Free Vendetta Trail by Robert Vaughan

our hearts one last night, have you?”
    “Clarisse, you could always give this up and run away with me,” Hawke teased.
    “Oh, don’t think for one minute I wouldn’t do it if I thought you were serious,” Clarisse said.
    Hawke laughed. “And abandon your girls? You know you are their mother, and they are your children. You couldn’t leave them.”
    “Maybe not,” Clarisse said. “But oh, I will have a wonderful time fantasizing about it. Hawke, as a special favor for me on your last night, would you play ‘Beautiful Dreamer’?”
    “I would be honored,” Hawke said.
     
    Clarisse watched Hawke walk through the parlor, exchanging pleasantries with the women and their customers. She chuckled as she recalled a notion she had shared with the other girls, shortly after Hawke arrived. Clarisse had told the girls that if she could find four or five more men who were as handsome and refined as Hawke, she could start a brothel for women.
    “Of course, I’m sure I would be tarred, feathered, and run out of town,” she admitted. “I don’t think New Orleans is ready for such an arrangement yet, but I do believe it would do very well.”
     
    Taking his seat at the piano, Hawke began playing, starting out with Clarisse’s request. When he finished, he looked toward her, smiled, and nodded his head. Returning his smile, Clarisse gave him a slight curtsey.
    “It is you,” a man said, coming up to the piano.
    Turning, Hawke saw a small man, nearly bald, with round cheeks and prominent ears. Although Hawke showed no sign of recognition, he knew who the man was.
    “Something I can play for you?” Hawke said.
    “It is you, isn’t it?”
    Hawke chuckled. “As far as I know, I am me.”
    “That’s not what I mean. I am Professor Leonard Tompkins,” the man said. “And if I am not mistaken, you and I once shared the billing at Vienna’s Grosser Musikvereinssall . You are that Mason Hawke, aren’t you?”
    “That was a long time ago,” Hawke said.
    Tompkins smiled broadly. “I knew it!” He hit his fist into his hand. “I knew it!”
    “How are you doing, Professor?”
    “I’m doing fine, just fine. Wonderfully, in fact,” the professor replied. “I am the conductor of the New Orleans Symphony Orchestra,” he added proudly.
    “Good for you,” Hawke said.
    “I don’t understand,” Tompkins said.
    “What is it you don’t understand?”
    Professor Tompkins looked around the room at the scantily clad women and their customers. “I don’t understand why you are here,” he said.
    Hawke laughed. “Well, as you can see, Professor, I’m playing the piano. But a better question might be what are you doing here?”
    Tompkins cleared his throat. “Oh well, uh, see here, this is rather embarrassing,” he said. “But I hasten to add that I am a widower, so it isn’t as if I am cheating or anything.”
    Hawke chuckled and held up his hand. “You misunderstand me, Professor,” he said. “I’m not passing judgment on you. I’m not qualified to pass judgment on anyone for anything.”
    “Where have you been for the last…what has it been? Sixteen, seventeen years since our European tour?”
    “Something like that,” Hawke replied, without answering the rest of the question. “By the way, you should be congratulated. You have a very good symphony orchestra,” Hawke said.
    “You’ve attended some of our concerts then?”
    “Yes.”
    “I don’t mean to be vain, but, didn’t you recognize my name? Didn’t you remember our sharing the bill?”
    “Yes,” Hawke said. “I knew who you were.”
    “Well, man, why didn’t you come to see me? I would have put you on with the orchestra immediately. In fact, I would feature you.”
    Hawke shook his head. “I don’t do that anymore,” he said.
    “What do you mean, you don’t do that anymore? You are doing it now.”
    “No, I’m playing piano in a whorehouse,” he said. “It isn’t the same thing.”
    “No, not exactly, but…”
    “I