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Chapter Text

There were two reasons he drank so heavily on the job. The noise, for one. The chatter and screeching of the clientele built steadily through the night until it became a solid wall pressing into his consciousness on all sides like a trap, until drink became his only escape. The other reason—well. Who was going to notice one more alcoholic in a place like this?

Laszlo swept the nightclub with a dark, melancholy gaze as he sat behind the piano, mindlessly dropping depressive bars of Rachmaninoff into “White Christmas” again, just to see if anybody noticed. Of course, no one ever did. Why should they? People came here to get drunk, not to debate musical theory. It didn’t help that the drunks seemed to view him as a musical plaything, a sort of living jukebox to drop coins into now and again to hear dinky little pop tunes over and over. He hadn’t received a decent request for most of the evening, but the deafening clamor of the holiday revelers persisted as loud as ever. Satisfied that no one was paying him the least attention, he retreated deeper into Rachmaninoff No.2 as his thoughts spiraled into the past.

Maybe Frank’s Bar had been a good place once, even luxurious. Traces of an optimistic pre-war style lingered on in the high vaulted ceiling and clean Deco lines of the dance floor and the unused band riser. Its vanished class clung with difficulty to the darkened interior, all the lights kept low to conceal the drinkers’ shame and the stains of neglect that covered every surface. It was just as well. Frank Forelli was a good enough boss, if possessed of too little business sense and far too much of the absurd. Why the former Air Force captain got it into his head to take up the nightclub racket after the war, no one had any idea, but it was clear that he still had a lot to learn. Laszlo’s gaze wandered towards the front of the house, complete with its ridiculous hat check room and pretentious maître d' stand in the reception area, as if this booze-joint was the sort of place where Philadelphia’s elite shed their mink coats for the night. Maybe it was, once. Or maybe it was always just a step above his last crummy place of employment.

He continued staring blankly towards the doors and the impenetrable inky night beyond, unable to shake the uncomfortable feeling that someone was staring back. What was it the philosopher said about gazing into voids that gazed back at you? He shook his head. Of course there was no one there. He caught the attention of a passing waitress and reached for a shot of scotch, tossing it back without a moment’s hesitation, and immediately motioned for a second one.

“Tough night, Mr. Hartvany?” she said, holding the tray out for him.

“Yeah.” He delicately fondled the second scotch between forefinger and thumb, pondering its depths before placing it on the piano for later. No sense in drowning all his misery at once.

“Well, hang in there. ‘Tis the season!” She laughed at her own non-sequitur and left Laszlo to stew in his own thoughts again.

He continued playing, already numb and curiously detached from the wall of noise that still pressed from all sides, until he happened to notice a customer stagger into view and stuff a crumpled dollar bill into his tip jar. Only it wasn’t the tip jar. Scotch dribbled over the piano as the customer drunkenly stuck his fingers into Laszlo’s drink.

“Hey!” Laszlo snapped, snatching the glass away.

“It won’t fit,” the man slurred, pointing at the money with a worried frown. “See? Won’t fit.”

“Cut that out.” Laszlo fished out the dollar with a disgusted look and dumped out what remained of his contaminated drink. “Well? What do you want?”

“I wanna hear…” The man blinked owlishly, forgetting his request mid-sentence. “I wanna hear that one… oh, oh! Say, you wanna know somethin’? There was somethin’ that came up this morning. And you know what it was?”

“No.” Laszlo didn’t bother to hide his disdain as he turned away to light a fresh cigarette, but the poor dope wasn’t finished yet.

“Nuhhh, I want you to tell me. I said you know what it was, dontcha?”

“What?”

“The thing that came up this morning. What was it?”

“I dunno, what?” Laszlo returned acidly, blowing smoke from his nose.

The man moved closer, grinning with a secret. “The sun,” he giggled.

Oh, boy. For a second, Laszlo believed his eyes would actually roll out of his head. Good job, stupid, he thought. He sighed and resumed his seat at the piano, but the fool attempted to sit down with him, banging away randomly on the high keys.

“Don’t touch that!” Laszlo snarled as he pushed the man off the bench. “I told you to cut it out.”

“Heyyy, I just wanted to… to play it for you,” the man protested, swaying on his feet. “You wanna make somethin’ out of it?”

Laszlo was on the point of saying something rather ill-advised when he caught sight of his boss moving in to investigate. He shut his mouth and let Frank do the talking.

“Hey, take it easy. Everything okay here?” asked Frank, leading the complaining drunk away by the arm. “Come on, buddy, leave my staff alone, will ya? Get going.” He turned back with a questioning look. “How you holding up, Lazzy?”

“Hm? Oh, fine, fine,” Laszlo said with a frown. “Why do you ask?”

Frank shrugged. “No reason. You just seem, I dunno, tired or something. I’m not hearing very much Christmas cheer in the piano section tonight, is all. I told you before about that highbrow stuff,” he joked.

Laszlo dragged on his cigarette. Yeah, Frank told him, all right. Frank would not know music if it bit him in the ass, either.

“Sorry,” he said aloud, not apologetic in the slightest.

“Ah, I’m only kidding,” Frank said, glancing at his watch. “Another hour, and you can go home anyway. Just do your last number with Selene and call it a night, okay?”

Laszlo’s heart did a flip at the mention of her name. Selene. The sole bright spot in this whole disgusting snake-pit.

“Of course,” he said, hating himself for the way his brain turned to mush every single time he thought of her. “Only I thought she had the night off.”

“Nah, that’s tomorrow night. Everybody gets tomorrow night—hell, take the whole week if you feel like it. I’m feeling generous. Say, you got any plans Wednesday evening?”

Laszlo filled his lungs with smoke just to avoid answering for a few seconds. Did the two whiskey bottles in his cabinet count as a plan?

“Uh, yeah,” he finally replied. “I’m sorry, I… I don’t think I can make it to the Christmas party this year.”

“Again? Aw, that’s too bad. Tell you what, why don’t you come to the New Year’s Eve bash instead? It’ll be swell, I invited everybody. Bring your wife, your friends—”

A lonely pang shot through Laszlo’s chest, but he said nothing, and Frank paid no heed.

“Uh oh, here comes Selene now,” laughed Frank. “Well listen, I’ll get going, but think about it, would you? Be seeing you. Don’t forget, have a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year and—”

Laszlo mumbled his vague excuses, not listening to a single word. He watched transfixed as the gorgeous Selene Sharpe approached him in a cinematic dream, all soft focus and starry light. Tall and blond, her hair spun up like gold into a shining crown, the singer glided through the smoky haze, her delicate feet barely touching the dance floor.

“Gimme a light, will you?” Selene draped herself on the piano with her right arm dangling lazily, an unlit cigarette balanced between two painted talons.

Laszlo’s fingers slipped, sweaty on the keys, in his haste to light a match. He followed her movements with a worshipful gaze and traced the shine on her crimson lips as she inhaled the flame and blew out the match in the same breath.

“Hello, Selene,” he said softly. “It’s good to see you—”

“What?” She scowled and held a finger to her ear.

“I said it’s good to see you!”

“Sure, sure.” Selene coughed, sending smoke over his head. “Can we hurry this up? I got things to do.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Laszlo snuffed out what was left of his own cigarette and allowed his hands to move by memory alone upon the piano. It was the same closing number every night: Freddy Martin’s “Symphony.” It was one of scant few popular songs he didn’t mind playing. In fact he had even created his own arrangements of it, just to suit Selene’s sultry voice. As his introduction flowed into the first lines of the song, a spotlight switched on in Laszlo’s imagination and bathed Selene in a holy glow as she sang just for him, and him alone.

Symphony
Symphony of love
Music from above
How does it start?
You walk in
And the song begins
Singing violins start in my heart...

He began to lose himself in it as he had done countless times before. Sure it was corny, but dear God, how good did Selene make it all sound? How closely did the words match his own aching heart?

Then you speak
The melody seems to rise
Then you sigh
It sighs, and it softly dies
Symphony
Sing to me
Then we kiss
And it's clear to me
When you're near to me
You are my symphony
My symphony.

The song ended to piecemeal applause as the bartender made the last call. The drunks began to file out slowly, lurching away like automatons. Laszlo and Selene spent several awkward, silent moments behind the piano, neither one particularly willing to break the fragile thread of music that still tied them, however briefly.

“Well,” Selene finally ventured, shaking herself free. “So long.”

“Are you going to Frank’s Christmas party?” Laszlo asked, his eyes pleading her to stay.

Selene looked down on him from a great height as one might study a particularly grotesque insect from a safe distance. Her lip curled above her cigarette. “No. I don’t think so,” she answered curtly.

“Yeah. Me either,” he said with a smile. “Well listen, in that case, if you’re not going, I was wondering perhaps if you wanted to—”

She sighed heavily. “Look, Laszlo, we’ve been over this before. I’m tired, and I don’t wanna talk about it just now, all right?”

His face fell. “Oh. All right, I’ll see you another time, then. Good night, Selene.”

Dejected, the cloying Symphony still ringing in his ears, Laszlo walked in a daze through the front doors and was slapped back into reality by a cold blast of winter air. Kicking himself, he went back for his coat, only to find the shy hat-check girl had already retrieved it for him. He had somehow managed to walk straight past without even seeing her.

“Thanks,” he muttered, taking his coat and hat. It took him a few seconds to remember the petite girl’s name, and even then he could only recall Frank’s reference to one Miss Reading. He thought harder. Betty, that was it. He caught her eye for a second, and her whole face immediately flushed, sending her gaze straight to the floor. In a hushed, over-enunciated tone that suggested she had practiced saying it many times, she stammered out the season’s greetings:

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Hartvany.”

“I told you I don’t—” Laszlo sharply cut himself off, realizing that he had never actually told her he did not celebrate. Matter of fact, he doubted he had ever spoken to her. This was, now that he thought about it, his first time hearing the poor girl’s voice. Her sad, anxious expression pierced straight through him, and he felt more like a heel than ever.

“Merry Christmas, Betty,” he said more gently, ignoring the sinking feeling in his heart. He did not see Betty bite her own lip to stop her tears spilling over, nor Selene’s mocking, sarcastic smile behind her. Instead he slunk out of the club and blended with all the other shadows of the freezing night, leaving behind the suffocating noise and the garish neon reflecting off the rain-slicked Broad Street.

He didn’t want to go home. What awaited him there, anyway? Just four drab walls and his own destructive thoughts washed down with the sting of liquor. That was all. He continued wandering the streets with no real destination in mind, dimly aware of Center City’s many late-night dangers lurking around every corner, but on this particular night he couldn’t bring himself to care. If some punk decided to mug him, so be it. Hell, he’d welcome a killer stalking him, if it came to that. It’d save him the trouble.

For a long while he paced up and down South Street before ending up on the rail of the Schuylkill River bridge, staring into the dark river below. His nose and ears prickled with intense cold and he pulled his coat collar tight beneath his chin. Even the water looked lethally cold, lapping the shore in pure black icy wavelets, and the rhythmic slap of water upon mud and concrete started to pull his thoughts once more into the abyss. He thought of the ocean, of the deepest fathoms where there was only darkness and crushing pressure. Or perhaps there was peace.

He thought what it would be like to drown. He had read enough to know that drowning was not how it was in movies. Aquatic distress was one thing, but real drowning had no obvious sign, no thrashing, no screams. It was disturbingly quiet. So quiet, in fact, that a person could drown mere feet from shore without anyone else realizing. A drowning man didn’t struggle or kick, or even cling to anything. He simply hung in the water with his mouth open to the sky, gulping down water like a fish, until his lungs filled up and he slipped under the surface without a sound.

“It would be so easy,” he mumbled to no one. His breath curled visibly on the freezing air. “I could do it right now. I could...”

He couldn’t. His fingers tightened white-knuckled on the rail, and he stood unmoving until his hands started to go numb on cold steel. He slowly backed away and looked around, chilled. The unblinking gaze of the night was full upon him, yet not a soul appeared.

Chapter Text

“Why Betty, I believe you’re crying.”

Betty sniffled and wiped her eyes on her sleeve before turning to face Selene, but couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound like denial. She remained silent, watching as Selene smirked and tossed her head in the direction Laszlo had gone.

“If it’s him you’re crying about, don’t bother,” the singer said. “Lousy creep.”

Betty stared at her in fright. The social gulf between them was so astronomically wide, Selene might well have been the indifferent moon goddess herself from on high. What would a goddess have to say to mortals, anyway? Selene failed to take any notice of her confusion and let out a brassy laugh, waving one arm towards the open doors in a grand sarcastic gesture.

“Take a good look, sweetheart! There goes the one and only Laszlo Hartvany. Having graced us with his presence, he slinks away into the night.” She snorted, pulling her wrap tight about her shoulders. “What a load.”

Betty tilted her head imperceptibly. How much did Selene have to drink tonight? She gathered up her things and nervously rolled her winter coat into a tight bundle in her arms.

“I thought he looked so sad,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Selene flicked her long eyelashes towards the ceiling. “Look, honey. You’re young, and you’re new here, so it’s only fair to warn you. But listen good. I won’t say this again.” She raised a stern finger, holding Betty captive in a hard glare. “If I were you, I’d forget all about him. Just forget you ever saw him. Forget you ever heard his name.”

“Why?” Betty threw on her coat and followed in her wake, hastening to get both gloves on before the chill could set in. Selene, luminous in the streetlights, appeared to float above the grime of Broad Street on long pale legs, hardly taking notice of the cold at all. For a long time the distant goddess ignored her question. When she finally deigned to look Betty’s way, it was with the traces of a sneer.

“Get lost,” she said.

Betty lowered her chin, cursing herself for always crying so easy, and started to walk away.

“Wait!” Selene’s voice whipped through the cold air, seizing Betty in her tracks. She looked back.

“I should know better than to tell you this,” Selene muttered. “But I guess you won’t spill. You never talk as it is.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Betty promised. Her own voice sounded as fragile as the brief flurry of snowflakes over the river, ferried on the wind moments before they disappeared.

“Keep in mind that it’s really none of your business,” Selene said icily. “But Laszlo and I used to be an item.” She made a face. “Can you believe it? Can’t you just see me and that gnome together?”

Betty didn’t say anything. Admittedly the mental image was mildly comical. Laszlo did not stand much higher than five feet tall. Selene practically drifted above the clouds.

“I don’t know what it was about him,” Selene continued, not looking at Betty as they passed through the waterfront together. “Maybe I loved him, maybe I didn’t. Maybe I was just killing time. But boy did that creature love me—still does. Goddamned if he’ll ever stop.” She parted her scarlet lips and laughed, sending her heated breath in gusts onto the whistling winds. “He would do anything for me, you know that? I could tell him to jump off that bridge and he’d do it in a second. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers triumphantly before looking away again in scorn. “But where’s the fun in that. He’s such a liar, Betty. You’ve no idea how much of a stinking liar.”

Betty frowned. She couldn’t believe that. A man with such hypnotic dreaming eyes and sensitive music in his heart couldn’t be that much of a liar.

“You don’t believe me,” Selene said, as if reading her thoughts. “Doesn’t matter. He’s a liar, all right. You know the story he gave me? Said he was poised to become the greatest concert pianist in Europe. Studied at the Budapest Conservatory, or some such thing. First in his class, close personal friend to all the musical bigwigs. Top of the world. Then the war broke out. So what does he do? He bums around France for a few years, then England, and finally here. Oh, that’s when he really started slumming it, after he got hungry enough to swallow his pride and start working the nightclub circuit. For years he wouldn’t stop bitching to me about his ruined career and his unrecognized ‘genius.’ And I believed every word.” Selene’s eyes narrowed, heavy with mascara and contempt. “You never saw such an arrogant prick in your life.”

“How awful,” Betty said, almost to herself. “I feel so sorry for him.”

“Don’t,” snapped Selene. “I felt sorry too, and look where it got me. You know he said he would make me famous? Said he’d write whole symphonies for me and we’d perform the world over. Ha! You can see how well that went. That son of a bitch promised me the whole world, and couldn’t even deliver his share of the rent.”

Betty made a timid, strangled sound as she tried desperately to speak, but her throat cinched tight around the dying words. It would have made no difference anyhow. Their conversation was over and might as well have never taken place. Selene’s full attention had been captured by the approaching growl of an engine, and she watched in mounting anticipation as a dark coupe rolled to a stop beneath the streetlights. The driver leaned on the horn, sending up a deafening blast that shook Betty to her core.

“There you are, baby,” the driver grinned.

“Johnny!” Selene’s world-weary expression evaporated in a flash. Her face was radiant as she took her seat beside the smiling man and flipped on the radio, filling the night with the infectious energy of swing.

“Who’s that?” asked Johnny. He jerked his head towards the spot where Betty remained standing, stock-still.

Selene lifted her shoulders in the barest shrug. “Nobody,” she replied.

The coupe sped away and stole the joy of music with it, leaving Betty to stare in brittle silence. Nobody. It wasn’t the first time a stranger had spilled their guts to nobody. People looked at her and saw nobody; an empty vessel to absorb their troubles, a blank page upon which they felt compelled to write their whole life stories. Thus unburdened, they forgot her instantly, leaving her alone and weighted down with a trove of terrible secrets she never asked for. Why? Who would share such things unbidden? Maybe she just had that kind of face.

She remained motionless for a long time, her gaze unaccountably drawn across the river towards the distant Schuylkill bridge as if she expected to see a despairing shadow drop into the waters below. But of course there was nothing.

Chapter Text

Christmas passed like any other Wednesday. Laszlo fully intended to shut himself away for the weekend and finish that cursed symphony once and for all, but each time he worked up the courage to sit behind the blanks in the score, the pages mocked him. Inadequate. Childish. All of it was unsuitable for even the dullest of rank amateurs. He could spend only a few moments at a time looking at the awful thing before hurling it across the room and returning to the cabinet for another whiskey and soda. By the end of the week, both bottles were completely gone.

He decided not to show up for work on Monday. No one would miss him. It wasn’t until Tuesday evening when Frank himself unbelievably showed up at his door to invite him to the New Year’s party, all smiles and end-of-year holiday laughter, that Laszlo finally broke down and agreed to rejoin society. He made himself halfway presentable and slouched in the front seat of Frank’s car. The delicious smell of new leather prickled his nostrils for the entire drive, and he found himself taking deeper breaths just to inhale all of the rare luxurious scent for himself.

“You sure you’re all right, Lazzy?” Frank asked after a long period of silence.

“Oh yes. I’m fine, only…” Laszlo trailed off, staring blankly out of the window.

“Tough week?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m worried about you, you know. Is anything wrong?”

Laszlo didn’t answer. The car radio droned with another news bulletin from abroad, bringing with it more heartrending mental images of a shattered world. He shut his eyes.

“Why did you invite me here, Frank? I’m no good to anyone,” he said.

Frank chuckled. “Now you know that isn’t true.”

“It is!”

“All right, take it easy.”

“Frank, I had a whole weekend to take it easy, and you know what I did? I sat with a blank paper in a quiet room, absolutely nothing else to do all day, and I couldn’t write a note. I don’t know why you thought this would help me, but I can’t do it anymore.”

“Can’t do what?”

“I can’t do any of it. Can’t pretend I know music anymore. I can’t—” His breath came up short when he realized just how loud his voice sounded inside the car, and he slid into quiet melancholy again just as quickly. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Ah,” said Frank. “She’s not giving you any trouble, is she?”

“Oh no, no. Not really. Selene’s very professional. Always the professional.” He slumped lower in his seat. “She hates my guts.”

Frank chuckled. “I can’t fire her just for that, you know.”

“Of course I know. I’m not asking that.”

Frank pulled into the drive and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Lazzy. Forget about her tonight, okay? Find some other girl to talk to. Before you know it, you won’t even want to look at Selene. Just relax and try to have a good time. All right?”

Laszlo frowned, but he promised to try. Mentally he was sizing up the place as they entered. Frank lived on the Main Line, in the sort of lavish Roaring Twenties estate that oozed old generational wealth. At least that’s what Laszlo assumed. He didn’t like to think too hard about where his wages ultimately came from, but it would explain why Frank’s business profits regularly slipped through his fingers like water without much worry or consequence at all. Frank had old money; the nightclub was merely a lark. Just something to do after he emerged unscathed from his glorious military service, flying high in a bomber over the devastation of Dresden and Hamburg and whatever else the Allies had gleefully converted to rubble.

They had to destroy it, Laszlo reminded himself as he passed into the gorgeous tiled foyer. You would prefer the alternative? Of course the answer was no. But just thinking about the sheer scale of loss was enough to bring him to tears.

No tears were allowed tonight, however. This was supposed to be a classy shindig and he was obliged to mask all lingering unhappiness. He still wasn’t very hungry, even after a weekend of ignoring food, but he sampled the hors d’oeuvres out of politeness. The best he could find was an unusually potent batch of rum balls, only because it made for a pleasant head start on the night’s drinking. Things generally improved with drinking, he always found. Even being alone with his thoughts.

In his aimless wandering he found himself drawn to the piano in one corner of the main living room, in front of a floor-length window overlooking a low balcony. He skirted it for a while, pacing away and returning again like a moth circling the flame. He lit a smoke and briefly entertained the idea of leaping off the freezing cold balcony instead, but decided against it for not being nearly high enough off the ground. After a few more drinks, he finally sat down at the bench and began to play hesitant bars of his own incompetent work.

When he looked up again, uneasy with the sensation of being watched, he was surprised to see Betty hanging back in a dim corner. She had seemingly appeared from nowhere, like a skittish cat hiding behind the curtains this whole time. She spoke to no one, and no one noticed her. Their gazes met across the room, and Laszlo read the lonely misery in her face only too well. He smiled at her.

“Hey! Lazzy!” one of the guests interrupted. “Play the Symphony of Love!”

A chorus of agreement went up from several groups at once, urging him to play.

“I can’t play that,” he demurred. “Not without Selene.”

“She’s here!” several guests exclaimed. After some happy commotion and shouting, Selene herself emerged, pushed forward by the rabble. Laszlo’s heart melted again at the sight of her, radiant in a long silver evening gown that spangled clear across the room with a kind of prismatic light. His ardor faded the moment he caught sight of her new beau Johnny grinning away beside her. In a way Johnny looked uncannily like her; a tall and vaguely sinister blond with a long stride and a wide wolfish smile. Laszlo raised a dubious eyebrow as he observed them both. If Germany had won the war (Gott sei Dank, they did not), these two would have no trouble repopulating the entire Fatherland with as many perfect little Aryan clones as anyone could desire. For their sake he hoped they weren’t brother and sister.

“Say, is this a work night or something? I didn’t come here to sing,” Selene teased the crowd. Her smile drained away in an instant when she saw Laszlo behind the piano. She shook her head.

“No. I’m not going to sing it again,” she said to him through her teeth. “You can’t make me, understand?”

“Of course not, Selene,” Laszlo hastened to say. “I’ll play it for them, but you don’t have to sing.”

“You’re damned right. I can’t believe you put them up to this.”

“Me? They wanted to hear it!” he insisted. “I don’t care if I never hear it again.”

The restless crowd called for “Symphony” again, and Laszlo automatically took up the strains. Selene refused to sing, but it didn’t matter. The whole crowd already knew the words and sang together in one noisy voice:

Symphony
Symphony of love
Music from above
How does it start?

Laszlo cringed. Not great, but he couldn’t expect any better from a half-sloshed crowd on New Year’s Eve. He played “Symphony” twice, then some other forgettable tunes upon request, until the crowd moved on to something else. Looking back to the secluded corner where Betty stood the whole time, watching him with a reverent stare, he found that she had disappeared.

He shrugged, putting the poor shy girl out of his mind for now. The singing was less than stellar, but something about playing for a crowd again had loosened him up. For the first time in days he began to hear his own music playing in his head, and the fresh inspiration hit out of nowhere like a truck. A few drinks more and he was feverishly scribbling new bars of music on a cocktail napkin.

“Laszlo, isn’t it? Laszlo Hartman?” a man’s voice called.

“Hmm?” He looked up in annoyance to see Johnny standing over him, just the slightest bit too close.

“Oh. No, it’s Hartvany,” corrected Laszlo, shaking his hand. “You must be Johnny.”

“That’s right. Johnny Mason. How’d you know?”

“Oh, Selene’s mentioned you before.” Hundreds of times, Laszlo wanted to add, but refrained.

“Selene’s told me about you too,” Johnny replied. He craned his neck to examine the scrawls on the cocktail napkin. “What’s that you got there?”

”Oh, just some ideas for my own symphony. I’ve only tried to finish the damn thing for months now.” He laughed to himself, blissfully unaware just how badly he was slurring his words. “Strange, isn’t it. I couldn’t write a thing all week and now—” He paused as Selene breezed past them with a cocktail in hand, her long legs gliding beneath her silken dress.

“And what?” prompted Johnny, taking his sweet time to ogle Selene’s shapely back.

“And uh… now it all comes to me at once.” Laszlo knocked back yet another scotch with a smile.

“Oh, Johnny?” Selene purred, looking over her shoulder. “Come here a minute, won’t you?”

“Sure. Just a second, baby.” Johnny moved uncomfortably closer and leaned on the piano to speak in an undertone. “Listen, buddy. When Selene told me about you, not all the things she said were exactly flattering. Now I know you worked with her for a long time, and I don’t like to assume things about people—”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” Laszlo was really starting to feel his liquor now, and was only disappointed it hadn’t happened sooner. The blissful high was already evaporating with every word Johnny spoke.

“What I mean is, you still have feelings for her, don’t you?”

“None of your business,” Laszlo returned sullenly. He crushed the napkin into his pocket, squeezing it into an ever-tighter wad.

“Look, I’m not gonna argue about it. I’m just telling you to lay off her, all right? Quit staring at her all the time. She doesn’t like it.”

“Oh? Only you are allowed to stare at her, is that it?”

Johnny bristled. “Stay away from my girl, Hartvany. Don’t make me say it again.”

“Who are you to tell me that, anyway?” Laszlo exclaimed. “I’ll stare at her, I’ll talk to her any time I like. I’ll show you right now.”

Without waiting for Johnny’s objection he marched straight over to Selene. His goddess stood like a white marble statue in an ancient temple, poised elegantly with her back towards him. She turned, awaiting Johnny with a warm smile, but at the sight of Laszlo her face froze into an unreadable mask.

“Hello, Selene,” Laszlo said thickly. “Oh Selene, darling, you look especially beautiful here tonight in the moonlight.”

Selene shot him a puzzled look. It took her a few seconds to realize she happened to be standing beneath an oddly luminous glass ceiling fixture.

“Listen, I meant to tell you something earlier, but... did anyone ever tell you that you look like Rita Hayworth? I mean if Rita Hayworth was a blond,” Laszlo went on, grinning stupidly. “Of course she always looks good, no matter what color she’s wearing. Or not wearing...”

Selene wrinkled her nose. “Shut up, Laszlo. You’re drunk,” she said. She turned her back on him with a withering look, but Laszlo wasn’t quite finished making a fool of himself.

“Of course I am drunk,” he slurred. “I am always drunk, but it doesn’t mean I am blind. Johnny can try to keep me away, but you know I still love you. Don’t you understand that?”

He reached for her hand, his movements so impaired by drink that it felt as though he was pushing uselessly through a thick curtain. His clumsy fingers grazed her hip instead and she instantly recoiled.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed.

“I mean it, Selene. Please look at me. I just want to talk to you.”

“I told you to shut up!”

Other guests were starting to turn around, watching Laszlo’s temper turn on a dime. A sudden fire raged in his belly as he rounded on Selene.

“Why are you so cruel to me, woman?” he burst out. “You and that Johnny of yours. It’s not right that you should see all these other men, not when I am still here.”

“C’mon, buddy, let’s go. Now.” With a grim look, Johnny took hold of Laszlo’s arm and started to lead him away, only to dodge as Laszlo took a poorly-aimed swipe at him.

“Take your hands off me!” Laszlo growled. He pulled free with a violent jerk. “I told you I’d talk to her if I want.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t want to talk to you. You heard what she said, little man, now get out of here.” Johnny’s front teeth gleamed in a thinly-veiled snarl.

“No, I won’t! What are you gonna do about it anyway, you—”

Laszlo lunged forward just as the room tilted around him, and a solid bolt of pain knocked through his jaw. Next thing he knew he was on the floor.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, buddy!” Johnny loomed over him, rubbing his knuckles.

Laszlo’s head swam as he tried to sit up. An unpleasant metallic taste trickled into his mouth. “Where’s Frank?” he murmured blearily, licking the blood from his lip. “Where is he?”

“He’s upstairs,” sneered Johnny. He flung Laszlo’s hat and coat at him before roughly hauling him to his unsteady feet. “And if I were you, I’d get the hell out of here before he figures out what kind of idiots are working for him. You had a pretty good thing going, Hartvany, and you have to throw it away every time. I never believed half the stuff Selene’s told me about you, until now! Frank’s a good man to hire charity cases like you, and believe me, that’s the best you can ever hope for, you lousy drunk.”

Laszlo absorbed the abuse silently, wishing for the walls to finally close in on him and grind him into unworthy dust. His face crumpled as he stared pitifully at the unapproachable Selene, her icy gaze fixed on him in loathing.

“And stay away from her, understand?” Johnny went on, shaking a finger at Selene. “I don’t want you anywhere near her from now on!”

Laszlo meekly nodded and turned to go. “Selene,” he said softly. “Please forgive me. I’m sorry...”

Without the slightest change in her expression, Selene coolly poured her cocktail glass over his head.

Raucous laughter followed him all the way out the front door. He staggered into the cold night with alcohol seeping under his collar, his eyes bulging wide and unseeing as he fled. On some level he was aware of a distant voice shouting his name, but he no longer cared. It seemed to him that the lighted windows of every rich estate were watching him, glowering disapprovingly at his passing. He did not belong and he knew it; the rich masters of the Main Line knew it, but without the use of Frank’s car there was no hope of escape.

It was midnight. All around him he could hear an asynchronous countdown to the new year, each home awaiting the last hour by the motions of a different clock, until the whole neighborhood sang with a joy that had forever been denied him. Unaccountable grief rose into his throat. He wanted to collapse in some secluded spot among the towering beech and oak trees that cloaked every estate in leafy darkness, but he suspected even the earth itself would cast him out. He kept moving.

Time stretched into the distance. He still had no idea where he was going. The occasional car sped by and honked at him as he stumbled all over the road. The whole way he could not shake the feeling of being watched, and at one point he thought he heard a soft voice at his back that shocked him to a new peak of fear.

“Leave me alone!” he screamed, lashing out against nothing in the dark.

No one answered him. The shadowy presence remained. Panicking, he stirred himself to a broken run. The cold air bit his aching lungs the whole way up and down the twisting suburban roads until, by some miracle, he crested a hill and the enclave parted into a wide open thoroughfare. The hum of electricity buzzed down on him from tall light poles along an endless track, and the painted sign that greeted him—ARDMORE STATION—was the message of salvation itself.

His laugh burst from him like a sob as he lurched closer to the tracks. Thoughts of tickets and the late night ride back to Philly swirled in his head as he struggled to count the change in his pockets, when a new idea sideswiped him. He didn’t have to ride all the way back to Philly. The answer to every one of his problems was right in front of him the whole time. Hardly daring to breathe, he dragged his gaze left, and his heart thumped harder at the approach of a single starry light. For a long time it appeared not to move at all, suspended in slow motion at the far end of the middle track. He watched it grow brighter. A vibration shuddered through the concrete under his feet. The chain-link fence rattled steadily louder. He took a step forward.

“Laszlo!” a voice shrieked.

He ignored it. The sound of his name and his own jackhammering heart was drowned out by the warning horn of the express train, three roaring blasts in rapid succession. Another step. His forehead began to pour cold sweat as his heels teetered on the platform’s edge. He could do it this time. It would be so quick, much quicker than drowning. Just a split second of white-hot agony before his body mangled into some new shape that no longer knew pain; something incapable of grief. He stole one last look and shut his eyes tight. Wasn’t it strange how massive a train appeared at full speed. Nothing in the world could hope to stop it. The clatter of wheels devoured the track as the train bellowed out a final warning. It would be upon him before he knew it.

One second. Two—

The wind howled in his ears and the cold hard ground rushed up to greet him, but the only thing he sensed was falling, endless falling into a dark pit, until the screaming finally stopped.

Chapter Text

He thought of home. A memory came to him of basking in the hot summer field where the dark mountains loomed above, eternal and unfathomable. He spent hours in a sun-drenched trance mediating on the white horses below him in the valley. The whole herd galloped this way and that in an orchestrated dance as they chased the undulating wind in the long grass. Far away he heard the Puli dog bark, and with renewed purpose he leapt to his feet to run and play with it. All the while he gleefully chased after the startled butterflies that flitted away from him in all directions. When he managed to catch one between his cupped hands, its colorful wings beat against his palms like a frightened heartbeat until he let it go. Gentle music drifted on the wind as he watched the butterfly soar upwards and away. As the sun set, his mother’s voice sang a sweet and mysterious lullaby to call him home. He tried to call back and suddenly found that he could not move. The sky darkened, a wicked pain blossomed in his head, and his whole body threatened to mercilessly tear apart—

He jerked awake and the singing abruptly stopped. The pain did not.

“Ohh—oh, God, my head.” Laszlo squeezed his eyes shut. It felt like his brain was trying to split in two; a lightning bolt striking repeatedly through his temples with each heartbeat. He sat up by slow degrees, clutching his aching skull, and discovered a new problem: there was a considerable weight resting on his chest. He cautiously slid one eye open and was greeted by a sleek, pure black cat, curled quite comfortably on him as if he were just another couch cushion. It blinked at him slowly with huge, otherworldly pale eyes, and for one superstitious second he wondered if he was still dreaming or if he was really dead. He reconsidered. No, not dead. After death there ought to be be considerably less pain involved. He reached out to pet the cat and found it was reassuringly real.

“Hey, kitten,” he murmured as the animal purred at him. “Where did you come from, hm? Did you come to see me? Yes, you’re a good kitty, aren’t you.”

“You talking to me?” said a friendly female voice behind him.

“Oh, I, uh…” Laszlo tried to sit up again and winced as his head pounded even more. “No, I was talking to the cat.”

The voice laughed. “She’s never this friendly with strangers. I think she likes you.”

A petite, dark-haired young woman stepped into view to gather the cat in her arms. She nuzzled it under her chin and stared at Laszlo in silence for a long moment.

“Happy New Year, Mr. Hartvany,” she added softly.

“Betty?” Laszlo frowned, still trying to fit all the missing pieces into place. “How did you get here?”

“I live here.”

Examining his surroundings for the first time, Laszlo realized this was assuredly not his apartment, and he had no memory of his arrival. A thousand dreadful possibilities flashed through his mind.

“Did I come home with you?” he asked.

“You don’t remember?”

He shook his head slowly, feeling like it weighed a hundred pounds. “I don’t remember anything. How much did I drink?”

“A lot,” admitted Betty. “Must be some hangover.”

“You can say that again.” He let his head flop back onto the cushion, dizziness swirling behind his closed eyes. “I’m so sorry. I hope I didn’t do anything… you know.”

Betty hid a smile. “You mean, something other than jumping in front of a train?”

He turned away with a regretful look. The dreadful, if blurry memory of the night before returned in force. “Should have just let me jump,” he muttered.

“Oh, please don’t say that. It’s a good thing you fainted before you could do it.”

“Yeah. Just my luck.” He gathered enough strength to roll over but couldn’t seem to right himself. “How did you say I got here?”

Betty looked evasive. “I didn’t.”

“Well?” he demanded.

She lowered her eyes, blushing furiously. “I lied to a cop.”

He gaped at her. “You what?”

“What I mean is, I told the cop I was trying to bring my husband home. I was afraid he would try to arrest you, but he was real nice about it. He offered to drive us home, and I didn’t know where you lived, so...”

Laszlo rubbed his face in disbelief. “You convinced the police that we were married?”

Betty gave a solemn nod. “They don’t question much on New Year’s Eve, I guess.”

He scratched his jaw, irritated by the sandpaper rasp of his stubble. “Amazing,” he muttered. “What time is it?”

“Six o’clock,” she said. She let the cat jump from her arms, smiling as it alighted on the floor without a sound.

Laszlo squinted out of the window blinds. The view outside was suspiciously dark. “Six in the morning?”

She shook her head. “Six at night.”

“But that means I was out for—”

“About eighteen hours.”

“Oh, no.” He swallowed in a cotton-dry throat, feeling his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. “Forgive me, Betty. I’d better be going now. I should—”

He broke off, reeling with a fresh stab of pain to the head. Before he could protest, Betty was reaching for him, gently easing him back onto the couch.

“Don’t go,” she begged. “You’re in no shape to go anywhere. Just rest. I’ll get you some water.”

She filled a cold glass from the tap and he gulped it down, grateful for some relief to his parched throat, but it also reminded him of how badly he needed to take a piss. Thankfully Betty was kind enough to help him to his feet and point him in the direction of the bathroom. Upon his return, feeling considerably lighter, he collapsed into his seat and waited for the stars to quit dancing in front of his eyes.

“You got any liquor?” he asked as Betty refilled his glass.

She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t drink.”

“Wonderful,” he sighed. “I’m ‘married’ to the one girl in Philly who doesn’t drink.” He shut his eyes and dug his fingers into his scalp. “Oh well, it’s not your fault. At least it means you won’t end up like me. Why is that the only thing for a hangover, huh? More of the thing that gave you the hangover? Nature’s sick little joke, I guess.”

Betty smiled. “That’s no way to get rid of a hangover. What you need is plenty of water, and something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered from habit, but was increasingly aware of a familiar and enticing smell of spice.

“Oh. That’s too bad,” she said. “I made dinner while you were asleep.”

“You did?” He hooked an arm over the back of the couch and turned around, peering into the narrowest little galley kitchen he had ever seen. There wasn’t even a real stovetop, just an undersized hotplate precariously balancing a huge bubbling soup pot.

“It’s goulash,” Betty said in answer to his questioning look. “I thought you might like it.”

His mouth watered. “You made gulyás... for me?” he said.

“Mm-hm. I hope it turned out all right. I never made it before and I couldn’t get a real authentic Hungarian recipe and—” She nervously bit her lip. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to.”

He was seriously starting to reconsider his refusal. Truth be told, his stomach already made the decision for him and he was suddenly ravenous for it.

“Betty, for shame,” he said impishly.

“W-what?”

“You tell a cop that we’re married, you bring me here without asking, you cook my own national dish for me, and now you say it is not ‘authentic’?” He held her gaze for a moment longer and grinned. “Of course I want some.”

She beamed with relief. “Really?”

“Really.” He bowed his head lightly. “I would be honored.”

Never had he been more grateful for the end of wartime rationing. When was the last time he had this much sour cream and butter, real butter? The egg noodles glistened with a sheen of it as Betty ladled over the spicy beef and vegetables, hot with abundant paprika and garlic. A harsher critic than he might have cast doubt on the inclusion of diced potatoes and a thin tomato broth, or otherwise questioned its “authenticity,” whatever that meant. Maybe he was just hungry. But it had to count for something when the first rich, savory bite almost brought him to tears. It made him remember his dream again. It tasted like home.

He devoured the first bowl rather quicker than he intended and Betty happily supplied him with another. For a while they sat on opposite ends of the couch and continued eating in near-silence, glancing at each other. With the edge taken off hunger, he mused to himself how clear it was that a gentle woman lived here, a quiet soul who managed to carve out her own refuge deep in the city’s filthy, corrupted heart. Anyone who could do that was far stronger than she appeared.

He finished his second helping and had never felt so warm before. He had forgotten what it felt like to relax, warmed from the inside not with whiskey, but with an achingly full belly of good nutritious food, satisfied all the way down to the tips of his fingers and toes. He asked if he could smoke and Betty allowed it, even accepting a cigarette for herself, but he had to smile knowingly at how much she coughed before setting it aside after a few puffs. Bless her for trying.

“Oh, look who’s back,” he said fondly, as the pale-eyed cat reappeared and jumped atop the coffee table to lick the empty bowls. “What’s her name?”

“Nyx,” answered Betty. “She’s Queen of the Night and mother of all things dark and terrible. But I call her Nixie.” She made affectionate kissy noises at the dread goddess, who meowed.

Laszlo smiled. “Well, she’s very sweet. You both live alone here?” he asked, striking a match for another cigarette.

“I used to have a roommate,” Betty said. “But she moved away. Now it’s just me and Nixie.”

“Doesn’t it get lonely?”

“No, not really. She’s all the company I need. And my books.” She waved her hand towards a number of recessed wall shelves, crammed with all manner of literature. What didn’t fit on the wall was packed into a series of cardboard fruit crates, stacked neatly one on top of the other in a kind of poor man’s bookshelf. “My roommate always said I read too much and don’t talk enough.”

“That is much better than the opposite,” Laszlo chuckled. He reached over to pick up a well-worn copy of E.A. Poe’s stories from the end table and idly leafed through the pages. “But you have to admit, you are very quiet. This is the most I have ever heard you say.”

“It’s true. I don’t like to talk in front of everybody. Nobody listens to me anyway. But it’s easy to talk to you.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

She smiled bashfully. “I wish I’d had the nerve to talk to you before. Instead I used to imagine all the reasons why I couldn’t. I’d make up the craziest stories about you, too.”

“Oh? What kind of stories?”

“Oh, things like... maybe our piano player is really a disgraced Hungarian nobleman, fleeing Europe for his many indiscretions, and forced to start a new life in America. Or maybe he killed someone, and he’s on the run from the law, only it was all in self-defense and nobody would believe him. You know. Silly things like that.”

It took some effort not to laugh too hard at the “disgraced nobleman” scenario. “That’s very good,” he said, declining to mention that, as far as he was aware, his own family were little more than peasants all the way down.

She glanced away, reddening. “Not really. I watch too many movies.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but the truth is somewhat less interesting. Unfortunately, I am not a nobleman. And I’m no murderer either.” His smile faded. “I’m not even a decent suicide. I guess you saw that last night.”

She nodded in sympathy. “Have you tried to do that before?”

“No.” He lifted the cigarette to his lips and breathed deep. “But I thought about it. I thought about it almost every day, ever since I first came to this country. I used to think for hours about all the possible ways to end it all. Oh, there are so many. So many, in fact, that I couldn’t decide which way was better. Should I take sleeping pills? No, that was too easy. Maybe a gun in my mouth? Well, for a long time I couldn’t afford a gun. Then I thought, perhaps a nice sharp knife to the gut. Hara-kiri, as the Japanese might say?” He made a fist, miming the deep horizontal cut through his stomach. Then he shrugged. “But then I thought it might be too painful.”

She winced. “You didn’t really want to do that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I did. It always sounds so simple at first, doesn’t it? That is, until I start thinking about how it could all go wrong. Maybe it would be too slow. Maybe it wouldn’t work at all, and I’d be in agony for the rest of my miserable life. And that would defeat the whole point, wouldn’t it?” He sighed. “That’s probably the only reason I’m still alive. I think too much. I drink too much. And I’m gloomy and no one wants to be around me. Least of all a nice girl like you.”

“I like being with you,” she said.

“Dunno why.”

“Maybe it’s because I understand where you’re coming from. I think about it on the subway.”

“Huh?” He watched with concern as she gripped her own fingers tight.

“I mean, you’re not the only one who thinks about their own death. I think about it a lot. I think about what it must be like being dead, and how peaceful it is. There’s no pain. Nobody making fun of you. I think about it whenever I stand on the subway platform. When the train comes, there’s that rush of warm air in your face, and the lights blind you, and you stand with your toes lined up with the edge and you think, just for a second, that all someone has to do is push…”

Her bright eyes quickly filled up with tears, and her voice cracked. “I never did it, though. It’s stupid, but I always think how it would inconvenience the other passengers. They would only be angry with me if I made them late.”

“That’s true. And besides, there’s all that blood to clean up,” Laszlo added slyly. He almost regretted saying it a second later, but was grateful to see that his gallows humor made her smile.

“Right. And then there’s the paperwork,” Betty added with a giggle. She wiped her eyes on a napkin, solemn again. “I never told anybody about that before. But we shouldn’t joke about it. It’s not right.”

“Maybe.” He stared into space. “Only I don’t know what is right anymore. I don’t care about me, but you... you’re too young to have such thoughts. Pretty girls like you shouldn’t be so sad.”

“Pretty?” she blurted. She studied his warm expression closely before lowering her gaze. “No, you’re just saying that.”

“I mean it,” Laszlo insisted, but Betty shook her head.

“You don’t have to lie. I know I’m not pretty. Not like Selene.”

His heart jumped at the mention of her name, even as he scoffed. “Pfft, Selene. Who needs her?”

“You do. I know you do. I see the way you look at her every night. You still love her.”

He looked away sullenly, pretending to brush nonexistent cigarette ash off his knee.

“It’s not that I mind,” Betty hastened to add. “She’s very beautiful and I can’t blame anyone for being in love with her. But anyone can see that she doesn’t care about you. Especially after what she did last night.”

“Yeah, well. That’s my business,” he said. “Just as it’s my business if I want to kill myself. Then maybe we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“But you shouldn’t let her treat you that way.”

“I told you, I don’t really care. Not about her or anyone else.” He frowned, breathing twin jets of smoke through his nose in irritation. “Least of all me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Betty lift her hand and move it closer to his own, but she thought better of it and pulled away before their fingers touched. He offered no comment. He was starting to feel quite drowsy by now and it was a struggle just to keep his eyes open. It was only too bad he had to return to his own place sooner or later. He leaned forward to stub out his cigarette and said:

“Betty, you have been very kind to me and I don’t really know why. God knows I didn’t deserve it. But I thank you.”

“Oh. That’s all right,” she said. She seemed on the point of asking him something but remained worryingly silent as she stroked Nyx’s fur.

“Anyway, I should be getting back. I won’t take up any more of your evening.”

“Oh, you don’t have to go,” she insisted. “How’s your head?”

He stretched and rubbed the back of his neck. The headache was still there, but had mostly faded to a dull soreness. He was certain he could walk to the nearest bus stop on his own. “Much better,” he assured her.

“That’s good. Of course you’re welcome to stay here, if you want to,” she hinted again.

He shook his head politely. Sure it was tempting, but sober, he knew better. “That’s very kind, but I couldn’t,” he said. “Perhaps we can meet again sometime.”

“All right.” She accompanied him down the short flight of stairs to her apartment door. “You know where to find me.”

He laughed. “Sure. I’ll see you at the club.”

“Be safe, Mr. Hartvany,” she said, holding his coat for him on the open threshold.

The indoor warmth ebbed into the icy night in a rush, stealing their breath away. He shrugged on his coat and felt her timid hand linger on his shoulder, feather-light. After a moment’s hesitation he turned back, took her hand and kissed it, and was charmed to see how deeply she blushed.

“Please,” he said. “Call me Laszlo.”

Chapter Text

Angry footsteps announced Selene’s arrival long before Betty ever saw her. The singer stalked through the front doors of the club the following night, scowling and red-eyed under an extra layer of mascara and powder.

“Evening, Miss Sharpe,” said Betty, marking her page before swiftly hiding the paperback under the counter. Her courteous smile faded as Selene shot her a surly look.

“Are you feeling all right?” Betty asked timidly.

Selene’s nostrils flared. She offered no reply except to fling her wrap onto the counter and storm past without breaking stride, heels rapping across the empty dance floor.

Betty peered after her, carefully arranging the white fur wrap on a hanger. She ran her fingers several times through the silky smooth material and waited until Selene was safely out of earshot.

“Hangover,” she whispered to no one. A tiny smile crossed her lips and she thanked her lucky stars that among her many problems, alcohol was not one of them. She grew absorbed in reading again until a familiar soft voice came out of the cold:

“Hello, Betty.”

She looked up in surprise. She normally prided herself on her good ears, but Laszlo had managed to appear unnoticed on quiet cat feet.

“Oh! Hello, Mr. Hart—I mean, Laszlo,” she said shyly. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

“I am, thank you.” The perpetual shadows beneath his eyes were deep and tired, but far less filled with despair this night. “I hope I’m not interrupting your reading,” he said, taking off his coat.

“No, not at all. It’s a slow night.”

“So it is. Luckily we get paid just the same.”

“That’s true,” she said, smoothing out his rumpled coat on the hanger. “Oh! Before I forget. I have something for you.”

“Oh? What is it?”

Betty looked through her own coat pockets and pulled out a badly crumpled cocktail napkin. She unfolded it on the counter and showed him the smudged lines of musical notes.

“Here. I found this on the floor after you left my place. It must have fallen out of your pocket,” she explained. “I thought it might be important, only I can’t read music.”

Laszlo took one glance at the tattered napkin and flicked it away with a look of disdain. “And I cannot write it,” he said. “You may throw that into the trash where it belongs.”

She hesitated. “Are you sure? You might find a use for it after all.”

“I very much doubt it.”

“Couldn’t I hear what it sounds like first?”

His eyes darkened. “I’m sorry, but no. It is not ready yet. I am not sure it will ever be ready.”

“Oh.” She put it away under the counter, not quite willing to discard it just yet. There was a long pause as he studied her from under a furrowed brow.

“Do you like concert music?” he asked seriously.

“Yes.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

She weighed her choices with difficulty. “I don’t know. I like Ravel, and Stravinsky, and Dvořák. And so many others. I can’t decide.”

“You have good taste.” His expression softened in a wistful smile. “I tell you what. You make the requests tonight. I can play anything, by any composer in Europe. Name it and I’ll play it for you.”

“Really?” Her heart fluttered. It was akin to finding a genie willing to grant a single wish. She soon recalled a remarkable piano performance on the radio some nights ago, except she could not remember the name of the piece, only the announcer’s mention of Edvard Grieg.

“Did Grieg write anything for piano?” she asked.

His face lit up. “Yes, he did. Just one; the Concerto in A minor. How did you know I liked that one?”

“I didn’t,” she laughed. “It was on the radio. Could you play that for me?”

“Miss Reading.” He bowed low and beckoned her to follow into the lounge. “It would be my pleasure.”

Her eyes darted nervously towards the dance floor. “Oh, I shouldn’t go in. What if Mr. Forelli shows up?”

Laszlo smirked. “Mr. Forelli can hang up his own damn coat,” he replied, gently taking her by the hand. “Anyway, I don’t think he’s coming. Like you said, it’s a slow night.”

She accepted his arm, starting to wonder if she was walking in a dream. The shabby nightclub took on a brighter quality as they passed into the lounge together, revealing a glimmer of something almost magical behind the cheap exterior. Even more unreal, they practically had the whole place to themselves. Only the bartender and a weary Selene remained, sharing cocktails with the few incurable barflies who managed to make it out of doors tonight. Maybe the whole city was nursing its collective hangover. She tensed as Laszlo led her past the bar and passed dangerously close to Selene. She braced herself for a confrontation, but the two performers did not speak. They shared an icy staring contest in the barroom mirror before pretending that the other did not exist.

“You’re not performing with her tonight, are you?” Betty whispered.

“Not a chance,” he muttered, settling behind the piano. “Now then. The lady would like to hear Grieg’s piano concerto, yes?”

Betty nodded. Her cheeks went intensely warm all of a sudden and she didn’t know why.

“Then you might as well get comfortable. You’ll be stuck listening for about half an hour,” he said slyly. “Last chance to request something else?”

She sat down at the nearest table and firmly shook her head. “I would love to hear it.”

“Very well. But I warn you, it sounds better with a full orchestra.”

He flexed his fingers and took a moment of meditative quiet for himself before he touched the keys, plunging straight into the descending opening passage with a focus Betty had never seen in him before. His sudden energy shocked the place. The stupefied patrons stirred themselves; the downtrodden dance floor seemed to shake itself free at the sound of something real and alive, at turns melancholy, thundering, romantic. She watched his dark eyes cloud over as he played, staring far away into a dream only he could see. It was no ordinary dream. She could almost believe it was a dream of the whole world, of every person and everything in it, and if he were to die and awaken into a new reality, all things in this world would instantly cease to exist. Didn’t the Hindus believe something like that? Where had she read before that the god Vishnu dreams, and in dreaming sustains the entire universe?

Don’t ever die, Laszlo, she thought. Don’t let all the rest of us die too.

She scarcely noticed the passage of time until the piece was over. A frisson went up her back as the music reached its passionate conclusion and Laszlo pounded out the final bars with a look of triumph, transported away to another world, before he reluctantly came back to earth again. His shoulders sank down to their usual glum posture as he rested his hands in his lap, and a look of gratitude washed over him from the moment Betty broke into applause. He stood and bowed to her.

Their joy lasted but a fragile moment. A louder, more sarcastic sort of clapping intruded from the other side of the dance floor.

“Oh, bravo, Maestro.” Selene swaggered closer with a boozy smirk, raising her martini glass on high. “You just couldn't resist playing for me again, could you.”

Laszlo turned his back, searching his pocket for a cigarette. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he muttered.

Selene pouted. “Well! Has the great Hartvany already found someone else? Or do I not look pretty enough in the moonlight this evening?”

Betty froze in her seat. She could only watch as Laszlo struck a match, careful to keep his back towards Selene at all times, but the singer drew close with her own cigarette and stole the flame first. She coldly stared him down and exhaled smoke straight into his face.

He recoiled. “Get away from me, woman. You’re the one who is drunk tonight,” Laszlo snapped. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“Is that so? You had plenty to say last time. But perhaps you finally realized that you need someone more… motherly.” Selene gave Betty the once-over with a tiger’s gaze. “Yes, the musical genius needs a girl who’ll listen to him and keep him warm at night. A girl to sing for him and soothe his troubled soul. Is that it, Laszlo?”

His face was livid. Betty could practically feel the hostility radiating from him as she reached for his arm. “Don’t listen to her,” she whispered.

“See? You’re off to a swell start already,” Selene chuckled, gulping the rest of her drink. “Well, I got news for you, honey. Pretty soon Lover Boy won’t have a job here anymore. Johnny and I are going to buy this place.”

“You what?” Laszlo barked.

“That’s right. Why, I believe Johnny’s talking it over with Frank right now. With any luck, I won’t have to sing for a lousy has-been with delusions of grandeur anymore. I’m going to own a real nightclub. A real swinging joint for everybody who’s anybody. But not you, Laszlo. You’re through.”

“You’re lying,” he spat. “Frank would have told me if he was going to sell the place.”

“Oh, I see. You think Frank would discuss his business with you, after you made such a spectacle of yourself in his own home? Wise up. This place is dead. Frank’s been thinking of cashing out for months now, and Johnny made him a decent offer, that’s all. A new year and a new beginning. I’m sure Frank would let you know sooner or later—that is, if he was still feeling charitable.”

The more Selene needled him, the more Betty began to doubt. The unease gnawed at her, burning in her chest like acid for every moment she remained silent, until she was fit to burst.

“You can’t fire him,” Betty piped up. Her voice squeaked more than she thought it would and she was frightened into silence again.

“Oh, so it does talk. And why shouldn’t I fire him? You think I have to answer to you?” Selene sneered.

“Leave her alone.” Laszlo spoke dangerously low.

“Oh I will, Laszlo. I’ll leave her alone, all right.”

“Is that a threat?” he demanded.

Selene looked smug as she drifted back towards the bar without a reply.

“Never mind,” Betty whispered. She tugged softly at his arm to lead him away. “Don’t listen to her, she didn’t mean it.”

They stepped out for some fresh air and went around the block a couple times, shivering in the face of a bitter wind that sliced through the smallest gaps in their coats. Minutes ticked by and Laszlo seemed no less aggrieved than before.

“She did mean it,” he finally said. “She’s always been that way.”

“Why does she say such terrible things about you?” Betty’s fingers were starting to go numb and her teeth chattered, but she remained at his side as they stared across the water together, squinting into the wind until their eyes leaked.

“Because it’s true. I treated her badly. I could never give her what she wanted. I tried and tried, and each time I failed.” He buried his face deeper in the upturned collar of his coat. “People in this country get rich writing worthless garbage in five minutes. I studied my whole life and look where it got me. She never let me forget it.”

“But she doesn’t care about you. I think you’re a good man. A decent man,” Betty said.

He raised an eyebrow. “You give me entirely too much credit,” he said. “Didn’t she tell you? Hasn’t she always said I am an arrogant fool who cared more about music than I did about her? Well, she’s right. I am a fool. If you only knew how much of my life I pissed away. If you were smart, Betty, you would have nothing to do with me. You would run far away and not come back.”

“I don’t want to,” she insisted.

“No?” His eyes moved first, rolling towards her under heavy lids, before he slowly faced her with an unhappy smile. “You will.”

For the second time that night, the intoxicating frisson went up her back, this time reaching the roots of her hair. This time it was also tinged with fear.

“I need a drink,” Laszlo announced, turning his steps back the way they came. “You want anything—oh, I’m sorry, I forgot. You don’t drink.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Never mind, then.”

“I don’t mind if you drink,” she assured him. “I couldn’t work at Frank’s if it bothered me to see everybody drink. I just don’t want to, that’s all. I don’t get any enjoyment from it.”

He didn’t answer, his jaw clenched tight with the cold. She found herself babbling just to fill the awkward silence.

“Matter of fact, it’s interesting to see how people drink. What kind of personality comes out, I mean,” she said. “Most people are silly drunks, they laugh and laugh. Others get real quiet. Some are like my father…” She shut her mouth, blindsided with the memory of his abuse even after so much time. She turned away to hide the tears. “Anyway, most people aren’t so mean.”

He stared at her, forlorn. “Do you think I’m a mean drunk?”

“No, never. You just seem sad. Like you don’t enjoy it either.”

“I don’t. It’s habit.”

“What does make you happy, Laszlo?”

At first he shrugged. “Nothing,” he answered, but he frowned a second later and took it back. “Maybe it did make me happy to play for you tonight. Just for a while, I forgot how lousy this world is.”

“Is it all bad?”

His gloved hand wrapped around hers, rubbing the life back into it. A tiny bit of warmth flowed through her aching fingers.

“No. I suppose it’s not,” he said. He shook himself and placed one hand gently at her back. “Come, you must be freezing. Let’s go back.”

They halted for a moment outside the nightclub doors. Laszlo gazed mournfully upwards, his eyes reflecting the glare of the bright neon sign.

“What’s wrong?” asked Betty.

“I dunno. I hated this place and yet... this may be the last time I ever work here.”

“Laszlo?”

“Yes?”

“If it makes you happy… could you play something for me again?”

His careworn face slowly brightened in a wide smile. “Sure, kitten. Anything you say.”

Chapter Text

“You are not playing that again.”

“Well, I am.” Laszlo flicked his wrist, capping off another bar of arpeggios in Rachmaninoff No. 3 with a flourish. “Who says I can’t, anyway?”

“I do,” Selene complained. “It’s those damn concertos over and over. You don’t even give me a chance to sing anymore.”

He glanced up with a puckish smile, not stopping the music for an instant. “Oh? That’s funny. I thought you didn’t want to sing for a—what was it you said the other night—‘a has-been with delusions of grandeur?’ Is that right?”

You’re stirring the hornet’s nest, he warned himself, but the look of indignation on Selene’s face was worth it. He laughed inside as her cheeks flushed a new shade of red underneath her rouge.

“Well, what else am I supposed to do in this dump?” Selene shot back. “Stand here and drink? Make eyes at the customers all night?”

“Go ahead, I won’t stop you,” he replied. Even without looking he could sense Selene’s acrid glare burning straight through him. He ignored it.

“You know, it’s been almost a week now,” he went on, swaying gently to the tempo. “And last I checked, Frank was still the boss of this place. Strange. I thought for sure I’d be out of a job by now.” He sneaked a glance to find her still staring coldly down at him from on high. Some perverse sense of glee drove him to continue. “Oh, but maybe Johnny didn’t cough up enough money, is that it? Or perhaps the whole thing was only a lie?”

His fingers narrowly missed being crushed as Selene heaved the wooden piano lid shut with a bang.

“Are you crazy? What are you trying to do?” he shouted, leaping to his feet in a fury.

“I told you to stop playing.”

“And I said I won’t! I’ll have you know it was a request.”

“Oh, I see. You’ll do anything she tells you.” Selene jabbed a finger towards the front doors, accusing the unseen Betty ensconced in the cloak room. “And what happens when she’s tired of you? You gonna start chasing the waitress? Maybe the cleaning lady?”

Laszlo turned away in disgust. He could already feel several pairs of eyes at his back and heard a few eager whistles from the crowd, and he began to wonder if the few regulars only showed up these days to watch them fight.

“Don’t you walk away from me. What’s gotten into you, anyway?” Selene demanded. “You used to do anything I asked, anything. Now you won’t even look at me.”

“And why should I? That’s the only thing you really want, isn’t it? Every man groveling at your feet, whether you love him or not.”

She sneered, facing him with both hands planted firmly on her hips. “That’s rich. That’s really rich. Why don’t you say it a little louder? Tell everybody why you’re such a heel!” She waved one graceful arm towards the drunken clientele, and the rowdiest ones shouted their encouragement and howled for more.

“Shut up!” Laszlo screamed over the noise. “You spend all your time kicking me around, but the minute I walk away, the minute I stand up to complain about your boot in my neck, suddenly I am the one who did wrong. I’m finished with you.”

Selene’s eyes narrowed. “Where are you going?”

“To see the boss,” he said over his shoulder. “If I’m not fired, I’m going to tell him I quit.” He was barely halfway to the stairs before Selene placed herself in his path.

“You can’t go up there. He’s meeting with Johnny again right now.”

“See if I care.”

“Laszlo, you can’t—”

“Get out of my way,” he ordered, brushing her aside. He was grateful that Selene didn’t try to follow, or else he couldn’t be sure what he was capable of.

At the top of the stairs he stood poised to enter Frank’s private office, but something gave him pause: a heated argument was in full swing behind the closed door. Warily, he tilted his head and moved closer to make out the muffled words, only to be startled when the door burst open and Johnny stalked out in a towering temper. Both men took a step back before Johnny growled something under his breath and slammed the door behind him. Laszlo watched him storm down the stairs and lay his hands on Selene, dragging her off the dance floor by the arm. The hair rose on the back of Laszlo’s neck at the sight of Johnny’s fingers sinking deep into her flesh. Torn between the primal urge to protect her and the knowledge that she despised him, he shook his head and knocked softly on Frank’s door.

“I thought I told you to get out!” Frank shouted.

Laszlo cautiously poked his head in. “Not me,” he said.

“Oh. Sorry, Lazzy. I thought it was—”

“No. He just left.” Laszlo shut the door behind him and gave a small sigh of relief as the downstairs clamor faded away. “Is everything all right, Frank? What happened?”

“Oh. Nothing important,” Frank mumbled. His face was drawn and haggard in the dim office lights as he motioned for Laszlo to sit down.

“I’d say it was important,” Laszlo remarked. He reached for his cigarettes and offered one to a grateful Frank. “I uh, I heard you were planning to sell this place.”

Frank’s hand froze in midair over Laszlo’s lighted match. “Who told you that?”

Laszlo shrugged. “Selene.”

“Ah.” Frank slumped deeper into his chair. “I might have known. Can’t keep anything quiet.”

Laszlo paused to drag deep on his cigarette and wearily exhaled smoke. He began to wonder if he should be so eager so quit without knowing the full story. “Frank. Why did you want to sell?” he asked.

“Oh, you know it as well as I do. It’s taken me this long to admit it to myself, but I’m no good in this business. I’ve been bleeding money for over a year.”

“But why sell to Selene and that rotten boyfriend of hers? They couldn’t run this place any better than you do... no offense.”

“None taken. I never was much of a businessman,” admitted Frank. Then he made a wry face. “Rotten, eh? I’ll have you know Johnny is an old friend of mine. Knew each other since college.”

“Oh.” Laszlo’s heart sank through the floor. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s all right. Forget it.”

“I suppose this means he told you all about the fight I started at your place.”

Frank sighed. “Sure, he told me, but I didn’t even see what happened. Don’t worry, I’m not angry about it. These things happen. It’s New Year’s, sometimes we have one too many, people have disagreements. I know how it is.”

“Thanks.” Laszlo smiled and gestured towards the door with his cigarette. “That was some disagreement I heard just now, for example. Old friends, huh?”

“Ehh, he’s always been like that. I don’t know if he really means it. Sort of a contentious guy, Johnny is. Maybe a little jealous. Anything I had, he had to have it, too. Girls, money, a pack of cigarettes.” He shrugged. “Now he wants the nightclub. Hard to say no to the guy.”

“But what were you arguing about?” Laszlo pressed. “That is, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“I told him that I made a mistake by agreeing to sell to him for so low. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wanted to renegotiate, but he flew off the handle. Started accusing me of going behind his back and… anyway, it’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Laszlo contemplated the repeating star pattern of the carpeting for some moments. “Frank,” he said in a lower tone. “If you do end up selling to them, I’ll have to quit. Selene already made it very clear that she would fire me. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.”

Frank looked contrite. “I’d hate to see you go, Lazzy. You’re the only genuine talent around this place, you know that? You could have been world-famous. You still could.”

Laszlo exhaled. He had only been telling himself that for the past ten years. “Too late for me now,” he said, stubbing his cigarette into the ash tray. “But thanks.”

“Listen. Maybe I’ll reconsider selling altogether, how’s that? You might even be able to help me save this place.”

“Me? I’m no businessman, either.”

“But you know something about the music business. Maybe you could help find some more talent. A real band, some different kinds of entertainment. Nightly classical concerts, I don’t know! Whatever you think is best.”

“That’s flattering, but I don’t think I can help you,” Laszlo said.

“Sure you can. You can at least offer me advice. I know I haven’t always been the best at listening to folks who know better. It might not save this place, but we can at least try. Look, I’m going to sleep on it for a while, okay? I won’t sell until we can work something out together.”

“You sure? Won’t Johnny be mad?”

“Well, then let him be mad,” Frank laughed bitterly. “I’m sick of his attitude anyway. Listen, I might go home a little early tonight. If I don’t see you again, just know that I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

“Uh.” Laszlo shut his mouth, deciding not to argue the point that he had done exactly nothing. “Sure, Frank. I’ll see you later, then. And… thanks.”

By the time Laszlo returned downstairs, Selene and Johnny were gone. He made a cursory search around the dance floor and peeked into the reception area, but they were nowhere to be found.

“Betty, did Selene leave already?” he asked.

She looked up from her book. “I think so. She and Mr. Mason went out for a smoke about twenty minutes ago. They weren’t happy about something, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“It was the strangest thing,” she mused. “I overheard them talking—everyone thinks I’m not listening, but I hear everything. They mentioned someone named Rufus.”

“Rufus?” He shrugged. I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“Well, that was the strange thing. Rufus is my father’s name.” She shook her head. “Of course, they couldn’t be talking about him. At least I hope not.”

“And they didn’t say anything else?”

“Nothing I could catch. They went outside and I couldn’t hear any more.”

“Oh well. I’m sure it must be a coincidence.” He leaned casually on the counter. He was in no great hurry to return to work anyway. “I talked to Frank,” he said. “He said he might reconsider about selling the place, if I helped him with a few things on the business side. Though, what he actually expects from me, I have no idea.”

“Oh! Laszlo, that’s wonderful. He might even make you his business partner at this rate.”

He smiled modestly. “I hope not. Anyway, I wouldn’t get too excited just yet. But it looks like I still have a job here. For a little while, anyway.” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “You got any plans this weekend, Betty?”

“No, not really,” she answered.

A thoughtful little smile crossed his lips. “Would you care to join me for dinner on Saturday?”

She brightened. “I would love to. Where should we go?”

“I know a good place. Have you ever been to Chin Lee’s? Oh, they’re wonderful. They serve the spiciest curry beef triangles you ever had and as many noodles as you can eat.”

She beamed. “That sounds lovely. I’ll see you Saturday night, then?”

He bowed to her. “Until then, Miss Reading.”

On Saturday they made a real night of it. They met up in the subway and walked the roundabout way to Chinatown, enjoying the sights and giving out change to any buskers brave enough to perform in the January cold. In the bustling, friendly atmosphere of Chin Lee’s they sat at the booth in the fogged front window to watch the passerby, and the attentive waiters brought them plate after plate of steamed chicken dumplings and crispy curry beef with enough red pepper to set their tongues on fire. One hour and a veritable mountain of beef-fried noodles later, they cracked open their fortune cookies over steaming hot cups of green tea.

“What does yours say?” Betty asked.

He skeptically examined the slip of paper. “It says ‘Boats and water are in your future.’ Hmm.” He shrugged and tossed it aside. “I doubt that somehow. What about yours?”

“Mine says ‘Through music, you will find love.’ That’s sweet. Maybe it means you, Laszlo.”

“How very convenient,” he observed with a drowsy, contented smile. “But don’t blame me if it isn’t true. Well, where shall I take you now?”

They decided to spend the rest of their evening at the movie theater, watching feature after feature. As the hour grew late and the other patrons went home, an excited, secretive feeling welled inside them once they inherited the lonely theater. Now that it was theirs alone, they could speak freely and laugh more than was decent. One color short in particular had this effect: a frothy musical comedy from the Europe of Hollywood’s creation, an imaginary Europe where there was no war. It bore the ridiculous title “The Hungry Hungarian,” and Betty could not stop giggling from the moment its name faded in.

“Did they write this about you?” she joked.

“Yes, it’s true. I am the hungry Hungarian,” he laughed. “And everyone in Budapest breaks into song for no reason.”

As if on cue, the titular “Hungarian” tenor burst into a truly absurd verse:

While the French make love with kissin’
and the Swiss with great precision
For me it’s just your loving arms
That I am sorely missin’...”

The rest of the song was lost to them in a gale of helpless laughter that lasted until their stomachs hurt.

The last feature film was of the largely predictable love triangle variety, involving the sort of wealthy do-nothings that Laszlo ordinarily despised, but Betty seemed to enjoy the story and it had far better music. He sat back and daydreamed, trying not to fall prey to the sentimental, heartsick state of mind that “Symphony” always created, but found himself entrapped instead in the flowing strains of “One More Tomorrow” that weaved its way through the theater:

One more tomorrow
To hold you in my embrace
And thrill with rapture
Each time I look at your face

One more tomorrow
To see heaven in your eyes
To have your hand cling to mine
And wander through paradise

One more tomorrow
To kiss your lips constantly
And feel the pounding
As your heart beats next to me

One more tomorrow
Filled with love the whole day through
And then tomorrow I'd beg
For one more tomorrow with you.

“They all look so beautiful up there,” Betty sighed, watching the glamorous couple dance away their years at nightclubs and sail the distant seas. “And they must be so happy. Just look at them.” She never took her glittering eyes away from the screen, her whole face yearning, worshipful, at the sight of the flawless stars. “Sometimes it almost feels wrong to look at them.”

“But they want you to look at them,” he said. “How else would they make their money?”

“I know. But sometimes I think I don’t deserve to look at beautiful people. Not when I’m... not.”

He frowned. “Don’t say that, Betty. I won’t have it,” he said firmly. “You are beautiful.”

They sat close, warm and secure, and allowed their hands to find each other and twine together in the darkness. His fingers tightened around hers as the music swelled and the actress’ low voice reverberated off the walls: “I’m glad there’s no one here but us.”

“So am I,” Betty whispered.

The heat rose in his face as the onscreen couple moved together for a kiss. He looked at Betty and found they had moved closer to each other without realizing, their faces almost touching. She ceased to watch the screen and stared at him instead with awe and longing. In a sudden rush, an unspoken agreement passed between them and they moved together, lips locking in a deep kiss. For a long time they became as one person, arms tight around each other, losing themselves, until the film ended and they emerged blinking into the house lights, flushed and disoriented at losing so much time.

“We should get back,” Betty said. “I’m sure Nixie is wondering where I got to.”

“Yes, of course.” He awkwardly stretched his stiff legs. “I’ll walk you home. Only you’ll have to show me. I don’t remember how I got there the last time.”

She smiled. “It’s not too far.”

They walked back through deserted streets like shadows flickering in and out of the dirty yellow streetlights until they reached Betty’s apartment. Without waiting for him to ask, she took his hand and led him quietly indoors. A soft meow greeted them as Nyx swiftly emerged from a dark corner of the room like a phantom and rubbed against their legs. Laszlo bent down to pat the animal affectionately on the head. He was home again.

“Would you like some coffee?” Betty asked.

“I would, thank you.”

As they waited for the water to boil, Betty curled up next to him on the couch and sighed happily when he rested his arm around her in a protective embrace. Then apropos of nothing, she giggled to herself.

“Sorry. I’m still thinking about that silly short reel,” she said.

“Oh, yes.” He laughed just remembering the first few notes of the Hungry Hungarian tune. “Awful, wasn’t it?”

“Yep. There’s just one thing I don’t understand,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Well, he sang about all the other nationalities. But he never said—” She stammered, her cheeks starting to glow bright red. “He never said how Hungarians make love.”

His eyes widened. For several frightening seconds, his mind was a complete blank.

“We make love,” he finally blurted, flashing a mischievous grin, “the same way we ride horses.”

Without thinking, he demonstrated for her. He sent her legs flying in the air and draped them over his shoulders until she was folded double and she cried out with a tiny squeak. The pounding of his own heart drummed in his ears as he pulled up her skirt and groped around her to undo it. She moved with him willingly, arching her back, lifting her hips to meet his, but the clasp would not give. He tried again and his fingers slipped.

“Betty?” he grunted.

Something else was wrong. She was rigid and trembling underneath him. Her arms gripped about his neck with a nervous tension he had not felt in years, not since his first youthful, clumsy efforts with girls just as young and naïve as he.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“Yes,” she gasped.

He pulled back to stare into her glistening eyes. It began to dawn on him that he might have asked the question sooner. “Is it your first time?”

A few heartbeats passed before she nodded. As if granted permission to break down, her lower lip quivered and tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Hey, kitten. Why didn’t you say so?” He released his hold and lay down next to her, slowly cooling off as she sobbed quietly for a while into his chest. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“I wanted you to,” she whispered. “But I didn’t want you to think I had never done it before.”

“Oh, Betty.” He buried his fingers in her hair. “It is nothing to be ashamed of. We are not born knowing these things.”

“I know. But I wanted it to be good. Like in the movies, or what I read in books. No one is ever afraid, or gets nervous or cries—”

“They aren’t real, either,” he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

She didn’t say anything for a while. Her trembling stopped but she avoided looking him in the face.

“I wish I didn’t cry so easy,” she said, her voice muffled in his shirt. “You must think I’m a fool.”

“No I don’t.”

“You’re just saying that. You’ve been all over the world. You must have had more sophisticated women that you can count, and then there’s me and I make a fool of myself—”

“Betty, listen to me. Remember when I said the truth about me was less interesting than your stories?”

She nodded, accepting the press of his hand against her back.

“The truth is, I remember every woman I made love to,” he went on. “Yes, every one. And you are not the only one who cried. After all, who wouldn’t cry if they saw this face, huh?”

She managed to smile through her tears. “Don’t say that. I think you have a handsome face.”

He chuckled. “I will never understand women,” he gently teased.

“But you’re not disappointed?”

“No. I wouldn’t enjoy it if I hurt you. Making love isn’t that way. It isn’t just something to do. It’s not for—killing time.” He shut his eyes, painfully recalling how expertly Selene used to wield the phrase as a barbed sting. “Can you imagine going through life that way? Meaningless drinking, and fucking without any passion, just to say you did it? No inner life, no stories to tell yourself, no music, not a single real emotion at all?” His voice slid down to a low murmur in her ear. “I can’t live that way anymore, Betty. I need to know there are still people in this world who feel something.”

She raised her teary face. “Do you love me?” she asked.

He pressed closer. Her heart beat against his; a butterfly held between his hands in a dream, and the longing sense of home and warmth and love flooded him again. It was right.

“Yes. I do.”

She reached upwards, delicately undoing his shirt buttons from the top. “Show me how.”

He cradled her face between his hands and kissed away her tears. She clung to him as they moved into her bed and he sank on top of her into the cool sheets, gently this time, not the wild horse ride he threatened before. They shed their clothes and he moved lower on her bare body, trailing kisses over each breast, down every inch of her smooth belly, until he hugged her thighs and dove between them. He licked and hummed, delighting in how sensitive she was, how easily she responded to his every touch. He teased her for a while, slowing down each time he sensed that she was close, until she was fit to burst and begged him to end her. She breathed harder, holding on for dear life to the back of his head as he flicked his tongue, circling faster around her swollen clit until it pulsed.

“Oh. Oh, oh!” she gasped. Her hips convulsed, her head arched back onto the pillow. Even he had not expected anything so powerful and he almost came with her, holding back only through sheer force of will. For a while she lay on the bed as if stunned. Then, with a long contented sigh, her whole body relaxed. He rested atop her stomach, listening to her breathing slowly return to normal. Then he felt a light tap on his head. In answer to his questioning look, Betty faced him with a sated smile and raised her legs in the air to drape them over his shoulders again.

“Naughty kitten,” he laughed, wiping his mouth. “You’re not as innocent as I thought.”

“I told you. I read too much.”

He grinned and eased on top of her. As much as he wanted to rail her silly right then and there, he took it slow, penetrating her by degrees, until she was comfortable enough for him to thrust.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said.

“I’m not,” she whispered, and squeezed him between her thighs.

That alone was encouragement enough. His mouth fell open as he began to rock his hips, pushing deep inside of her. “Oh, you feel so good,” he groaned.

As much as he wanted to stay in her forever, he was too hot to continue for long. A minute later he felt the pressure build to a peak and had just enough time to pull out of her, shooting across her stomach. He collapsed on her, panting. It was some time before he could speak again.

“That’s how,” he murmured gratefully into her neck.

“That’s how,” she echoed. Then she tensed again. Her languid eyes flew open in shock. “Laszlo. I forgot about the coffee...”

The kettle had long since boiled dry by the time Betty took it off the heat, but luckily it caused no serious harm. Laughing, they washed themselves clean and tumbled back into bed without any clothes, sharing their own warmth skin-to-skin in the soothing darkness, and fell into exhausted sleep almost instantly in each other’s arms.

It was hours before the first gray light of morning slowly seeped into the room like mist. Laszlo was deep in slumber when a loud knock jolted him awake. At first he thought he dreamed it. He ignored it and languished in the delicious warmth of bed a while, lying as still as possible beside the sleeping Betty, calm and undisturbed, when another hard knock at the apartment door made her stir as well.

He swore internally as he dragged himself from bed and threw on his pants, almost tripping over Nyx’s tail before he answered the door. He leaned in the doorway and blinked, dry-eyed, at the two blue-uniformed officers standing on the stoop.

“What d’you want?” he slurred, raking a hand through his unkempt hair.

“Are you Laszlo Hartville?” one officer questioned.

“Hartvany,” he corrected irritably. “It’s not that hard. Who wants to know?”

“Philadelphia Police Department. Got a few questions for you.”

“At five in the morning?” Laszlo scowled, not knowing exactly what time it was, anyway. It was far too early to comprehend what was going on and his patience had already run out. At the moment it took enough effort to keep his pants up.

“This is the residence of a Betty Reading, isn’t it?” said the second officer.

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Is she here now?”

“Yeah.”

The cops shared a smirking look. “We checked your place already, Mr. Hartvany, but you weren’t there,” one said. “Funny that you should show up here. You two work together at Frank’s Bar on Broad Street, is that right?”

“Of course we do.” His thoughts stumbled over a murky New Year’s memory of a white lie. Weren’t they supposed to be married or something?

“Let Miss Reading come to the door, Mr. Hartvany. We need to see you both.”

He turned to call for her, but Betty was already awake. She peeped out cautiously, standing on tiptoe behind him and shivering in the tight folds of her drab flannel robe. “Laszlo? I heard you talking. Is something wrong?”

“I dunno, these cops keep asking questions.” He rubbed his stinging eyes and wondered if it was too early for a drink.

“Sir, I’m afraid both of you will need to come to the station for questioning.”

“Huh?” Laszlo had no better answer. He looked to Betty in confusion and his heart nearly broke in two at the sight of her trembling with fright.

“But why?” Betty asked.

“Hurry up and get dressed, both of you,” the cop replied gruffly.

“Are we under arrest?” demanded Laszlo. “What charge?”

“Come on, let’s go,” repeated the cop.

“Please, we didn’t do anything! If we’re under arrest, can’t you tell us why?” Betty pleaded.

The cop’s jaw tightened. “Ma’am. You’re not under arrest, but we do need to ask you some questions. It’s about your boss. Frank Forelli was found dead last night.”

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”

Betty repeated it to herself for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning. She sat stiffly on the uncomfortable wooden bench, searching the seemingly endless blue parade of officers and detectives for some glimmer of hope, but all passed by without a second look. She wanted to disappear in shame as a few hot tears rolled down her cheeks, until Laszlo offered up his handkerchief.

“Don’t worry, Betty. Everything is going to be all right,” he said softly.

“Thanks,” she choked, wiping her eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He shrugged. “Just nerves, maybe.”

“Maybe. I’ve never been in a police station before. Except once.” She regretted saying even that much and hoped Laszlo wouldn’t ask further about it. He didn’t.

“Hey. Last night you never did that before either. A lot of firsts today.” Laszlo nudged her, sending a mischievous look her way until she finally cracked a teary smile.

“You’re terrible,” she said, struggling not to laugh. “We shouldn’t joke now.”

“Sorry. I can’t help it.” Laszlo leaned forward on the bench and lapsed into silence again, swinging his legs in a slow rhythm back and forth. “Maybe I can’t believe it’s true, either.”

“Who would do this to him?” she asked helplessly. “He comes back from the war safe and sound, only to get killed—”

“Now we don’t really know if he was killed. It could have been an accident. Or maybe a heart attack,” offered Laszlo. “Either way, I don’t think the cops aren’t going to tell us.”

She clung to his hand for comfort, lacing her fingers together with his. Of course he was only trying to console her, but the disturbing possibility of murder refused to leave her alone. Why would the cops want to question them about a simple heart attack?

“Why do you think Mr. Mason was so furious last night?” she asked.

Laszlo frowned. “Who knows. Because he’s a bastard? Or I suppose he was upset that Frank wouldn’t sell. Why? You don’t think he had anything do to with this, do you?”

“I don’t know. Just thinking out loud. Do you suppose they questioned him already?”

“Don’t know. We’ll just have to wait and see.” He shifted restlessly and checked his watch. “Only we’ve been waiting for hours now.”

“Hour and a half,” Betty gently corrected.

“Even one is too many,” he grumbled. “What’s taking so long?”

Betty was about to sympathize when she caught sight of someone across the room. Her stomach dropped.

“Laszlo,” she whispered. Her grip tightened on his arm.

“Huh? What’s the matter?” he said. He followed her frozen gaze across the room but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. “What are you looking at?”

“It’s that cop,” she answered. “It’s the same cop who helped me bring you home on New Year’s Eve. I’m positive it’s him.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it. I don’t remember a thing,” said Laszlo. “Uh, did you want to thank him, or—”

“No, no, you don’t understand! He’s the one that I lied to. I told him we were married just so he wouldn’t arrest you for, I don’t know, public drunkenness or whatever they’d try to pin on you. Oh, he would have to be here now. What if he sees us? He’ll find out I lied. He’ll find out we’re not really married and then—”

Caught between amusement and perhaps a certain degree of pity, Laszlo grinned and patted her hand. “Oh, he’s not going to care about that!” he assured her. “Anyway, I’m sure he doesn’t even remember us. No one is going to arrest you for a little thing like that.”

“You don’t know cops. They get innocent people on the littlest thing, and let the real crooks go free. It’s easier that way,” she whispered.

Laszlo fixed her with a penetrating stare. Before he could answer, he jumped at a hearty voice calling from across the room:

“Well, good morning! Fancy meeting you here!”

Betty shrank away. “Oh, please don’t let him come over here,” she begged under her breath.

“Too late for that,” Laszlo muttered.

The cop, a tall, solidly-built fellow with a florid and cheery face, waved to them and crossed the room in a few eager strides.

“I said, morning, ma’am! Say, we’ve met before, haven’t we?” he said.

The cop’s grin was a mile wide. Betty turned away, fumbling with some half-baked excuse or another about how she didn’t remember.

“Aw, sure we have. I remember now,” the cop brightly replied. “New Year’s Eve, at the train station. Officer Gunderson, remember? Lucky I was there to help, eh?”

“O-oh yes. That was lucky,” Betty stammered. Her legs were starting to shake. If not for Laszlo placing his steady arm around her shoulders, she might have trembled herself into a guilty fainting fit right then and there.

“Well, good to see you again. How’s your husband doing, by the way?” Gunderson nattered on, turning his attention to Laszlo. “Say, when I picked you up, you were in bad shape. Said some pretty rude things about me while we were loading you into the back seat, lemme tell ya.”

“Did I?” Laszlo said, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t remember.”

“Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t!” the cop laughed. “Oh well, no hard feelings. Nothing I haven’t heard before. Must have been a swank party, Main Line bluebloods and everything—” He broke off, his eyes brightening with excitement. “Say, you’re not the witnesses on the Forelli murder, are you?”

“Murder?” squeaked Betty.

“Oh yeah,” Gunderson exclaimed. He bounced on his toes in his eagerness to relate the details. “It’s a terrible shame. This guy Forelli, see. Wealthy Air Force captain and all? Found dead in his own home in Ardmore last night with a bullet in his head—”

“GUNDERSON,” a loud gravelly voice boomed.

Gunderson cringed as if struck. “Yes, Sergeant?” he called.

“Bring those two up here. I’m ready for them now.”

Betty’s heart hammered as Officer Gunderson led them up to the front desk, where an older, rather more subdued detective in a dark gray suit was waiting for them. He acknowledged the pair with a curt nod.

“Morning. I’m Sergeant Cole,” he said. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Sign here, please.”

“What is it?” Laszlo asked suspiciously.

“It’s the visitor registry,” said Cole, handing over a clipboard. “After your interview is over, I’ll have a statement of testimony for you to sign as well.”

Betty could scarcely focus. She blindly read the first few lines of visitor names several times before giving up and signing her full name below Laszlo’s. Sensing a curious gaze over her shoulder, she instinctively tried to place herself between the paper and Officer Gunderson, but he had already seen.

“Hey. How come you didn’t use his name?” Gunderson inquired, gesturing between her and Laszlo. “Didn’t you say you was married?”

Laszlo glared. “What’s that got to do with anything?” he retorted.

“Well, I thought it was customary for a wife to take her husband’s name, that’s all.”

“Um. You see, about that,” Betty nervously began, but she was too eaten up with anxiety to finish the thought. No one heard her speak, anyway.

“All right, so we’re not married, so what?” Laszlo erupted. “Maybe we’re engaged to be married. Satisfied?”

Gunderson peered closer. “Don’t see no ring,” he mumbled.

“That’s enough, Gunderson,” Cole snapped. The sergeant’s knuckles had gone white with the internal struggle of not breaking his pencil in two. “Gawd bless, you’re worse than my dead grandmother.”

“Yeah, but Sarge, if they lied about being married, what else are they lying about?”

The sergeant’s already white-hot glare went beyond livid, but his voice remained deceptively calm. “Gunderson,” he said evenly, “you keep running that big mouth, and you’re looking at your second suspension in the past month alone. Have I made myself abundantly clear?”

Gunderson backed down, shuffling his feet nervously. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now I want you to apologize to this couple, turn yourself around approximately one hundred and eighty degrees, and then for the love of all that is holy, I want you to get. Back. To. Work. Now!”

The officer did so, mumbling his apologies as he backed away and slunk out of sight.

“Sorry about that,” Cole sighed. “Will you come this way, please?”

Sergeant Cole led them past the noisy waiting area and through the doors of his own office. He offered them both a seat and sat on the edge of his desk, smirking ever-so-slightly when he caught Laszlo covering a wide yawn behind his hand.

“I know it’s early. Can I get you anything? Coffee?” the detective asked.

Betty shook her head. Right now, the mere thought of food or drink made her feel somewhat ill. Laszlo likewise politely refused, even as he cleared his throat in an unsuccessful attempt to cover the noise of his grumbling stomach. Betty glanced away in embarrassment and pretended not to hear. Poor Laszlo. They’d stop for a good breakfast after this was all over… if they ever got out of here. She forced herself to listen closely to what the detective was saying.

“Now, I want to make it clear, neither of you are to discuss this case with anyone outside the precinct. I take it Gunderson has already filled you in on some of the more… colorful details,” Cole said.

Betty felt the anxious tears well up again. “He said Mr. Forelli was shot.” Against all odds she hoped that it wasn’t true, but the detective confirmed it with a heavy nod.

“I was hoping for a more tactful way to break it to you, but here we are.”

“I understand,” murmured Betty. “It came as a shock, that’s all.”

“Of course. Now I know this must be difficult to discuss, but I’m going to need to ask you some questions. You were both employed at Frank Forelli’s nightclub, correct?”

“Yes,” the pair answered in unison. For the first time since hearing the bad news that morning, Betty realized with some unease that she would need a new job, and quick.

“What sort of work did you do?”

“Well. I worked the hat-check—”

“Speak up, miss. I’m a little hard of hearing,” Cole said gruffly, putting a finger to his left ear. “You worked what?”

“At the hat-check counter,” Betty repeated. She couldn’t seem to raise her voice much louder than before, but Sergeant Cole didn’t ask again. The detective nodded and turned to Laszlo, who appeared far more relaxed than he had any right to be.

“Oh, I’m supposedly the musician,” Laszlo languidly replied, resting one arm over the back of the chair. “Or so they tell me.”

“What do you mean ‘supposedly’? Don’t you know?” Cole asked with a deep frown.

“I mean that I’m the piano player. Only I’m not a very good one.”

“That’s not true. You’re a great musician,” Betty interrupted without thinking. She blushed a second later and apologized.

Laszlo smiled weakly. “Well, she thinks so,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe Frank did, too.”

“Why do you say that?” the detective prodded.

“Oh, he told me something the night before he… well, the last time I saw him. He said it wasn’t too late for me to be world-famous.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Frank didn’t know much about music. But he was very kind.”

“What time was that conversation, Mr. Hartvany?”

“I think it was after eleven o’ clock that night. Maybe eleven-thirty.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Yes. He told me he was having second thoughts about selling the nightclub. He wanted my advice, and I told him I wasn’t sure I could help.” Laszlo cast his gaze down. “I suppose it’s too late for any of that now.”

“Do you know why he was having second thoughts?” Cole asked.

“Oh, it was that Johnny fellow. Johnny Mason. He was trying to cheat Frank out of his money or some such thing, and Frank wanted time to reconsider. He wouldn’t tell me the details.”

“Hm. Business deal gone bad, in other words. You know anything else about this Mason? Does he work at the nightclub?” asked Cole, jotting down a note.

“No. To tell the truth I don’t know very much about him, except that he and Frank were old friends. That’s what Frank told me, anyway. I only knew Johnny as a…” Laszlo hesitated. “Well, a heel.”

“So you’ve met him before?”

“You could say that,” Laszlo replied. He rubbed the edge of his jaw. “We had a certain… disagreement on New Year’s Eve.”

“What about?”

“Oh, about our singer. Selene Sharpe, she’s his girl now. Used to be mine.” Laszlo stared ahead sadly, avoiding Cole’s gaze. “Or maybe she never was.”

Betty fidgeted in her seat. She could almost see the suspicious gears turning in the detective’s head. “Mr. Mason seemed awfully angry two nights ago,” she piped up. “He left the nightclub around eleven o’clock for a smoke. He took Miss Sharpe with him and they didn’t come back.”

“That’s right,” Laszlo said, snapping his fingers. “Johnny left Frank’s office just before I went up to see him. He was rough with her. They were arguing about something, but I didn’t hear anything he said.”

“I heard Mr. Mason say something as he was leaving,” added Betty. She halted, wondering if it was wise to continue. “But I don’t know if it means anything.”

“Speak up, Miss Reading. Anything you remember, no matter how small, might help us,” prompted Cole.

“Well. He and Miss Sharpe were standing in the lobby, in front of the hat-check. He was in a terrible temper, but they spoke low to each other, like they didn’t want anyone listening in. I wasn’t trying to listen in, but I couldn’t help but hear a name. They were talking about someone named ‘Rufus.’ And I remember thinking that was strange, because that happens to be my father’s name. Rufus Reading.” She let his name tumble out quickly before fear could prevent her. “But I haven’t spoken to my father in years. It couldn’t have been about him,” she concluded quietly.

“I see.” Cole paused to write something down on his notepad, frowning. “Miss Reading, did you see Mr. Forelli at any time the night before he was killed?”

“Yes. It was when he left the nightclub on Friday, just before midnight. He said he was leaving a little early,” answered Betty.

“Do you know why? Did he seem troubled or upset about anything?”

“No, he seemed like his usual self. He even made a little joke to me. He shook his finger at me and said ‘Betty, be quiet. You’re disturbing the customers again.’ And of course we both laughed, because I’m always so quiet. He used to joke with everybody like that.”

Laszlo’s smile was fleeting. “Sounds like Frank, all right,” he said. “He was a good boss. Maybe not a very good businessman. But a real mensch.”

Cole nodded but gave no indication of his thoughts one way or another. “Fine. Now, I want to know more about where you were on Saturday. Can you account for your whereabouts that evening?”

“As a matter of fact we can,” said Laszlo. “Betty and I went to dinner in Chinatown. Then we went to a movie house and stayed there until… pretty late, huh, Betty?”

“That’s right. We didn’t leave until midnight or so,” she answered. “I wanted to get back home to my cat.”

“What movie did you see?” asked Cole.

The Hungry Hungarian, thought Betty, and she bit down hard on her lip to stop an inappropriate snort of laughter. Fortunately Laszlo came to her rescue:

“One More Tomorrow,” he said. “That was the last film we saw. But we stayed for all of them that night.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Oh. I’m sure someone at the theater must remember us,” Betty said. “Or maybe at Chin Lee’s—”

“Wait a minute,” said Laszlo. “I think I still have the ticket… yes, here it is. I forgot to throw these away.” He pulled the torn ticket stubs from his pocket and handed it over for Cole to examine. Betty breathed a sigh of relief as the sergeant appeared to accept their alibi.

“Hm. And you were together all night? You went home with her?” Cole asked.

“Yes.” Betty’s heart skipped a beat thinking that the sergeant was about to pry into the more intimate specifics of their night, but thankfully he did no such thing. He asked several more questions and made them repeat their version of events about two or three more times until Betty was ready to scream. Satisfied that he had attempted to poke quite enough holes in their story, Sergeant Cole gave them yet more paperwork to sign before conducting them back to the front of the precinct, where a rather less jovial Officer Gunderson was waiting to give them the stink-eye.

“Oh, by the way,” Cole called after them as they made ready to leave.

The pair turned their heads, staring back at him in startled silence.

“Congratulations on your engagement.” With a tired wave of his hand, the sergeant finally set them free.

Outside, Laszlo let out his breath and reached for his cigarettes the second they were safely out of earshot.

“Ohh, Betty, I’m dying for a drink,” he groaned, his eyes rolling towards the murky gray sky. He lit a cigarette with unsteady hands and aggressively inhaled it.

“I thought you were so calm,” she said, taken aback.

“I was terrified,” he admitted. “They make you feel like a criminal in there.”

“That’s for sure. I’m just glad you still had those tickets,” she said. She shuddered and crossed her arms against the cold. “I don’t like cops.”

“Yeah, and now I don’t, either,” Laszlo replied in a huff. “That idiot. Imagine caring that much if two strangers are married.” He cast a final disgusted look back at the precinct. “Americans are such prudes.”

Betty had no particular reason to disagree. “That was some quick thinking, saying we were engaged.”

“Oh, I hardly knew what I was saying.” He pulled the cigarette away from his lips with a laugh. “But why should you hate cops, Betty? You’re no criminal.”

She gritted her teeth. “No. But my father is. And they still let him out.”

Laszlo did not answer. For a while he looked at her, his brows knitted together in confusion. “When?” he asked.

“Three years ago,” she said. “He served just half his sentence. Can you believe it? He got less than two years for almost beating my mother to death. And after she finally left him, he beat me instead. So I left home the day I turned sixteen, and you know what I got for my trouble? Philly’s finest chased me down for being a runaway. They believed every lie my father told them.”

“Oh, kitten,” Laszlo murmured. “You didn’t go to jail, did you?”

“No. I almost wish I had. Instead they forced me back home to live with that monster.” She met his astonished gaze with eyes full of tears. “Now you know why I was so afraid to hear his name. But I never wanted to tell you any of that,” she cried softly. “I was afraid you’d want nothing to do with me if you knew.”

“Oh, poor kitten. Why would I do that? It wasn’t your fault,” he said.

“But my whole family’s so rotten. More than you know,” she said bitterly. She turned away from the prying eyes of the street and hid her face in his coat. “Sometimes, I worry that I’m the same way. That I’ll turn rotten, too, just like the rest of them, and you’ll be dragged down with me.”

“That’s not true,” he said fiercely. “This whole city might be rotten, but you’re not. I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.”

He touched his forehead to hers, pulling her in close. His arms enveloped her, and for a long time they held fast to each other, tight as they could. She stirred only when she heard his stomach growl again, and she gazed up into his embarrassed face with a smile. She rested one hand lightly on his belly and laughed to see him blush.

“Still hungry?”

“Only when I’m sober,” he said wryly.

“And?”

“And I’m starving.”

She hugged him around the middle. “Good. That means you won’t need a drink.”

He laughed softly. “You’re always looking out for me, aren’t you.”

“I have to,” she admonished. “You won’t look out for yourself.”

He smiled and took her hands, folding them gently to his heart. “I will now. I have a reason to.”

They set out together in search of the nearest diner, blissfully unaware of the tall blond figure who watched across the street, unseen.

Chapter Text

“Well?” Selene tapped her nails impatiently on the window as Johnny slid back into the driver’s seat.

He didn’t answer. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he lit a cigarette, and let the lighter cap extinguish the flame with a hard clink. He offered her nothing.

“No joy,” he said, breathing smoke. “I can’t get her alone. They’re always together. Every time I see them, it’s like they’re joined at the hip.”

Her eyes rolled. “For God’s sake, Johnny. How hard could it be? She’s young and stupid. You couldn’t call her on the phone with some excuse? Couldn’t knock on her door when that bug-eyed little bastard isn’t around?”

“I tried that already.”

“You tried once and gave up,” she said.

“She never answers the door! All I ever hear is that cat yowling. What do you propose I do instead? Break in? Kill Laszlo and kidnap Betty in the middle of Broad Street?”

“Now that you mention it…”

“Oh, shut up!” Johnny pressed his temples hard between his palms as if trying to squeeze his aching head in a vise. “I’m through listening to you. Every day, the constant bitching about money, money, the nightclub, and money—”

“You never did listen to me in the first place,” she said. “You should have let me handle Rufus from the start. Or better yet, I’d never get involved with that hatchet man at all. You want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself. And brother, you had every reason to do it right.”

“Oh, so I should have killed Frank, is that it?” He barked out a cynical laugh. “Yeah, that’s a swell deal for you. You get both Frank and me conveniently out of the picture, and you’re the winner who takes all. This was never about his damn nightclub, was it?”

“Don’t be stupid. Of course it was about the nightclub. You wanted everything he had, too, don’t forget.”

“It wasn’t about that and you know it. What good is a nightclub to you, anyway?” he shouted. “It wouldn’t have got you any of Frank’s money. It was just about getting your own way, no matter the cost.”

The heat rose in her face. “I’m sick of this waiting, that’s all!” she shot back. “And I never told you to kill him!”

“Goddammit, Selene—”

“I only wanted you to scare him a little,” she went on. “I said to make him believe you hired a hit man, not actually do it. And I was drunk! What made you take a thing like that seriously? I give you an idle suggestion over cocktails one night, and suddenly you think you’re the next Mafia boss.”

“Cut it out,” he snapped. “So I’m a screw-up, okay? But I’m not hearing any better ideas from you. Your plan wasn’t so hot, either.”

She shrugged. “It wasn’t for lack of trying. But my God, that man was impossible. I did everything short of dance naked on top of the bar, and I don’t think even that would make Frank blink. The guy was a complete fruit.”

“Or you’re losing your touch,” he sneered.

“Shut up, will you?” She crossed her arms and kicked petulantly beneath the glove compartment, hoping to dent it. “Christ, what are we still doing here? We could have left ages ago and been well past Boston by now. Maybe Canada.”

Johnny scoffed. “Canada? Not a chance. Too cold even for you, baby.” He turned the key in the ignition and coaxed the engine to life, giving the oil a chance to warm up. “Besides, we don’t need to go anywhere. We already told the cops everything we know. And we got an alibi, don’t we? We weren’t anywhere near Frank’s house when it happened. Rufus might as well not exist.”

“Until he comes after us,” she said. “And you know he will. Damn it, where on earth did you find that son-of-a-bitch?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “I don’t even remember anymore. It was more like he found me. Sure, it was a mistake, but there’s nothing for it now. We’ve got to get Betty to him. He’ll pin the murder on us if we don’t.”

“Creeps like him don’t bother with blackmail,” Selene insisted. “He’d kill us both and fetch Betty himself, if he cared about seeing her that much.”

Johnny shook his head and put the coupe in gear, pulling into traffic. “It isn’t that,” he said. “I don’t know exactly what he wants with her, but it’s not good. And he doesn’t want to be seen in town. I know that much.”

Selene continued to drum her fingers, watching the other cars streak past. “Well. What do I care, anyway. Fine, we’ll take Betty to him. We’ll do it tonight.”

“How?”

“You let me worry about that.” Selene’s eyes refocused on her own transparent reflection in the window, smirking back at her with a glint of teeth. “Yeah. I think I got an idea. And if anyone asks… well, after all. A girl ought to see her own father now and again.”

Laszlo rubbed a quarter between finger and thumb, debating whether he should toss it into the busker’s hat or not. He had already heard the opening notes of the next song and knew what was coming, long before Betty sympathetically exclaimed:

“Oh, Laszlo. That’s Selene’s song, isn’t it?”

“She didn’t write it,” he replied flatly. He continued listening with a wounded heart as the street singer, an energetic, slightly balding little fellow with a clear tenor voice, launched into a faithful rendition of “Symphony” with his two bandmates accompanying on bass and muted trumpet. Laszlo lost himself in it for a while. He was still toying with the coin when he felt the light touch of Betty’s hand.

“Let’s forget about her,” she said as the song ended. “It doesn’t have to be her song anymore.”

“I’d like nothing better,” he sighed. He shrugged and tossed the quarter into the grateful singer’s upturned hat. “But I may be forced to join these gentlemen soon, if we’re both out of work.”

“Oh, you can do better than that,” she assured him. “I can get a job anywhere, but you need to finish writing that symphony of yours. And you’ll sell it to a generous publisher, and you’ll become famous, and you’ll make an exclusive deal to perform it with the Vienna Philharmonic.”

Laszlo thought his face might crack with the strain of holding back his laughter. He embraced her, holding her closer until they rested cheek-to-cheek. “Kitten, if only the world had your faith in me,” he said. “I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Things will get better,” she said, nuzzling into his embrace.

He smiled. For some minutes they remained still as the street noise faded away, leaving behind only music. Daydreaming, he failed to react when he felt Betty stir in his arms. By the time he returned to the present moment, a familiar and sinister presence was already looming over him.

“I told you to stay away from her, Hartvany,” a voice growled.

Laszlo’s glare snapped upwards. “What are you doing here, Johnny?”

“Never mind that. What’d I say about steering clear of my girl?”

Laszlo scoffed. “I never touched Selene, stupid. Get lost.”

“I don’t mean Selene. I mean her,” Johnny said through his teeth. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? Come on, Betty—”

“No!” Betty pulled back and clung tighter to Laszlo’s coat. “What on earth’s the matter with him?”

“He’s been drinking, that’s what,” Laszlo said, catching a whiff of booze on Johnny’s breath. “Ha, New Year’s is over, Johnny. Who’s making a fool of himself now?” He turned away, placing himself in Johnny’s path to shield Betty. “Come on, Betty, we’re going.”

Johnny’s face contorted. “Get back here, you son-of-a-bitch, or I’ll knock you down. You’re not taking her away from me, or her father, ever again,” he announced, loud enough for everyone in the aghast crowd to hear. Betty cried out as Johnny lunged forward and grabbed her arm. For an instant, Laszlo saw pure red.

“Get away from her!” he screamed. Without a second thought he tackled Johnny and punched him hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. In his rage, he dearly wanted to keep working him over and could have laughed at how much the idiot was wheezing already, but another scream from Betty made his blood run cold. He stared in shock as Selene’s moon-white figure swooped in from nowhere, batlike, to force Betty into the back of a car.

Grinning, Johnny took the split second of confusion to sock Laszlo in the side of the head and run, leaping into the open passenger seat as Selene rushed to the wheel. Laszlo reeled into the street. He stood in front of the car, seeing double as he lurched forward to stop it, and just for a moment he caught a final glimpse of Selene’s porcelain face in the blinding glow of the headlights. Her expression hardened. The engine roared to life, tires shrieking on the asphalt. Before he knew it, a solid blow to the torso knocked him completely senseless.

The onlookers gasped as Laszlo went flying off the hood of the car and came to rest several feet away in the gutter. There was a ringing in his head as he tried to sit up and flopped back to the ground like a rag doll. He tasted blood and marveled at the fact that he felt no pain—until he did. Agony shot through his battered ribs like a lance and brought on a wave of overpowering nausea.

“Holy cats, he’s alive!” A loud, clear voice broke through the fog. Laszlo blinked towards the sky to find the balding little street singer bending over him, peering down with worried bright button eyes. “Quick, somebody call an ambulance!”

“No… no ambulance.” Laszlo struggled to breathe. “I’m all right.”

“Not a chance, mister. I saw the whole thing. She tried to run you over!”

“Yeah. But I can get up…” Laszlo grimaced. He couldn’t. The irony of finally getting run over the one time he wanted to live was not lost on him. He might have laughed if only it didn’t hurt so much.

“Look mister, someone already called the cops but I’m taking you to the hospital myself. I got a car! I can get ya there quicker n’ anything if we leave right now—”

Laszlo reached up to seize the singer by the lapels. “Listen to me,” he rasped. “I don’t need a hospital. If you want to help me, go after that car, you hear? Take me with you and go after that car!”

The singer blinked at him for a second before flashing a wide, slightly nervous grin. “Sure, mister. Sure, anything you say! Come on lads, help me get him in the car. Quickly, now!”

The singer’s two bandmates swiftly packed up their instruments and lifted Laszlo into the back seat before he could blink. From their puzzled looks it was clear they had several questions, but police sirens were already approaching and they didn’t seem keen on sticking around, either. With the singer at the wheel, they sped down Walnut Street and through the heart of Center City in hot pursuit.

“So what’s your name?” the singer chirped.

“Laszlo,” he answered, searching the cars ahead for the slightest trace of Betty. He muttered to himself in a vain attempt to ignore the pains in his chest. “I can’t believe it. They took her in front of everybody. Right in the street. Why, why would they take her?”

“I saw it all, mister, but I couldn’t tell you why. Was she your girl? Who was that other dame, anyway?”

“It’s a long story. It’s not important now,” Laszlo said, waving the question away in agitation. “All I know is they took Betty and I want her back. Are you sure they went this way?”

“We’ll know for sure when the cop cars catch up. Worse comes to worse, all we have to do is follow them!” he replied brightly. “My name’s Phil, by the way. Phil from Philly, they call me. Only I’m not really from Philly. Guess you could have figured that out yourself!”

Laszlo agreed. The man’s accent was decidedly English, only not quite so posh as one might hear on the radio. “Where are you from, exactly?” he asked tightly.

“London!” Phil cheerily replied. “But me n’ me mates have been all over. You’re not from around here either, are you?”

“No. I’m from Budapest.” Laszlo said, trying not to breathe in too deep. It was about all he could do not to cry out each time the speeding car sailed over a bump. “I’m a musician, too. Only maybe not for much longer.”

“No kidding! What do you play?”

Laszlo coughed and found it excruciating. “Piano.”

“Oh, swell! Tony! Tony, you must introduce yourself to this gentleman!” Phil called over his shoulder. “Our Tony’s a pianist, too, y’know. He’s crazy about all that classical stuff.”

Laszlo managed a weak smile. “Me too. You perform much?” he asked.

Tony, a rather severe, frowning young man with angular good looks opened his mouth to speak, but his chatterbox friend was only too eager to interrupt.

“Sure thing!” Phil answered for him. “We must have played every club from here to England, France, Spain, and Italy… well, up until it got a little bit too dicey to travel there, or anywhere in Europe for that matter. And I tell ya, the Italians loved us. Lord only knows why. You know I was this close to being a proper bandleader? Me own music hall and orchestra and everything, if not for the bloody war. Ah well, I’d love to go back someday soon. Of course, I love it here in the States too, only Tony is always so homesick for Blighty and—say, are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

“Quite sure,” Laszlo gasped. At the moment, Phil’s rapid patter was the only thing keeping his mind off the pain. “Keep going. We’ve got to find her.”

“Righto.” Phil drove on, frowning at the road ahead. “Mike, have you got something to uh, help our new friend take his mind off things?”

Mike, a sandy-haired, lanky beanpole of a man, smiled knowingly and reached for something in his coat pocket. Laszlo extended a grateful hand, thinking the bass player was about to pass a bottle, but instead he received a hand-rolled cigarette. He examined it critically with a sniff, and to his surprise he found its peculiar odor instantly familiar.

“Don’t mind a ‘funny cigarette,’ do ya, Laszlo?” laughed Phil.

“Not at all,” Laszlo replied, placing it in his mouth. He leaned over as far as he was able to allow Mike to light it for him. He exhaled and the car swirled with a pungent herbal odor. To his relief, it did help to ease a fraction of the pain.

“Thank you,” Laszlo said, relaxing slightly. “Been a long time since I had one of these.”

“Be our guest. Michael here is the resident expert on all banned substances,” Phil chuckled.

“Mind that you air out the car when this is over,” Tony said sternly. “You remember what happened the last time.”

“Yes, yes, never fear, Tony darling,” Phil assured him. “Say, at this rate we’ll reach New Jersey if we’re not careful. We came this way just a few weeks ago, from Atlantic City. Ain’t that right?"

“Look!” exclaimed Laszlo. He pointed out the window at a speeding state trooper whipping around in the left lane, lights flashing. “There goes a cop now, over the bridge. They must have come this way.”

“East over the river.” Phil shook his head and tutted. “Boys, I’m afraid it’s Jersey again for sure.”

The other two groaned with some private joke about the “lawless wasteland.”

“Now now, maybe it won’t be so bad,” Phil said, not sounding too convinced of it himself.

“We’re sure to get lost again,” Tony complained.

“Not if we stick behind this copper—only not too close, of course,” said Phil. “We’ll keep to the roads and try not to fall in the marsh this time, eh? Don’t worry, Laszlo. We’re sure to find that poor girl. Won’t we, lads?”

Laszlo took another toke and stared wearily into the tail-lights of the car ahead. He could only hope.

Chapter Text

“Please, please answer me! Where are you taking me?”

It was no use. For the longest time Johnny clenched his jaw and refused to say anything. Betty winced under his tight grip on her upper arm. She began to wonder if he was truly worried about her escape, or if he deliberately wanted to leave a bruise.

“Just let me go,” she begged. “I won’t say anything, I promise.”

Selene snorted. “She’s got that right,” she said. She took a quick nip from a flask and handed it off to Johnny in the back seat, not taking her eyes off the road for a second. “The kid never says anything.”

“Please, Miss Sharpe, I don’t understand. Have I ever done wrong by you? If it’s about Laszlo—”

“Don’t you mention that little worm,” Selene snapped. “Trust me, I did both of you a favor. I’m only sorry I didn’t catch him under the wheel.”

Betty went limp in Johnny’s grasp and crumpled into helpless tears. The image of Laszlo colliding with the car played over and over again in her mind, burned there permanently with the sound of Selene’s giddy laughter as she raced away.

“Look, I won’t go to the police, honest,” she cried. “I just need to know he’s all right. Can’t you at least tell me where we’re going?”

Johnny took a long pull from the flask before he consented to speak. “Look, Betty. It’s not that we wanted to hurt you,” he sighed. “It’s just that we were running out of time. We knew we couldn’t convince you to go back to your father—”

“My father?” she blurted. “What’s all this got to do with my father?”

“Let’s just say he did a favor for us,” he answered uncomfortably.

“A favor?” Betty’s eyes widened. “So I was right. I did hear you talking about him the night before Mr. Forelli was killed. I knew I heard you mention my father’s name. You planned it, didn’t you? And you killed him—”

“The kid knows her detective stories,” remarked Selene, glaring into the rear-view mirror. “But you’re wrong about one thing. We didn’t kill Frank. None of this would have happened if Johnny-boy had only listened to me before—”

Johnny fumed in silence, his fingers squeezing even more tightly around Betty’s arm.

“And what about me?” asked Betty, ignoring the pain. “What does this have to do with me?”

Johnny shrugged and stared out of the window, avoiding her gaze. “We paid Rufus to do it. You were his price.”

Her insides clenched. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. “I don’t want to see him,” Betty declared. “You have to take me back, now.”

“No can do, honey. I don’t need to tell you that your father isn’t exactly a patient man,” said Selene. “Believe me, I wish it didn’t have to come to this either, only I’m not sold on the idea of Rufus pinning the rap on me. Are the cops still following us, Johnny?”

“I dunno, I don’t see anyone—hey, slow down!”

Selene had thrown caution to the wind long ago and took a downhill hairpin turn at full speed. Shutting her eyes, Betty uselessly slammed her own foot to a nonexistent brake pedal and braced for impact, but by some miracle they avoided wiping out at the bottom of the hill. The car fishtailed and continued on its way, bouncing them against the seats like ping-pong balls.

“You trying to get us all killed?” Johnny shouted.

“Who cares?” Selene cackled. “You afraid all of a sudden? Look at the kid. Just as cool as can be.”

If that was an attempt at sarcasm, Betty didn’t know. Her racing heart felt like it was trying to leap free of her chest. “But why did my father need you?” she pleaded. “Why didn’t he come for me himself?”

“A very good question,” laughed Selene. “But I suppose a jailbird like that would have his reasons.”

They didn’t wait long to find out. The car drifted to a stop on a quiet side road where a single streetlight cast deep shadows across an abandoned bus shelter. Selene rolled down the window and waited, pulling her wrap tight across her shoulders. For a while Betty heard nothing but the whispering of marsh grass in the cold night air. Then, a stealthy crackling sound of gravel underfoot, and an all-too-familiar voice full of whiskey and years of heavy smoke rattled from the shadows:

“Hello, Betty-Ann.”

The words sent a chill into the pit of her stomach. Waiting for them was a hardbitten man with watery brown eyes and a roughened complexion like aged leather. He seemed older than she remembered, somehow smaller, but surely every bit as dangerous.

“You got nothing to say to your old man?” he said. His smile etched hard, unfriendly lines around his mouth.

Betty tried to shake her head no, but something in his unwavering stare compelled her to speak. “Hello, Daddy,” she whispered.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

He stepped forward and Betty suppressed an involuntary flinch at his approach. He sized her up for a long moment before turning face Selene. Betty let out a slow breath but remained on high alert for any sudden movements of his cracked and callused hands.

“Get her out of the car,” he said. He picked up a leather attaché case at his feet and fingered the clasp. “You still want your cut, I suppose.”

Johnny said nothing and looked away in disgust, but Selene’s hungry gaze glittered in the streetlight. “How much?” she demanded.

“Same as we agreed on. You get a third of Forelli’s money. I take the rest, and bring Betty back with me. Simple.” He reached into the bag to fork over the stolen bills, but Selene interrupted.

“I want two thirds,” she said.

Rufus froze and squinted at her. “What?”

“You heard me. There’s three of us. You, me, and Johnny. An even third for each of us.”

“That’s not what we agreed,” Rufus growled.

Johnny grabbed Selene’s shoulder, hissing a warning under his breath, but she shrugged him off.

“If you don’t give us the money, what’s stopping us from going to the police?” she went on.

“Look, lady, there’s a hundred thousand dollars here,” said Rufus. “One third means thirty thousand for the both of you. I think I’m being more than generous. Remember, I could take it all. I’ve got Betty, and the money. You’d be left with the murder rap.”

“You won’t get Betty until we have our money. It’s our word against yours, Mr. Reading,” Selene replied with a smirk. “I’d hate to think what would happen if we decided to—”

A metallic click silenced her. She found herself staring down the black barrel of a .38 revolver.

“Think you’re clever, don’t you?” said Rufus. “This is your last chance. Take your money and beat it before I change my mind.”

“But—but that isn’t fair,” Selene pouted. “It took two of us to kidnap her.”

“You did what?” Rufus swore. “You double-crossers, I could have done that myself without involving either of you. I was trying to be careful for once. You said you could do it quietly for me. You said she’d come willingly!”

“We tried,” stammered Johnny. “But we didn’t know she—” He broke off, his face beading with sweat at the sound of approaching police sirens on the main drag. “Rufus, you gotta believe me. I swear there wasn’t any other way. That wasn’t our fault. We didn’t lead them to you!”

“Sure, Johnny. Sure you didn’t.” Rufus’ hard grin spread across his weathered face. “You idiots deserve each other, y’know that? Here’s something else you deserve.”

He leveled the gun. Two shots exploded in quick succession, and Selene’s shriek faded to a low gurgling moan. Johnny thrashed soundlessly before he lay still, a thick flow of blood pumping from his chest. Seconds later, Selene collapsed too. Her pallid face, frozen in horror, pressed into the steering wheel and sent the car horn wailing into the frozen night.

“Ah, shaddup,” Rufus groused.

Betty was powerless to look away as her father roughly pulled Selene’s corpse off the seat. The horn went silent as she slid down and hit the running board with a sickening thud. One last kick sent the beautiful singer to her final rest in a muddy tidal inlet, her blood mingling with dirty water until it ran together, all one color. He dumped Johnny’s body in a similar fashion and turned around, pointing the gun at her.

“Get in the front seat,” he ordered.

Betty couldn’t move. Everything felt too unreal to be believed, like watching a film of horrific events unfold in the sick glare of the streetlight, and at any moment she might awaken from her nightmare safe and warm in bed—

“I said get in front!” he growled, twisting her arm.

The pain forced her to comply but she refused to cry out, sitting numb and unmoving as her father took his place in the driver’s seat. She shuddered at the sticky pool of blood that painted the leather interior and seeped into her gloves. It was still warm.

Her father drove on recklessly into rural country, just out of range of his pursuers. The rough roads twisted and grew narrower. More than once he nearly careened off the side into the dark marsh that threatened to swallow them whole. Betty’s heart sank as the last hopeful wail of a police siren receded into the night. For a long time there was only the drone of their own engine and the sound of cold, bubbling water surrounding them on all sides in the stagnant sea of winter reeds. She spoke not a word, not even when she noticed the needle on the gas gauge slowly run down until it hovered near empty.

“We’ll stop here,” Rufus said.

He shut the headlights and pulled into an obscure gravel path near the edge of a lake. An all-night diner, so completely out of place in the unbroken miles of desolate marshland, beckoned with a barely legible electric sign that read “Sunrise Diner.” Betty couldn’t help but wonder how such a place stayed in business in the middle of nowhere.

“Why here?” she asked.

“Because maybe I’m hungry. Maybe I’ve been running for days without any sleep.” He fixed her with a peculiar, sarcastic animal grimace. “Is that all right, daughter of mine? Does that suit you?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good. Because if you even think about calling for help in there—” He pressed the cold gun barrel to her back.

She shook her head slowly. “I won’t say anything,” she whispered. A few tears dropped from her lashes as she was marched inside.

The place was almost deserted. A single waitress greeted the pair lazily as she leaned on the counter and chewed gum. Ignoring her, Rufus selected the corner booth facing the door, careful to keep his back to the wall.

“What’ll you have?” the waitress called, not getting up.

Rufus twitched. “I want coffee… yeah, coffee. And biscuits and gravy. Sausage and hash browns if you got any. And soup. Or any kind of sandwich you got. Hell, I don’t care, anything you got.”

The waitress stopped chewing and raised a skeptical eyebrow. “We got some of that. And for her?”

Betty was silent.

“She asked you a question, what do you want?” said Rufus.

“I don’t want anything,” Betty murmured.

Rufus scowled. “Scrambled eggs,” he said.

The waitress nodded, poured out two cups of boiling hot coffee about as thick as motor oil, and shuffled away to relay the order to the sleepy fry cook. Once her back was turned, Rufus surreptitiously tucked away his gun in a jacket pocket.

“Well?” he said, glaring. “What’s the matter? Don’t you like scrambled eggs?”

Betty dared to raise her face and look into his red-rimmed eyes, really look at him, for the first time in years. “You didn’t have to kill them,” she whispered.

“Who, those two morons? Don’t make me laugh.” He grimaced at the taste of the bitter coffee. “They gave me some cock-and-bull story about wanting to take over a nightclub. I only went to the guy’s house to see if I could grab some money and skip town—matter of fact if Forelli hadn’t tried to interfere, he’d still be alive.” He lowered his voice even further. “But you know what made me stick around? I saw his employee payroll, right there on his desk. Imagine that? All the names and addresses of everybody who ever worked for him. Awful careless to leave stuff like that lying around, even if it is in your own home. But there was your name, Betty-Ann. And I knew I had to come back for you.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Do I need a reason? Can’t a man see his daughter once in a while?”

Betty looked away in tears, hiding her trembling lip behind her hand.

Rufus started to say something else but shut his mouth when the waitress returned with the eggs and biscuits, promising the rest of his order in a few minutes. He barely listened to her. He attacked his gravy-soaked plate, wolfing it down like he hadn’t tasted food in days. Perhaps he hadn’t.

A telephone rang and Betty nearly jumped out of her skin. Her gaze locked onto the wall phone mounted near the kitchen window, but her father noticed and inched his hand towards his gun, shaking his head. She lowered her eyes and returned to pushing the rubbery eggs around on her plate. The ringing stopped.

“Look, Betty-Ann. I get that you’re unhappy,” Rufus said. He paused to gulp more coffee and shovel another biscuit into his mouth. “Our family’s always been unhappy, but that’s all in the past now. We can start over. It won’t be so bad living with your old man again. Just gotta wait for things to cool down a little. Why, a person could hide out here for months and no one would ever find them. Besides, I’ve met some good people. I’m searching all the time for new opportunities, and something always comes up.” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “You’re a lot like me in that regard, sweetheart. You listen, and you hear things. I’m like that too. I’m always watching, and people don’t suspect a thing. We could work together, you and me, and no one—”

He never finished. The front door banged open and a raw, pained shout tore the room apart:

“BETTY!!”

The whole place stared as Laszlo staggered in like a bruised boxer, scowling and aching but mad, madder than Betty had ever seen him, and suddenly she didn’t know whether to be overjoyed or terrified.

Rufus was quicker. In the blink of an eye he drew his gun and took aim at her head.

“Don’t nobody move! That goes for you, too!” he shouted at the now wide-awake fry cook, caught in the act of reaching for the telephone.

Laszlo halted in his tracks, hands raised. “Don’t do it,” he warned softly.

Rufus didn’t budge. “I don’t know you,” he said. He jerked his head towards Betty. “What do you want with her?”

“Nothing. I don’t want to hurt you,” Laszlo said.

“No? Maybe you’re a cop,” Rufus challenged. “Or maybe you just wandered in by mistake. But if I were you, I’d turn around and leave right now. Or else...”

Laszlo’s breathing visibly quickened as Rufus lifted his thumb to cock the pistol hammer. “You wouldn’t,” he said.

Betty trembled. She met eyes helplessly with Laszlo, powerless to do anything as Rufus pressed the barrel against her temple. Then, with all the dawning awareness of a lucid dream, she realized that her father was looking the other way. A warm metallic edge dug insistently into her palm—the fork was still tightly clutched in her fist. Gritting her teeth, she lifted it and stabbed down hard, digging deep into the flesh of her father’s arm.

An inhuman howl of pain went up from him. In the same instant he pulled the trigger, but the shot missed and shattered the front window. Laszlo wasted no time. He threw himself at Rufus and the two men tumbled to the floor, overturning tables and chairs as they grappled furiously for control of the gun.

“GET OUT, BETTY!” Laszlo shouted. “RUN!”

Betty did not run. She watched as three more strangers rushed in from outside and piled on top of her father, keeping him pinned to the floor as he screamed and kicked. With great difficulty they wrested the gun from his grip and flung it across the room, sending it skidding to a halt near Betty’s feet. She stared at it as if hypnotized. Then, like breaking free of a chain, she kicked it away beneath a table and shouted:

“Call the police! It’s Rufus Reading, he’s wanted for murder!”

The waitress was already on the phone. Betty turned back to the fight just in time to witness Laszlo, his face incandescent with rage, lift Rufus by the throat and slam his head into the tiled floor with a crack.

“LASZLO!” she screamed.

Slowly, Laszlo rose to his feet in a daze. His blank look gave way to terror as he stared down upon Rufus’ motionless form bleeding freely from a head wound.

“Oh my God. I killed him.” He shuddered in Betty’s arms as she drew him close. “I killed him…”

One of the strangers knelt down, pressing his ear to Rufus’ chest. “You didn’t kill him, mister!” he announced brightly. “Prob’ly gave him a concussion, but he ain’t dead!”

Betty sobbed with relief at the distant sound of approaching sirens. She tightened her hold around Laszlo and instantly felt remorse when he tensed painfully under her embrace, but he cleaved to her, refusing to let go.

“Betty-Ann,” a weak voice called.

They turned. Rufus raised his arm, his bloodied fingers shaking as he reached for her. “Don’t leave me,” he gurgled.

She shivered and turned away, burying her face in Laszlo’s chest as her father was carried out by the police.

The black cat flitted across the star-patterned carpet of Laszlo’s private office, quiet as a shadow, before leaping onto the desk to investigate the serving tray of tantalizing hors-d’oeuvres. Betty smiled indulgently and fed her a slice or two of the choicest deli ham.

“Happy New Year, Nixie,” she said, softly petting between the cat’s ears.

“Has it really been a year already?” sighed Laszlo, adjusting his black tie in the floor-length mirror behind the door.

“I’m afraid so,” answered Betty. She smoothed out the pleats of her cream-colored evening gown and retrieved Laszlo’s gold cufflinks from the desk drawer. "Here you are."

“Thank you. It certainly doesn’t feel like it,” he said.

“I know. Seems like only yesterday when everything was falling apart. For you and your music, and for me and…” She trailed off. “I don’t think I can celebrate New Year’s ever again without thinking of that awful night.”

“Neither can I.” Dissatisfied with his reflection, he parted his hair a third time and brushed it back until it glossed in the low lamplight. “I think about what happened to Frank every time I come in here. I only hope we were right to keep his name on the door.”

“I think it’s perfect. It’s a sort of memorial to him.”

“Maybe.” He turned away from the mirror and took down his pressed tailcoat from the hanger. “I’m sure the government gave him better honors. I still feel guilty for buying this place. It’s like I’m the one to profit from his death.”

“I don’t think he would see it that way at all,” Betty said. She straightened the shoulders of his coat and wound her arms gently around his sturdy chest, whole and healed after a year’s time. “He respected you. He believed you could make great music, and so you have.”

“Well. The reviews aren’t in yet,” he said slyly. “Maybe I wrote the music, but The Trio fixed this place, not me.”

Betty smiled. The former street singers were simply the Trio now, a collective orchestra, emcee and floor manager as required. “They really have turned this place around. It’s incredible, isn’t it?” she said. “Oh, I hope they’re all having a good holiday in England. Next year we should make the trip with them!”

She twirled towards the narrow window that overlooked the stair landing and peeked through the slats. Below them she glimpsed the gorgeous crowd all dressed to the nines, and saw the shining grand piano awaiting the masterful touch of Laszlo’s fingers.

“Perhaps we shall tour the world, kitten.” Laszlo bowed to her and reverently kissed each of her hands. “Or should I say, Mrs. Hartvany.”

She beamed. “Is it time?”

“Yes.”

She rested her ear to his chest and felt his heartbeat quicken. “Good luck,” she said.

They shared one last passionate kiss before they left the room together, arm-in-arm. Passing the desk, he lightly stroked his fingers down Nyx’s back. “Wish me luck, Nixie,” he said.

They descended the stairs to the sparkling dance floor. Tears stood in Betty’s eyes, overwhelmed by the applause as Laszlo took his seat at the piano to weave his dream of the entire world; to play his first, his own beautiful symphony.