ked a much larger wardrobe, and left most of his
music behind.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

"Al once told me you read voraciously."

Mabel tossed her head and laughed. "Not in those words, I expect. But
he's right. And Sherlock Holmes is one of my favorites."

"Well," he answered slowly, "I must admit I'm rather between full-time
engagements at this time...and my wardrobe is minimal at the moment...
I do own a suit, and a top hat..."

"So I've been asking myself," she interrupted, "how you live, and where
you live. I've seen you on street-corners a few times, too. Maybe
that's all you do--play your viola--I know well enough it's not just a
'fiddle'. So, where are you living now?" She hung her wrist limply.
"Are you on the street?"

"I'm presently lodging at the Charleston."

"Hew!" she exclaimed, waving her fingers. "That place? Nobody of any
worth lives at the Charleston. It's full of winos and whores."

"It's inexpensive," Jurgen replied. "The decor leaves much to be
desired. But I'm afraid that I'll have to be moving along to even
cheaper lodgings by the new year."

"That bad?"

Jurgen nodded. He could probably hold out for another month or two,
but by then, he would have to close his new bank account.

"Well," she continued, "the Charleston is bad enough. I just won't
stand for one of my friends hanging his hat in a place like that, or
worse. Do you need a place to stay?"

He knew she was sincere, but the situation felt uncomfortably close to
charity. His grandmother had always warned against even seeming to be
in need of charity--let alone actually needing help. "Really, Mabel, I
couldn't presume to burden you with..."

"Now, stop it Jurgen," she said with a shake of her head. She scooted
her hips forward, cupping both hands around her bourbon carefully as if
she were settling in for a serious talk. "Business here has never been
better--and I think you've had a lot to do with that. You bring a new
sound, and people are paying to hear it, and drink a few, and they're
eating food, too... My friend Dotty, just the other day said to me..."
Mabel pressed her hand to her breast and forced her voice to a higher
pitch, "Mabel, honey, I hear deyz a strange waat boy down at
Calcutta--plays jazz on de fiddle."

Jurgen laughed at her feigned accent.

Mabel let her voice drop to its normal pitch. "Are you looking for
regular work?"

"Nothing seems to be available in my line."

"Listen. F