[Takes place after Stormchild]
It's Tuesday, and the Bear's watching the door.
The Bear, called Beethoven by most, doesn't look like much. Just an average guy, wearing jeans and a black jacket that has outlived the suit it once had been a part of. The matching fedora is just as well worn. Even the silver-framed sunglasses are slightly scratched. But the clothes are comfortable, and the Bear likes comfort.
Despite his well-worn clothes, he keeps himself neat. Other Bears are sloppy and unkempt, having little care for their appearance. Of the three he has met, all wore their hair long and shaggy, with beards and matted manes. He is the only Bear that keeps his locks short and his face clean. The only Bear that he knows of, at least.
His neat, Uptown appearance stands out down on 14th, often giving the impression that he is slumming there at Jack's Pool Hall, especially when combined with his mundane, second-hand clothes. The smoky little club sits within a relatively stable neighborhood, within easy view of Main, and many of its patrons are folk that prefer its close surroundings to the raucous interiors of other, larger establishments. The colors are dark and muted, split only by the sometimes-neon, sometimes-witchfire light of Jack's prize possession, a quirky, oft-malfunctioning, sign of three frogs sitting above the logo of a major beer manufacturer.
In such surroundings, Beethoven fits. Out on 14th, amid the garish rebellion of wardrobe and coiffure that was the norm among the club-hoppers and pub-crawlers, he stands out, as distinct and out-of-place as an ungraffiti-ed wall, practically begging for attention. But within the confines of the bar, the Bear is as appropriate and comfortable-looking as an old chair might be in someone's den.
As minders and bouncers go, he hardly fits the accepted image. Certainly, he is taller than some, but he has nowhere near the height of others, and his thin build does not bestow confidence in his abilities. He show little readily obvious skill with blade, fists, or other weapons, and, in fact, broadcasts no real intention or potential for violence to the casual observer. But, as any regular at Jack's will tell you, there is something about Beethoven that makes them keep their behavior well into the accepted boundaries of civility. Old Monty, a barfly that sometimes works for Jack, sweeping up and the like, once said, "He's got this look he gives ya, all sleepy-eyed and calm. Ya gotta figure he's like a steamroller behind it!" While many find Monty to be nothing less than a total sot who often takes his pay in beer, they all feel that the Bear is Jack's bouncer for some good reason. A few can even name it.
This particular Tuesday, Beethoven is at his usual place, propped against the doorjamb of the entrance. Jack, an older man that has slid steadily from burly to stocky and was now well into portly, props his prodigious self behind the bar, dispensing his stock with easy familiarity. Occasionally, he will toss a comment back into the kitchen at J.W., the cook, who slaps together a burger or some other fried concoction. The pool tables are filled with the usual action, a collection of part-time players and full-time sharks, mingling under the steady gaze of an aging huckster named John. John is rumored to have been playing pool at Jack's since before Jack's had actually been a part of the City, and the old black man's word is law, as far as the pool sharks are concerned, especially since none of them can beat him. Jack's is neutral territory by John's declaration; only those with express permission can take a mark here. This makes for a much more relaxed atmosphere among the professionals, allowing for an easy banter among rivals and friendly practice, before they journey out to make a living at other pool halls around town.
Beethoven shifts slightly against the door, turning to keep an eye on the club's interior. Sparks reflect off his glasses, and the throaty snarl of an old Fender echoes down from the stage. Kid Lightning holds the guitar in an easy grip, coaxing old blues tunes out of the amp that stands next to him. His hands are wreathed in St. Elmo's Fire as he plays, but if the faerie lights bother the gray-eyed, lanky musician any, he never gives indication. The music just keeps on, cutting through the smoky air and floating just above the hum of the conversation.
"Say hey, Beet! What's shakin'?"
It's Orlando, with a new girl in tow. The pimp is dressed nattily, in a plum-colored silk suit, as is his wont, grinning with false sincerity and chumminess. Beethoven does not like Orlando, and Orlando knows it. It doesn't keep him from sliding into the bar, though. Something that Beethoven cannot allow.
"Orlando," Beethoven surveys the pimp's suit with a barely perceptible pursing of his lips in distaste. On another, such an outfit might work, but with Orlando's flat, ugly face, broad build, and greasy hair, the ork looks like one of those ugly chairs that you always see by the trash, but never in anyone's home. "You want something?"
"From you, my man, nothing. From Jack, I want a cold beer." He starts to step past the bouncer and through the door, his hand latched on the girl' s elbow.
Beethoven pushes away from the doorjamb, blocking passage. "You're not allowed. Jack's rule. You know that." The pursed lips fade into a frown.
Orlando takes a half-step back, his hand held before him in a placating gesture. "Hey, no prob. Jack's the man; he makes the rules. 'S okay if Lora goes in?" He gestures to the girl.
Beethoven's mild gaze shifts. The girl is new; he's never seen her streetwalking on 14th before. Her hair is cut short and spiky, raven black with streaks of color through it. Pale skin accented by the dark lipstick she wears, as well as her dark eyebrows. Her eyes are a deep violet.
"Lora, this is Beethoven, the bouncer here at Jack's," Orlando gestures expansively as he makes introductions, his silver rings winking in the streetlights. "Baddest mofo on the block. Badder even than Moose Martin."
Lora smiles, in that nervous way that announced to all that she had never ever worked the street before. "Hi," she says, in a quiet voice.
Beethoven nods a greeting, and then asks Orlando, "She working?"
Orlando nods, his oiled pompadour bouncing as he does. "Yeah. She just came down to 14th and was looking for some way to get some cash. Naturally, I decided to help her out, being a good guy and all. She needed someplace clean to start, and I thought of Jack's first thing. 'S like I'm always telling the boys, Jack's is-"
"Orlando, shut up," says Beethoven, his tone brooking no argument. He steps back into the bar and catches Jack's attention. Once the large man is looking his way, he gestures through the double doors of the bar to Orlando and Lora. Jack's eyebrows go down at the sight of Orlando, and his lip curls, but when Beethoven motions to the girl, he simply stares at her. After a few minutes of scrutiny, he turns away. Beethoven turns and looks at the girl again, and then steps away.
Orlando's grin broadens into a smile. "Hey, good deal." He turns to Lora. "Okay, sweet, here's the thing. You go in there and work. I'll be back at midnight, so there's no hurry, 'kay? Just be pretty and do that thing."
Lora looks from Orlando to Beethoven to the smoky interior of the bar. "Okay," she says, in tones that indicate that it is not.
Orlando cups her face in his bejeweled hands. "Hey, don't worry. Ain't nobody in there gonna bite ya. Unless ya ask." He chuckles at his own joke. "Just do it like I told ya." He looks up at Beethoven. "Beet here'll look after ya, won'tcha my man?"
Beethoven snorts. "For you, Orlando, anything." The sarcasm is readily apparent in his tone.
"See? 'S cool, baby. Now go on." He gives her a little push, followed up by a swat to her backside, propelling her towards the door. Lora gives him another furtive look, and then steps inside. As she goes, Orlando looks at Beethoven, and says, "Welp, got to get over a few blocks and check on my other girls. Catch ya on the flip-flop, Beet."
"Not if I can help it," responds Beethoven. "And don't call me 'Beet.'"
"Whatever you say, Beet," comes the reply from the pimp as he turns to walk away. Beethoven sighs. Orlando is an annoyance, obeying just enough of the rules to keep him from getting hurt. One of these days, he thinks, the pimp is going to become dead. From a terminal case of mouth.
Beethoven leans back against the doorjamb again, and watches the girl drift into the bar. That really is the word for it; a sort of timid and directionless walk that really doesn't look like it is going anywhere. He watches her move towards the middle of the room, equidistant from the bar, the tables near the stage, and John and the other sharks, and then stop. She looks uncertain as to which direction to go. It being a Tuesday, most of the patrons are playing pool, but there are a few listening to the Kid, and the regular collection of barflies. Beethoven watches her from behind, as her head turns from one destination to another.
Her contemplation and confusion are interrupted by the perpetual motion that is Johnny Redd. Johnny was J.W.'s assistant, partner, or son (depending on whom you asked), as well as the other regular bouncer. When he wasn't at the door, he helped in the kitchen, and, sometimes, he took orders from those that wanted something, but didn't want to get up and go over to talk to Jack. Johnny was constantly moving; even when he was sitting still, his sneakered feet were jittering or his fingers were tapping. A font of boundless energy was Johnny.
He shoots around and past Lora in a blur, expertly maneuvering the tray he holds so that nothing on it shifts. "'Scuse," he chatters, his speedy nature extending to his tongue and blending the 's' into a 'z.' Lora jumps, and spins, watching him like a frightened animal (although Beethoven doubts that any animal, save perhaps the smallest, would be frightened of Johnny, cheery Poster Boy for caffeine, denim, and tennis shoes that he is). Johnny pays her no mind, sliding into the crowd of sharks with a tray full of food, which the pool players snag readily. He lays it out on the table at top speed, spins so fast that his sneakers squeak, and shoots back past her towards the bar with a "Comin' through" to grab the next load. She spins again as he zips by, and Beethoven sees her stumble slightly in her high-heeled shoes.
Recognizing the potential for disastrous spills that she and Johnny equate, Beethoven abandons the door and strides across to room. He intercepts Johnny before he shoots around her again. "Detour," he grunts, and Johnny gives the very briefest of nods and skirts wide around the girl.
The Bear takes her elbow and points her towards the bar. "Sit," he says. She gives him a look like that of an errant child, and then walks to the bar. He follows, sitting on the stool next to her, with his back to the bar so he can watch the room.
Jack places a bottle of bock next to Beethoven's elbow without asking, and then cocks an eye at the girl. Lora returns his gaze blankly, until Beethoven says, "He wants to know if you want something to drink."
Lora glances between the two of them, before saying, in a shaky voice, "A Cape Codder, if you please."
Jack raises an eyebrow at the order, unusual for his clientele. He turns and looks through the window into the kitchen. "J.W." The other man looks up through the service window, his lazy eye wandering slightly. "Cranberry juice?" Jack grunts.
The cook turns away and disappears from sight. After a few moments of noise from the kitchen, a low, slurred drawl answers him. "Ayup." J.W. returns with a plastic bottle filled with dark red liquid, and hands it across into the bar.
A few minutes later, a highball glass filled with cranberry juice and vodka is sitting in front of her. Beethoven observes the drink with a raised eyebrow. "Didn't know you had any highballs, Jack."
"That's 'cause you only drink beer, Bear," is the hairy man's reply.
Beethoven looks down at the bottle in his hand. "Untrue. Sometimes I drink tea."
Jack only grunts in response, which causes Beethoven to smile. Lora watches the exchange with a confused expression. She hadn't expected this kind of reaction. She looks down the bar at the regulars. A collection of beings that are really more interested in their pursuit of inebriation than what she has to offer. Monty spares her a brief, goggle-eyed stare, but only two of his eyes watch her. The other four stare down into his drink. After a moment, the strange winged serpent returns all of his attention to tonight's appetizer in his regular seven-course meal of fermented sugars.
Lora turns and surveys the pool sharks. Despite Johnny's speedy delivery of food, they hadn't stopped their games. Only the old black man sits at the table, surveying the players like a king looks down upon his court. He holds a cup of coffee in one hand, and balanced across one knee and in the crook of his elbow is a beautiful pool stick made of some dark wood, capped with brass. He is talking with a younger man, with red hair and wearing dark glasses. The younger man is standing, even though there are other empty chairs at the table.
Lora sips at her drink, watching the two. They are the only ones near the tables who are not intent on a game. Perhaps they might be a good start, she thinks. She moves to stand ... and finds Beethoven's hand on her arm. She looks over at the man, a question forming on her lips.
He answers it before she can ask. "I wouldn't, if I were you. High John might be sympathetic, but O'Bannion wouldn't. And neither of them would let you go with just a polite refusal. You walk over there, you're going to be in for a time."
"What do you mean?" she asks, but Beethoven goes back to his beer. His tone had been serious, though, and not in jest, so she figures he isn't trying to mess up her first night. And, as she glances back towards the table, she sees that both of the men are watching her. The old black man, High John, Beethoven had called him, raises his cup in greeting and smiles, but the other man, O'Bannion, fixes her with an expressionless stare from behind his dark purple glasses. He stares at her hard, and she is suddenly filled with an inexplicable feeling of dread. She wants to turn away from him, but she finds that she cannot. His stare, even shielded by the glasses, holds her. Fortunately, High John says something, and the other breaks his gaze and turns away, leaving Lora chilled and more than just a little frightened.
She looks over at Beethoven, who is watching her. "Does he do that to everyone?"
"Almost. Don't let it worry you, though. It's just his way."
There is snarl of electronic feedback from the stage, and then the hum of the amplifier cuts out suddenly as the Kid stands and steps down. He lays the guitar onto a stand there with a quiet care, but there is a tension in his walk as he crosses to the bar to take the tumbler filled with whiskey that is waiting for him. He downs half of it in one swallow and then fishes in the pocket of his trenchcoat, pulling forth a small metal tin. He extracts a piece of paper from it and, pulling loose tobacco from a small bag in his other pocket, proceeds to roll himself a cigarette that he lights with a wooden match, also pulled from the tin. All of this is done in rapid succession, displaying proficiency born of long habit. He puffs on the cigarette for a few seconds, before brushing the hair out of his eyes and staring over the top of his cheap shades at the Bear, who is watching him with a small smile on his face, and Lora, who is watching him with that look of confusion that she'd had since she'd sat down. "What?" he asks the bouncer, his Texas drawl thick from the whiskey and tobacco.
"Having trouble?" Beethoven inquires.
The Kid grunts and takes another swallow of the whiskey. "Damn chords won't play out right. It ain't steppin' right."
"You're forcing it."
"Well, no shit," is the taller man's sarcastic reply. "'Course I been forcin' it! It's been two damned weeks, and I can't get past the bloody bridge!"
Beethoven nods. "Never been there, never done that," he says, in a tone that indicates the exact opposite. "You talk to Mel? Or maybe Cora?"
The Kid shakes his head. "Mel's busy working on a show, and Cora's out of town. Besides, this ain't for either of them. I need some power behind this song."
"How 'bout the Feeb?"
The guitarist shakes his head again. "He's with Cora. They won't be back in touch until Lent rolls around. Dion went with 'em too. I think I'm on my own for this one."
"We'll get it," says Beethoven, patting his friend on the shoulder. "You just need to relax. Stop forcing it."
The Kid sighs, takes a drag from his cigarette, and nods. He indicates Lora with a gesture that sends a sprinkle of ash drifting towards the bar. "Whozzis?"
Beethoven glances over at Lora. "This is Lora. She's working."
The Kid looks at her for a moment, and she flashes him a nervous smile. He glances at Beethoven. "One of 'Lando's?"
Beethoven nods. The Kid looks back at her, then sticks his cigarette back in his mouth and extends a hand. "Pleased ta meetcha. Name's Alexander Clark, but most folks call me Kid Lightning. Either'll do."
Lora's smile steadies and she reaches across to take the guitarist's hand. "Nice to meet you, Kid. You play wonde-- ow!" She yanks her hand back and shakes it as if she had just been bitten.
There is a chuckle from among the barflies, and one of them mumbles, "Kid Joybuzzer gets 'em again." The Kid smiles ruefully, and says, "Sorry. Built up a bit of a charge working the strings. 'S not usually that painful."
"'Usually?'" she asks. "You normally have that happen."
"The Kid has something of an... affinity for electricity," says Beethoven. "Runs in the family." He chuckles, and the Kid grins.
Lora digests this comment with about as much comprehension as she had for much of the rest of the dialogue that had followed her entering the bar. She stares down into her drink pensively, watching the rose-tinted liquid reflect the light from the beer sign. She sighs; it is pretty obvious that there wasn't much in the way of business going on here. She wonders if what she'd heard about pimps was true, that they punished their charges for not making enough money. She also wonders what had inspired her to leave home and catch that ride down to 14th Street.
A hand reaches across and lifts her chin until her eyes meet Beethoven's over the top of his sunglasses. "It's okay," he says, in a gentle tone, "don't worry about what happens later. Relax. Have you eaten dinner?"
She shakes her head. Orlando had brought her lunch when he had brought her the dress she was wearing, but she hated fried rice and had only nibbled on it. The thought of food makes her stomach wake up and take notice of the smells coming from the kitchen. It makes its desires all too audible.
Beethoven grins at the growl. "J.W.," he calls into the kitchen. "Whip up a burger for the lady, would you?" He looks back at her. "That work for you?"
She nods, and wonders how she is going to pay for the food. She has a little money, but hardly enough to go on buying her own drinks and dinner. Maybe she can find a john to pay..
When the burger arrives, Jack drops in front of her. Beethoven removes a carnie roll of bills from his pocket and peels off a pair of ones, but he doesn't hand them to the bartender, but rather drops them in an empty jar that sits at the corner of the bar between him and the Kid. The Kid finishes his cigarette, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a coin, which follows the bills into the jar. Lora catches a glimpse of it as it bounces around the interior; it looks like bronze.
Must be the tip jar, she thinks. But then Jack punches a button on the old cash register, popping open the drawer. He extracts another coin, and with a practiced motion, tosses it over his shoulder without looking. The coin drops into the jar neatly. She sees that it is a silver dollar, but cannot, for the life of her, figure why the bartender would tip himself.
Then the smell of the burger hits her nose, and her stomach grumbles again. For the next few minutes, she thinks of nothing but the food. Beethoven smiles at her eagerness. "Good burger?" he asks.
She nods, her mouth full. She swallows, and then says quietly, "I'm not sure if I can pay for this."
Beethoven seems to not hear the question. Instead, he asks, "So, why are you walking for Orlando?"
Lora's face falls. The memory is still too new; the scars haven't healed yet. "They... they didn't want me in Silvertree."
The Kid snorts as he finishes his whiskey. He puts the glass on the bar - where it is almost immediately refilled by Jack - and says, "Fucking bastards."
Beethoven nods. Silvertree, despite being relatively close to 14th Street, is well known as one of the more insular boroughs in Nexus. The elves of Silvertree follow a strict regime of racial purity. Lora's human ancestry is obvious enough that they would have treated her like trash. "Your patron died?"
She nods, swallowing a heavy slug of the Cape Codder for strength. The vodka burns all the way down. She added, by way of explanation, "My uncle."
"And you came here because it was closest?" asks the Kid quietly.
At her nod, Beethoven fills in the rest. "Orlando caught you at the Market, promised you a place to sleep and food. And then exploited the Rites of Hospitality by asking you to do a favor for him?" Silvertree's code of etiquette is as convoluted as only a civilization populated by a long-lived race can be, and the rules governing a host and guest's behavior are well known.
She nods again, staring at the half-eaten hamburger on her plate. All the pain of her uncle's death and his heir's rejection of her as a vassal return. Compounding this is the fresher memory of Orlando's smug face as he told her what he wanted her to do, and the knowledge that, by the rules of the society that she had been raised in, she could not refuse him, even with him not being elf. "How did you know?"
The Kid snorts. "Ugly little bastard's done it before. He and every other sleaze-monkey pimp that uses the Market as their job market." He puffs on his spliff for a minute or two, and exhales noisily, sending a plume of blue smoke down the bar. "Huh. Job market, my skinny white ass. Slave market's more like it. Somebody oughta do something 'bout him. Said it before, and I'll say it again."
"He pays," grunts Jack. "He stays."
The Kid looks less than sanguine about the statement from the man behind the bar, but he doesn't say anything. A quiet falls over the bar, broken only by the noise of people drinking and the clack of billiard balls against each other.
Lora, looking for something to fill the silence, asks the man sitting next to her, "Why do they call you Beethoven?"
The bouncer smiles at this. Rather than answering, he stands and walks to the stage. He seats himself at the upright piano and, with little warning, begins to play. The music is quiet and calm, stately and gentle. Beethoven plays it carefully, but with skill and feeling. A slight smile quirks the right side of his mouth and his eyes are half-closed, not in concentration but in simple enjoyment.
The song is short, no more than five or six minutes long, and Lora thinks that she has heard it before, but cannot place it. She sees several of the barflies pause in their mutterings and conversation and listen, and she notices that even the Kid seems a bit enraptured by the music. The song never rises in volume, but, somehow, it fills the room almost as pervasively as the omnipresent cigarette smoke.
When it ends, it ends as quietly as it began. Beethoven sits at the keys for a moment longer, and then looks up across the room at Lora. "That's why," he says.
"What was that?" she asks, still confused.
"Piano Sonata Number 8 in C Minor, Opus 13," said the Kid. "Also known as 'Pathetique.' By Ludwig von Beethoven."
"Oh," replied Lora. "Oh! Is that yours?" she asks the bouncer. "Did you write it?"
Beethoven laughs. "No, but thank you for the compliment. The original Beethoven did, many, many years before I ever sat at a piano. But he is one of my favorite composers."
"Now," declares the Kid, "play what you normally play in this dump."
Beethoven grins. In a humorous tone, he asked, "Are we cooking then?"
"Maybe," replies the Kid, in the same tone. "Depends on if you can light the pilot."
"Hmm," replies the Bear thoughtfully. He stares at the keys in contemplation for a few minutes, long enough that Lora is just about to ask the Kid what he is doing, but then he starts to play.
It starts fast and light, a happy little beat that is a definite toe-tapper. It sounds like it would go well with horns behind it, but Beethoven makes it jump on just the piano, leaving the electric keyboard that sits across its top alone. After a fast intro, the Bear begins to sing, in a mellow, upbeat tenor:
"When you got no more assurance
Than a great big hunk o' lead.
If you don't respond to romance,
Jack, you're dead."
When a chick is smilin' at you,
Even though there's nothin' said,
You stand there like a statue.
Jack, you're dead."
You been always kickin'
But you stubbed your toes
When you upped and kicked the bucket
Just like Old Man Mose."
When you get no kicks from lovin'
And you blow your top instead,
It's a fact that you ain't livin'.
Jack, you're dead."
He takes the song into a solo, showing off his light touch on the keys. By the smile on his face, it is clear that he loves not only to play, but also to show off. And show off he does, sending the notes soaring in rapid succession. Even without accompaniment, the song is upbeat and jazzy.
Finally, as the bridge runs to a close, he belts out a verse of nonsensical scat, and then cuts into the next real words of the song:
"When you just ain't got nobody,
Since you gone and lost your head,
Rigor mortis's set in, Daddy.
Jack, you're dead."
"What the use of having muscles,
If your life hangs by a thread?
You ain't got no red corpuscles.
Jack, you're dead.
You been always kickin'
But you stubbed your toes
When you upped and kicked the bucket
Just like Old Man Mose."
"When you get no kicks from lovin'
And the news begin to spread,
All the cats will holler, 'Murder!'
Jack, you're dead."
As the song begins to end, he closes it with notes trailing off as the harmony continues and he adds, "All the breath has leaked out of you."
Another few notes and, "When your friends all gather round and say, 'Mmm mmm mmm, don't he look natural?'"
And finally, with the song coming to a jazzy close, he finishes with, "When that happens to you, Daddy . Jack, you're dead!"
There is a smattering of applause from about the room, mostly from the pool sharks led by High John. Beethoven nods to acknowledge the praise, tipping his hat to the old black man, and then fixes the Kid with a challenging glare. "Well?"
The Kid seems to consider for a moment, before responding with a lazy, "Naw. Not what we need."
Lora approaches the piano, and said, "You're very good."
Beethoven takes the praise with another nod of his head. "Thank you. Any requests?"
Lora thinks for a moment, and then looks a little upset. "The only pieces I know are Silvertree madrigals."
Beethoven nods. "I know a few of those," he says. "I'm afraid that I couldn't do them justice on this old girl, though." He pats the battered old upright with affection.
"She still manages to you right, suh."
The bar patrons and staff look up to see a man standing there, having just entered as the song ended. With a swing of the cane he carries, he strides toward the bar with the air of one who belongs.
He is dressed in a sharp, if antiquated, suit. Black wool slacks with knife-edge creases, a frock coat of a brilliant lime green, a waistcoat of green and black woven into a mandala pattern, and a black silk shirt. A flat-crowned, wide-brimmed hat, complete with matching green hatband, sits atop a smiling face with sandy hair. Square-lensed glasses with green lenses reflect the neon of Jack's froggy bar sign. A bolo tie, held by a beautiful opal set in silver that seems to have green highlights, closes the shirt collar, and he olds a walking cane in one hand.
"Not working tonight?" asks Beethoven, smiling.
The man shakes his head. "All my tables are dry as the proverbial bone," he replies in a Georgia accent. "I suppose I could find a penny ante game, if I were in the need of grocery money, but I have not quite reached that level of desperation."
The man continues, "And so, I retire to my regular watering hole, only to find its most excellent doorman and chief tickler of the ivories in conversation with a stunning and radiant beauty." He doffs his hat to Lora and sweeps himself into an elegant bow.
Beethoven motions to the man, saying, "Lora, this is Nathaniel Edward Calhoun. Mister Calhoun, Loralei."
Calhoun steps forward and takes Lora's hand in greeting. "At your service, Miss Loralei." He bends over her hand with the same elegance with which he announced himself.
Lora is unsure how to take this. She looks to Beethoven for answers, but he merely sits at the piano, watching her with a smile on his face. "Um," she says, "thank you?"
Calhoun smiles as well. "My pleasure, dear lady." He offers her his arm, adding, "Come, let us retire to a table and speak of things as if we were old friends. For, I feel, that we will soon be all but that."
"Hey, Calhoun," Kid Lightning from the bar. "We cookin' tonight?"
Calhoun touches his cane to the brim of his hat, and replies, "And a good evening to you too, Mister Clark. My apologies for not greeting you. I was distracted by fresh beauty. I suppose that we might partake of some activity this evening, but we'll need one of our mischievous drummers to make an appearance to complete at least the most minimum of combinations. Until that time, I will be at my regular table, with my regular drink, involved in new conversation." He offers his arm to Lora again.
"Go ahead, Lora," says Beethoven, rising from the piano. I'll see if I can raise one of the Twins. Maybe we can get them over here so we can start cooking."
As the Bear walks over to the bar to see if the phone has decided to work this week, Calhoun gently takes Lora's arm and guides her to a table situated strategically equidistant between the bar, the stage, the jukebox, and the back door. Its surface is old and worn green baize, and a polished box of wood with brass fittings sits on its surface alongside one of the chairs. Calhoun pulls a chair out for her, waits for her to seat herself, and then sits in the chair next to the box.
There is a rush of motion, as Johnny Redd seems to materialize at Calhoun's elbow. He places a tall glass garnished with a sprig of mint in front of the gambler and studies him with a quick glance. "You're the second person I've seen tonight wearing that coat," he remarks.
Calhoun rests his cane on the table and removes his hat as he replies, "Yes, but unlike our poor, blunt, ignorant Orlando, I possess the appropriate sartorial flair and style to wear it without looking like someone tried to dress up a hog. Always remember, style must be taught and practiced; it cannot be acquired through liberal spending."
Johnny digests this for a moment, before responding with, "Whatever," and heading back to the bar.
Calhoun shakes his head, and then turns back to Lora. "And now, my dear," he says, sipping on his drink. "Tell me about yourself."
Lora looks at him uneasily. "W-what do you want to know?"
Calhoun grins. "Why, everything, of course. Where do you come from? Who are your parents? What foul and unpleasant tragedy caused such a genteel beauty as yourself to fall from whatever lofty and choice place of privilege into which you were born? What heartless and dastardly rapscallion put you in such a terrible way that you must put yourself under the not-so-tender patronage of one such as Orlando?" He utters the name of the pimp with a tone that another might reserve for the discovery of something unpleasant on the bottom of their shoes.
There is something in Calhoun's tone, something simple and sincere, hidden beneath the Southern charm and gentility, that makes her tell him. True to his profession, the gambler's face is still, but Lora sees something in his eyes go cold. He reaches for his drink and sips at it, dabbing at his lips with a folded napkin before putting it back down on the card table. "There are people in this city," he says casually, as if he were informing her of the weather, "that are in the business of deal with such faithless individuals, in a variety of manners and severities. I am familiar with several of this sort of person. May I offer them your business, Miss Loralei?"
At first, she is unsure of what he is talking about. Then, she remembers a conversation between her late patron and another, where what she had thought was pleasant conversation turned out to be threats on her patron's life. She remembers her uncle's anger, once the other Silvertree noble had departed. He had calmed as he explained to her what the man had meant, but that hadn't stopped him from making preparations. She suddenly recalls that the other had suffered a fatal accident some few months later. "No," she says. "They were in the right. It is the way of Silvertree."
"The custom of the country," says Calhoun. He smiles sadly. "I am familiar with societies who judge people on standards of so-called "purity" and their ways. Just because it is the way does not mean that it is proper. But, it is your decision, my dear, and I shall stand by it."
"Thank you. You are very kind." She is quiet for the moment, sipping lightly at her drink. The tartness of the cranberry juice is good, but she finds the fierce aftertaste of the vodka less so. She had ordered the drink because she'd heard the name somewhere in the last few days and was curious. She is less so, now, preferring the layered tastes of Silvertree wines.
She places the drink back onto the table and looks at Calhoun. He has been watching her, his gray-blue eyes mild behind the green of his glasses. She wonders if this man wants her, as Orlando said that men would. She wonders what she is supposed to do to find out. She wonders if she wants to.
She opens her mouth to say something, but Calhoun interrupts with, "Do you play gin, Miss Loralei?"
The question derails her current train of thought, and she is at a loss for a moment before remembering her manners, drilled into her by her uncle's staff. "I am unfamiliar with the game, Mr. Calhoun," she says quietly. "I may safely assume that it is played with cards." She gestures to the box on the table.
"Quite so. It is a simple game, but we haven't the proper number for whist or bridge, and I save this," he opens the box to reveal several unopened decks of cards and three stacks of flat disks, colored red, white, and blue, "for people who I don't mind taking money from." Calhoun produces a deck from somewhere in his coat, opens the pack, and begins to shuffle with easy familiarity. He explains the rules to the game, which she does indeed find to be simple, and deals out the two halves of the deck. Each card spun towards her lands exactly in the same space, exactly an inch from her right hand. With a smile that she cannot help but return, given the innocuous nature of the game, he picks up his cards and sorts them. "Ladies first," he says, and after some study, she leads with the Six of Diamonds (although, she notes, that this deck appears to have substituted some sort of flaming stone for the diamond).
She loses the first hand, but not badly. Calhoun explains the scoring system and shows her how many points he gained on that hand. "Don't be discouraged," he adds, almost apologetically, "I do make my living with these cards. They are old friends of mine."
She looks at him, and says, with the first hint of humor that she has shown that evening, "Then perhaps, Mr. Calhoun, we should play with cards that you are less acquainted with."
Calhoun stares at her for a moment and then laughs out loud. "Brava, Miss Loralei. And touche'." He opens the box again and gestures. "Please, pick a deck."
She gestures to one of the unopened decks, and he breaks it open and shuffles. The old deck disappears back into his coat, and the game begins again.
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