L'Homme au Piano

The man’s office smelled like cleaner, and every surface looked like it had been scrubbed until it, as an inanimate object, cried out for mercy. And then was scrubbed again. Jean grabbed the manila envelope that was slipped to him, pulled out the bills, and stuck the envelope in his breast pocket.

Levi wore his usual ‘disappointed-as-fuck-in-you-and-there’s-nothing-you-can-do’ look. Fingers arched in a bridge, hooded eyes, and a set jaw. The man had used his services for over a year, even when times got tough. Jean’s moonshine held up the ridiculous standards for cleanliness and taste Levi had. He still made him feel like a piece of shit. "Stay for a drink, why don't you, Kirschtein? See if this batch is good as usual," his employer said, words slurred from the cigar jammed in the side of his mouth.

It seemed like a good idea. He'd been working himself to death and his most recent near-run-in with the cops had him on edge. Booze could help.

And unless Levi was planning to spike his drink and have his infamous squad kill him, well, he had nothing to worry about.

"Sure, boss," he answered. "Abyssinia, yeah?" Jean slipped the wad of hard-earned cash into his jacket and turned to the door of the office. Levi didn't say anything for a moment. Jean was halfway out the door by the time he opened his mouth.

"Watch your ass, kid. It's too often now I'm losing employees because of their stupidity." Levi could've meant he'd been picking off the people who weren't doing his opinion of a good job or they were getting arrested. Jean wouldn’t stick around in that creepily clean place to figure it out.

Jean walked down the dim hall to the parlor, cracking his knuckles as he went. He heard the soft sound of a broad singing with a piano accompaniment. Clusters of men sat at tables around the stage, smoking, drinking, playing cards. He thought he saw some lucky guy in the back getting the opposite of a check from a doll as he made his way to the bar. He couldn't be sure.

He ordered a drink from a guy with horribly slicked hair and set his head on his hand. Jean glanced at the stage and saw the singer: an average dame, one who drowned her hair in bleach and put on too-red lipstick. He would've looked away from it had it not been for the man playing the piano.

His first thought? Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.

Jean couldn't see the man's face in full detail, but he took in a squared jaw and tanned skin covered in freckles. His hair was brown, messily parted near the center. He was interested without a doubt and it was his first glance. When it was set down, Jean grabbed his drink and stepped around tables to get as close as possible to the stage.

He hadn't planned to get close. He just wanted to have a couple beers and leave, but he felt a strong urge to get a look at the man. Jean took a seat at an empty table, not hearing the woman singing so much as he heard and saw how the man played the piano. His fingers skimmed over the keys as if they were made of water. Effortless. There was nothing going on around him. Or Jean had tuned it all out.

Time passed. Jean's beer had long since been drained and he hadn't gone up to get another. He had been sitting there, listening to the music and watching the man. Under a trance. The piano could've been an extension of the guy's body, for all Jean knew. It was the smoothest performance he’d ever seen, and it wasn’t biased by the guy’s looks. Jean started when applause erupted in the parlor. It was over already? He clapped along with the others, even going as far as standing up. You idiot, Jean, what the hell are you thinking?

The pair on the stage stood, and the doll bowed. Jean caught the man's eyes, and what with the way his heart lurched, he wished he hadn't. They were dark, warm, and brown. He smirked, playing it cool, and the guy returned the favor. Those eyes crinkled at the corners, and Jean could see his face was spattered with freckles.