was her poor late husband. The other could at a pinch be Ben. But the third? It seemed that the cop she'd been dating hadn't fared any better than Benny after all. At once, Missy's feelings towards Dorothy began to shift and sympathy for her imagined predicament began to swell in her chest. The fact that she had decided to leave the city proved to Missy that the doll wasn't as unfeeling as she'd first assumed.

"Oh! No, I don't know her awfully well. I'm a- Well, we have a mutual friend you see. I've only met her a couple of times," said Missy, still thinking. Ben would undoubtedly want to know. He might even go chasing after her, if he caught a 'lead' as he insisted on calling them, particularly if she also told him that this fuzz was no longer in the picture.

She picked up her bike from where it was leaned against a nearby lamp-post and hopped expertly onto the saddle, rearranging her dress.

"I'll let you know if I hear of anything!" she called, again avoiding answering Clyde's question directly. She waved to him as she set her foot against the pedal and cycled off along the street. "Thank you, Clyde!"



It did not take Missy very long to arrive back at Ben's place. She locked her bike up outside and trapsed up the rickety stairs towards his door, rapping three times before trying the handle and going inside.

"Boychik?" she called, leaving her bag by the door and venturing into the cramped flat. Ben looked up from where he was sprawled on the bed, pencil in hand, cigarette jammed into the corner of his mouth.

"Another stew, Missy? I'm telling ya, I can't get through them that fast-" he began, frowning at his cousin's reappearance after so recent an exit. He was aware she was worried about him but her regular visits were starting to get to be too much.

"No, no, it's not that," she said, with earnestness. Ben was immediately suspicious. She had that same tone of excited, knowing mischief in her voice that she often got when they were young and she'd just heard a particularly juicy piece of gossip from the Lewinski girls on the corner of the avenue or she'd 'intervened' in some aspect of Ben's life, supposedly for his own good. "I went down to the market just now and I saw Dorothy's brother-"

He couldn't help it, Ben flinched reflexively at the sound of her name. He'd been avoiding examining the part of his head that was still reeling from the events of a few days ago and to hear Missy say it out loud was painful.

"You what?" he began, standing up and glaring at her. "Why did you-"

"Oh, sit down Benny! Listen, I spoke to Clyde and she's left the city! She'd not in New York any more."

Ben stared at her. Why was Missy telling him this? Her and Wallenstein had moved out of the city already? He'd never see her again if that was the case, not even a few stolen glances through the smoke down in the Gin Blossom. He'd resigned himself to never being alone with her again, to never exchanging anything more than a few words at a time with her ever again but this, this was too much.

Knowing exactly what her cousin was thinking, Missy went on, hands on hips. "You don't get it, boychik, she's moved out of the city, run away to some place her brother don't know from nothing about. It's because she's not walking out with that blue anymore. Whatever you said to her when she came around to tell you it was over, it worked." She paused thoughtfully, as if to consider what she'd just said. "Well, it sort of worked. Because she's not in the Big Apple but-" she continued, running red-painted nails through her curly dark hair. Ben had already stopped listening.

"She's not with Wallenstein? Are you sure?" he said, taking her by her shoulders, something fluttering underneath his ribs.

Missy nodded in reply. A strange light came into her curious eyes, making her look seventeen once again.

"So, what you gonna do, Benny?" she said, the corner of her red-painted lips upturning.

Yeah, what are you gonna do, Goldberg? he asked himself. A thousand replies flickered one after the other through his mind. She was a big girl; maybe he should wait until she was ready to come back. Maybe she needed some time to sort her head out; painfully ditching two macs in a matter of days couldn't have done her any good. What if she didn't even want to see him any more? It wasn't as if she'd turned up at his door after she'd dumped Wallenstein. Maybe this was a fresh start for her. Maybe she wasn't running away after all...

But then her words, in her voice and with her inflection sounded in his head as clear as when she'd first uttered them: You're not cheap, Ben. Would she come back to him, even if somewhere deep, deep down she wanted to?

He didn't know.

Damn it. If he stayed here, he wouldn't find out either. This time, he'd fight.

"I'm going to the Gin Blossom," he said.

As the door to Ben's apartment shut behind him as he hastily pulled on his jacket and clattered down the stairs, a smile ( and one that would have been infectious had there had been anyone around to witness it) spread slowly over Missy's neat features.

Clyde tossed an arm above his head, waving it back and forth after the retreating form of the woman whose name he still somehow did not know. This fact caused him to shake his head, as she called out his name in her own adieu. Though he didn't receive much information from her, it would seem that he'd given her something tasty to pedal away with. It wasn't fruit.

Perhaps she'd seen something in the letter that Clyde missed. Either way, it hadn't taken long for Dorothy's community to determine that her location wouldn't stay hidden for long. In a way he was glad. With a booming business to run on top of his confidence in his strong-willed sister, knowing that someone was trying to pin her down gave him comfort. Though getting her back was a whole other topic. Clyde would wear a dress and heels the day someone was able to bend Dorothy's will.

"Good luck, sis." He mumbled with a smile on his face.


New Orleans...

A sneer wrinkled his nose at the grimy, grease stained paper sack dangling precariously between his fingers. He refused to disgrace himself or indulge the weasely bloke in front of him by opening it. The weight of the bag confirmed the contents, but it wasn't enough. Some would say not to sweat the small stuff, and others would warn him not to judge a book by its cover. But good enough was never good enough for the premier running man in New Orleans.

"What is this shit?" Otto paused for only a fraction of a second, but his continued response implied that he'd been waiting minutes for a reply, "You gonna answer me or what? Did you have your fish'n'chips in here before throwing the piece in? You must find this acceptable. Think me a slob, then?"

The other man seemed to shrink and shrink as Otto's anger rose higher. It was ironic that his demanding of answers perpetuated the poor fellow's inability to produce them. Otto Newbury allowed his foot to tap against the pavement, almost silently. The action seemed harmless and portrayed patience. Anyone working long enough with Otto knew that it meant his patience was nearly evaporated. It would appear that the coward knew of this red flag.

"No-n-no, Otto. I dropped it along the way, I swear! Wanted it to pass for a bagged lunch, is why I used a sack in the first!" He pleaded, palms up and eyes wildly tracking the signs on Ottos' face. "If I'd'a turned back for a new one...well, you don't take kindly to tardiness and- UH!"

His squeamish sentence was cut short by a swift kick to the gut, and he doubled over clutching at the footprint on his stomach. He wasn't stooped long, as Otto stepped forward and lifted him by the collar, "Do you blame me for expecting my clients to make meetings on time?" The man shook his head furiously. "Right then. As it is you're five minutes late, and I don't take kindly to excuses neither. I don't know of no grease pits that you could've dropped it in. Unacceptable. I'll go easy on you, Sal, 'cause I'm a nice guy. Don't let it happen again."

Otto used his hold on the man's shirt to throw him backwards out of the alley after tucking a bill into the man's pocket. A bimbo stood waiting with arms crossed. A nod and quick jerk of his head signaled the big-six to 'go easy' on the creep by giving him a nice walk home and helping him into his house via his front window. He should consider himself lucky. The next time it'd be pins under his finger nails. Once alone, Otto retreated down the opposite direction of the alley and tucked the parcel under his jacket for later disposal; a gun one of the Rivarde gang had used to bump off some fly the week prior. Now that Otto had the evidence side of things taken care of, he'd have to return the gun to its owner, but decided to retire home first. He was expecting company within the next few days after all, and wanted things to appear as unassuming and hospitable as possible for the two women who were to share his living quarters for an undecided amount of time.

He unrolled and slumped his shoulders as he stepped out into the sunlight drenched streets, mussed his hair, and tugged his smile into a lopsided perma-grin. He wondered if his cousin would buy his innocent-young-lad facade as well as all the others who were passing him by, unaware that he'd just successfully covered a murder and sent a man to the hospital. Only time would tell.

Ben walked down the familiar flight of stairs that led into the underground basement that housed the Gin Blossom. Of course, being late afternoon, there were only a few hardcore patrons hunched over glasses of moonshine occupying a few stools by the bar. The rest of the place was empty though it looked as if it was being prepared for the night's entertainment; a waitress turned over the chairs from the table tops and another woman, obviously one of the first acts of the night, was setting up a microphone and a music stand on the stage. Shin was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he didn't bother to come in until the place became busier. Whatever the reason, Ben would have to try his luck with the man behind the bar or one of the sullen-faced drinkers. He just hoped none of them would recognise him from the night of the barfight.

"Whiskey, please," he said, to the bartender, leaning against the bar next to a man only a few years older than himself. He didn't want a drink but Ben had learnt that a little money exchanging hands always greased the wheels of a conversation like this, even if it was not an outright bribe. As he waited, he glanced around at his surroundings. Without the crowds and the smoke and the music, the Gin Blossom was a hollow place. He remembered thinking the very same thing after he and Dorothy had stayed here past closing time the first time they'd met.

"Thanks." The bartender put the amber-filled glass in front of him. "You know if Birdie's singing tonight?" he asked, conversationally, as he laid some change onto the counter top. "I haven't been down here to see her in months. I could do with listening something a little sweeter on the ears than my boss's yelling, if you know what I mean," he added, with a grin, pushing the change towards him across the bar.

"You're outta luck mac," said the barman, taking the money and glancing at it before turning to ring it out on the till. "She's left. Quit yesterday. Her and Cora too. She's the bearcat who sells- used to sell gaspers during nights," he added helpfully.

Ben raised his eyebrows in surprise, though he'd recieved exactly the answer he'd been expecting. Almost, anyway. Dorothy had not left by herself but with another dame.

"No kidding? Why'd the two of them leave all of a sudden? You think they got a better offer from some other joint?" he said, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and drawing a single one out to place in his mouth.

Will didn't fail to notice the skeptical glances he received from the barkeep, who was easy to offer his statements about the flyaway birdie and her gal pal Cora. One was better to keep his mouth shut, in his opinion, but this sap was more than eager to divulge information to the newest addition at the bar. The tender was likely worried that Will would be quick to pick a fight; Cora was his girl, after all. Had been his girl. She'd likely flapped her gums that Will was the aggressive type.

He let his bleary eyed gaze slip from the Gin Blossom employee to the lanky man who'd ordered a whiskey. Whether it was due to his own inebriation, self-pity, or inclination to chum up to a fellow whiskey drinker he couldn't tell. In an case, his words seemed as fluid as the hootch in his short glass.

"There ain't no better offer than the Gin Blossom here! Wouldn't you say, Joe?" Will chimed into the conversation loudly and without invitation, raising his glass to the bartender whose name wasn't Joe. In one hasty and unsteady motion, he fitted the rim of his glass between his lips, threw his head back, and downed the liquor. An audacious belch and smack of his lips accompanied his slamming down of the empty glass, to which the bartender winced and briefly considered whether it would be worth it or not to refuse a refill. "If you ask me, Cora's leaving has nothing to do with offers and everything to do with that no good tramp she left town with. Birdie. Hmpf!"

He waited for his glass to be refilled, all the while squinting as he took in the man who'd initially asked about Birdie's performances. His frown suddenly dissolved into raucous laugher, "Hope you're not a friend of hers, pal! Cora wouldn't have left if it weren't for that lousy canary. She started a trend around here, see? Dumped two poor chaps in the same day, she did! Then Cora followed her lead and-" His laughter and smile subsided, the grimace returning. A sip of his drink was taken before he continued in mumbled incoherence.

"Take it easy, Wilbur. It's a fresh wound, and there are plenty of fish in the sea." The bartender consoled cooly. His nervous expression belied the comfort his voice proclaimed.

"Like she could do better than me?" Will continued with the encouragement, though in a direction the bartender hadn't been intending on. "I took well enough care of the both of 'em while that dumb dora bawled her eyes out about some Bob...Bill? Aw, hell, whatsit matter what his name was? The bloke made her leave town and now their both gone. You ever lost a dame, pal?" Will regarded his new friend at the bar, now taking notice of the cigarettes the man was pulling from his pocket. "Spare one for a guy down on his luck, will ya?"

Ben took a subtle sidestep away from the man next to him to prevent him from swaying straight into Ben's shoulder. He stank of whiskey, like he'd been bathing in the stuff, the smell mixing with the slight sweet mustiness of a body that hadn't been washed in a while. Unshaven and bleary-eyed, Ben privately wondered if the mac had wondered in off the street but something told him that that wasn't the case.

At his comment about Dorothy, Ben narrowly resisted flinging a few insults of his own, or perhaps a punch, the man's way. Instead, he took a drink of whiskey through teeth gritted into a grin whilst his knuckles turned white gripping the brass surface of the bar. Still, he'd confirmed what Missy had told him- Dorothy had finished with Wallenstein- and that untied one of the knots that had been done up tight inside his chest. He'd been fearful that Missy had simply misheard or got the wrong end of the stick or, more likely, exaggerated to make Ben feel better.

But as one cause of his discomfort was relieved, another appeared in its place. 'Bob' or 'Bill' (and he almost didn't dare to believe this) had to be 'Ben'. Didn't it? And what had happened between them... She'd been crying? This churned up an odd mixture of emotion- of course he didn't like the idea of Dorothy crying over anything, let alone him, but the fact that she'd thought him worth crying over... This was tempered by the ache of uncertainty that was caused by Wilbur's turn of phrase; that he'd 'made her leave town'. Would she be pleased to see him if he eventually found her?

Shoving all of these unanswered questions aside, Ben turned to the man next to him, offering him a cigarette.

"Help yourself, mac," he said, lighting his then holding out the flickering flame of his lighter for Wilbur to light his own gasper. "And sure, I've lost a dame or two in my time..." There was an expertly-timed pause as Ben let a stream of smoke escape his lips. "But maybe you shouldn't give up and let her breeze off like that. Do ya know where she's gone? You could go after her, you know." He silently prayed that the man would have some idea of where his ex-squeeze and Dorothy could have gone to. Any lead would do. A state, even. Anything to give Ben something to work with.

Will was struck dumb by the man's suggestion to follow after Cora, and this was evident in his muddled, slack-jaw expression. It was clearly the first time that the selfish drunkard had considered such a selfless act. Chasing after his girl would mean not having something to wallow over pitifully. It would rid him of a reasonable excuse to consume more liquor than he could afford, and stumble into work hung over. He had never really considered her that great of a broad, but liked the misery her departure afforded him.

His own almost guilt sobered him momentarily as he put up a farce of taking the suggestion into honest consideration while he accepted the light. Finally he shook his head while peering into the liquid swirling around his glas, "Nah, she'd not have me back even if I did know wheres to begin lookin'. When she was shoutin' at me about takin' off, I figger'd it was just her runnin' at the mouth. Said something about Dorothy knowing a sheik who'd care for 'em."

It was likely that Cora had actually revealed to Wilbur exactly where she was headed, shouting at what she had learned were deaf ears while cramming clothing into a suitcase. She tended to give too much information while irate, and Wilbur was often the safest subject for her to do so with; he hardly listened, and rarely remembered.

Will took a pause to consider the cigarette he was holding, looking confused as to how he'd come to be holding it. He shrugged, sucked on it deeply, and released the thick smoke with a cough, "Thanks, pal. You know, I may not speak French like she says he can, but does that make 'im more a man? It's America, ain't it? Why would ya' need to speak nothin' but American?"

He raised his eyebrows to Ben, expecting a response in his favor. After taking another drag he went on with his original train of thought, "Nah, don't know from not where they're off to. Next train outta here, she said. Well, to hell with her! She thinks the warm weather'll be a nice change? Heat stroke is more like it."

"Wilbur, that's enough. Keep it up and you'll scare off the other customers. Lower your tone, or take it outside, jake?" The barkeep finally spoke up, casting Ben a look that registered both accusing and apologetic.

"Yeah, yeah I'm leavin'...southern genteel my foot." Will mumbled in contempt, having the last word. He heaved himself off of his barstool and though he was a thin fellow, the effort made him appear as though he was carrying much more weight on his frame. He moved away from the bar with great effort. It took a long minute for him to reason with his pocket, finally dredging up enough coin to cover his tab. Clapping a clammy hand onto Ben's shoulder, he offered some advice "Best forget about Birdie. Great to look at, sure, with those gams that go on for days...but just a dirty floozy like the rest. Thanks for the smoke, pal. A real chum, you are."

Ben tried hard to look sympathetic to the man's predicament. Tried, and probably failed, but he doubted Wilbur had enough of his wits about him to even remember this encounter tomorrow morning, let alone to interpret the subtle nuances of another person's expression. He was liking this man less and less as he continued to spout self-pitying bushwa about his runaway doll. But every drop was gold- Dorothy and her cigarette-selling pal Cora were staying with someone else; a man. Maybe a relative or a friend of either. French meant either New England or Louisiana and although Ben had never been outside of the State of New York, he knew that New England wasn't exactly the warmest of places.

The barman interrupted Wilbur's irate and highly interesting rant and Ben mentally cursed.

"Yeah, no problem, mac. I'll bear that in mind," said Ben, looking sceptically at the man's hand on his shoulder. "You go on and find yourself another fish too, huh?" No point in following him back up into the street to try and squeeze something else out of him; not only was he so tanked that he probably wouldn't be able to remember his own name soon, but it would also look suspicious. And Ben didn't need anyone to be looking at him suspiciously in this particular joint.

He waited until Wilbur was gone and nursed his drink for another few minutes before forcing down the last of the whiskey (he'd drunk more than his fair share of that recently and his stomach didn't seem to be relishing more) then leaving through the kitchens of the Lotus Blossom upstairs.

Back in the crisp air outside, he took out his notebook from sheer force of habit and began to meticulously jot everything down in a fluid, angular hand. His feet took him automatically through often-trod streets back to his apartment block a good half-an-hour's walk away across the city. Once he'd unlocked his door, he went over to the sagging bookshelf in one corner of his room and took out a large leather bound atlas. He flicked deftly through the pages until he found Louisiana and spent a few moments frowning at it.

He knew she'd go to a city. New York was as much a part of her as it was him and he'd feel isolated and exposed out in the country. The bustle and life of a city lent its residents a degree of anonymity; it was easier to lose yourself in a city.

So the question was, which city? Baton Rouge, perhaps? Or New Orleans? He needed more information so he decided to drop Missy a dime.




That evening, when the crowds at the market had thinned considerably and stallholders were beginning to pack their unsold produce away, the click-click of bicycle spokes rolled its way along the pavement. Missy hopped off her bike and wheeled it towards the Knutson Stand for the second time that day. Normally, she would given Ben the bum's rush if he'd asked her to perform any other errand. But she was curious. And she wanted to help Benny as much as she could. Admittedly, it might all end in tears, but if she'd been in Ben's position, she would have impulsively chosen to do the same and hunt Dorothy down.

"Clyde! Hello again," she said, with a scarlet-lipped smile. She'd always found a short, sharp charm offensive to be the best strategy in such situations. "Sorry to bother you for a second time, but I was wondering... What does Louisiana mean to you?"

Her smile didn't falter, instead remaining as bright and sunny as ever, as if enquiring about one's feeling towards a state was a completely normal question.

"It's just, I think that's where Dorothy's gone."

Clyde's long fingers had just removed themselves from rustling the hair of a dirtied face young boy whom he'd just given a few unsold apples, when he heard a familar voice. Not so familiar that a face sprang into his mind, but a resonance of someone that made him chuckle. At least it wasn't a tone that caused him to cringe.

When he turned in the direction of the beckoning voice Clyde smiled into the eyes of the woman who'd cleverly picked answers from his brain. Once more she wheeled her bike alongside her; a quality means of transportation in the big city if you could maneuver bravely between cabbies and pedestrians. He was about to respond to the hello that slid easy from between her crimson lips, but was quickly wrong footed and tongue tied as she instigated another interrogation.

"Back with more questions, I see. Just a friend of a friend then, hm?" Clyde allowed for a charming grin to spread across his attractive features, well colored from standing day after day under the sun (temperature regardless). Instead of answering her question outright he turned back to the last meager crate of miscellaneous fruits and vegetables that would go to waste; himself and the street urchins having already taken their share,"You seem like the baking type. Want any of this for your return ride home?"

Louisiana. While she contemplated his extended offer, he contemplated her question. Clyde had hardly ever stepped foot out of New York, and had always lived in a place with a season full of snow. All but one of his brothers and sisters had remained close as well, leaving him no reason to venture beyond their homes. None the less, Louisiana was connected to the Knutson family by way of a cousin. He'd gone along nameless enough in the family, Clyde himself never meeting him but once as a young boy. Distance wasn't a thing easily overcome by a farming family, and so the cousin and his father had remained....distant. Now said cousin was reputed to be involved in the underworld crime scenes of New Orleans, and he could only hope that however this woman had come to the conclusion that Dorothy was with him, was a rotten source. She'd have no other reason for going there.

For the first time since reading her letter that morning, Clyde felt a stroke of trepidation for his sister, "Louisiana means lots'a things, but most importantly trouble." Clyde spared Missy the details, instead offering quick and sharp answers that didn't beat around the bush. A style she herself seemed to adhere to. "New Orleans. Otto Newbury." He paused and conjured up a smile. "Now get on outta here before I get the chance to squeeze anything from you. And be sure to bother me again soon, ya hear?"

"Really?" said Missy, going over to examine the box of unsold fruit and vegetables. "Thank you ever so much, but I wouldn't feel right unless I gave you something..." she added, picking a half-dozen apples from its bottom and putting them in the basket of her bike. She began to fumble in her handbag for her purse. "They'll make a wonderful apple pie for B- for my husband and I," she said brightly.

She pressed a few cents into his hand and smiled. Now she had a name and place and Lord knew the things Benny and his contacts could do with just those two things. Clyde seemed to have his head screwed on the right way; he'd seemed to automatically sense that Missy was doing something good for his sister and had been more than helpful. She didn't know his feelings towards Ben (though she doubted Ben would have done anything that would have offended him, at least not on purpose) but she was edging closer to telling just who her and Dorothy's mutual friend was. Perhaps another day.

"I hear ya!" she said, hopping back onto her bike, the apples in the basket on the front rolling to one side. "And sure I'll come and bother you again, especially if you're gonna unload your leftover goodies onto me like that," she added, with a grin, setting her heeled feet onto the pedals.

"You're a good brother, Clyde!" she called after him as she cycled away, back the way she'd come.




Later that night, Ben found himself looking at two words that Missy had written neatly into his notebook.

New Orleans. Otto Newbury.

"And Clyde didn't say anything about who this fella is?" said Ben, glancing up at his cousin. This Newbury was obviously the 'sheik' Dorothy's friend Cora had screamed about at her piker of a boyfriend. He tried to think if he knew anyone down in Louisiana who could point him in Newbury's direction.

"Nope," said Missy, swinging backwards and forwards on two legs of Ben's chair. "Could be a relative or a friend. But if her brother knows about him, I'd say they're related, or at least he's a family friend." The chair clunked down onto the floorboards abruptly as Missy remembered something else.

"Careful though, boychik. Clyde said this guy was trouble," she said, with concern.

Ben shook his head. "Trouble's fine. I can handle trouble. Besides," he said, standing up. "I'll bet trouble in the Big Easy is a breeze compared to trouble in the Big Apple." He grinned and picked up the crumb-strewn plate that had been resting on his knee in order to take it to his little kitchen. "Thanks for the pie, by the way, Missy. I'm telling ya, I couldn't buy a better one at the Ritz."

"No problem, Benny. But I've got something else for you as well," said Missy, digging into the pocket of her dress to retrieve an envelope.

"I've told you, you can't legally disown a cousin, Missy..."

"Oh dry up and open it," she said. Ben ripped it open deftly to reveal a train ticket. It was a single to New Orleans from Grand Central which left the next morning.

"You really shouldn't have," he said, kissing her on the forehead and tucking the ticket into the inside pocket of his jacket.

"I know. It's only a single, though. I figured the two of you could buy your own on the way back," she added, with a smile that made her eyes dance. "Take care boychik and drop me a dime when you know what's happening..."


It was, then, less than twenty-four hours later that Ben found himself sitting on the 10.16 to New Orleans, suitcase by his feet, notebook in his pocket, waiting for the train to depart.

That cannot possibly be for us, Dorothy thought to herself. Cora's beaming face told her that what she was seeing was not a mirage, but in fact actuality. Perhaps it was her started face, or more likely the wide brimmed white sun hat she'd promised Otto to wear, but some factor caused a bristling young man to approach with a strict look of seriousness.

"Ms. Byrd?" He inquired. As she nodded, he took her by surprise by bowing curtly and turning heel. She raised an eyebrow to Cora and couldn't help but giggle.

"I think we're supposed to follow 'im!" Cora laughed, stooping to catch the handle of her suit case and take off after the suit wearing lad. The mystery of it all clearly had the colorful young woman intrigued. Dorothy on the other hand remained caught off guard. But her weary legs quaked, much relieved that she wouldn't have to traipse up and down the platform looking for a cab. "Come on, Dorothy."

Together they followed him outside the train station, down the steps to a street car whose door was held ajar by the same suited young man. With an arm tucked behind his back he stared off stoically, appearing as though he could have waited infinitely for Dorothy and Cora to step inside. Few seconds did he have to wait before pressing the door shut behind them, leaving the two women to regard one another with wide eyes. Their parcels and luggage were secured, and soon a much quieter set of wheels rolled underneath them once more, carrying them into the heart of the city.

Dorthy's large green eyes scanned every blur of passing scenery, "I never thought I'd see anything more colorful than you! Just look at it." Indeed, the city boasted homes in pink with terra-cotta tiled roofs, verandas spilling over with red heart shaped flowers, and fences of aquamarine blue and canary yellow. Alone they would have seemed rude and silly, but together the colors created a city that seemed to be pulsing with vibrant life.

The car turned into a wealthy district, homes touching side to side like multiple story apartments. Wrought iron balconies outlined upper levels and held musicians, stray cats, and more floral displays. In front of one of these they stopped. In response to Dorothy's surprised expression Cora grasped her hand. Bright light flooded into the car with darkened windows as the door nearest Cora's side was tugged open.

"Here we are ladies. Welcome home." The voice didn't belong to the driver, but rather a tawny haired gentleman dressed in a mix of formal and casual. He pulled first Cora out with a wink, and then his cousin. "Ah, Dorothy. So nice to finally meet you. And you must be her beautiful friend, Cora. How were your travels?"

"Long and rather dreary, actually. But it was well worth the wait, if what we've briefly seen of the city says anything!" Cora replied after Dorothy remained like a doe in headlights. "It's beautiful, ain't it Dor?"

Dorothy shook her head and offered a meek smile, "I'm sorry, yes. The long journey has wearied me. Wonderful to meet you too, Otto. I can't even begin to thank-"

"Enough said, dear cousin. It's my pleasure to have you here in my home city. Let's get you settled, a quick nap into your system perhaps? Then we'll have a night on the town." Otto, smooth and debonaire, left little place for the woman to protest and swiftly led them into their new home.

That night, as the lights were dimmed and Ben kicked off his shoes to settle down into the bottom bunk of his sleeper compartment, he thought about what exactly he was going to do once he got to New Orleans.

He'd phoned Edison the previous night and his editor had not exactly been happy that he was upping for the Big Easy, even though Ben had hurriedly reassured him that he would only be gone for a week or two (actually, he didn't know how long he'd be gone but he wasn't about to tell Edison that). Still, ever the opportunist and taking into account Ben's area of expertise, Edison had suggested he write up a story on the gang situation in New Orleans for the Big Easy's resident paper: The Times-Picayune. The editor of The Picayune just happened to be an old acquaintance of Edison's. Apparently Edison knew him well enough to be assured that Ben could get a freelance article into both that paper and The Times back home.

However misguided Ben thought Edison was, he hoped he was right. He only had eighty dollars to his name and every cent of it was currently stuffed into the inside pocket of his jacket. It would last him a few weeks at most. After that, unless he wanted to live on the streets of New Orleans whilst he looked for Dorothy, he'd have to get a job. Hooking up with the folks at The Picayune would hopefully provide him with a few contacts too. Although he had one source he might be able to draw on, it wasn't exactly ideal, particularly when one considered what he was doing in the Big Easy in the first place... But he'd decide what to do about her when he got there.

Stripping down to his undershorts and vest, Ben kicked his way under the scratchy wool blanket then rolled up his clothes and shoved them under his head as a make-shift pillow. In the darkness and the quiet, the rhythmic heartbeat of the train click-clicking over the tracks was soothing, even accompanied by the snores of the man sleeping on the bunk above. His thoughts drifted to the reason for this impulsive visit to New Orleans. He didn't know if he'd find Dorothy or how she'd react to him coming to find her but the ember that he was so certain had been extinguished that grey day when she came to tell him she was with Wallenstein was burning once again.

He fell hoping that that once he arrived in Louisiana and found her, the levees wouldn't break and drown it once and for all.



The next day, sometime around noon, Ben found himself standing on platform two of the New Orleans Union Station, suitcase in one hand, hat in the other. It was hot here. Even though it was autumn and, back in New York, there would still be a crisp frost in the shade in Central Park, it seemed to be practically summer in Louisiana. Ben replaced his trilby precariously on his head and set off into the city.

The second thing he noticed, apart from the heat, was that in contrast to New York, where everything was built in concrete or stone, here buildings were wooden or in pale stone, decorated with railings and flowers and vines that trailed from balconies. There was something foreign, European (though Ben had never been to Europe physically, he'd grown up reading European books and translations and considered that to be almost as good as visiting in real life) about the place.

The third thing he noticed was that there weren't many cabs. In New York, there was one passing by every few seconds. After standing on the sidewalk by the station for five minutes, it became clear that Ben would have to walk at least part of the way to wherever the hell he was going to be staying. In the end, he gave up after twenty minutes of aimless wandering and went into the first street cafe he came to. If he bought a coffee then maybe the waitress would tell him the way to some guesthouse he could base his search for Dorothy from. As he went inside, he was not able to shake off the feeling that he was closer to her, as if he'd open the door to this little cafe and there she'd be, sitting neatly on a stool at the counter, sipping black coffee and raising her green eyes to his.