er low-cut gown, sending a ripple of laughter among the musicians.
"It's a Christmas present," she whispered, fishing deeper and
deeper--her shoulders wiggled in mirth. "If I can find it..." She
drove her hand deeper to keep them all laughing.

Jurgen pulled his chair closer and held his viola case upright between
his legs. Al pushed a tumbler of bourbon in front of him--and Mabel
slapped five dollars onto the table with both hands. "Now you go on
and take this," she insisted. "Ever since you showed up here, business
has been getting better and better. I want you to know how much we
appreciate it."

Jurgen looked at the bill--it was a crisp, fresh five-dollar note that
had been folded, only once, in quarters. "Thank you, Mabel," Jurgen
said, then paused to fumble with his glass. He did not touch the bill,
but left it sitting on the table in front of him. "I'm speechless."
Everyone laughed.

"Now you just sit here a while with me," she continued. "The rest of
you go on out and play for a while. I want to talk to Mr. Jurgen in
private." A low murmuring sound swept them, and they backed away.
When Jurgen and Mabel were alone, she raised her glass. "Here's to
good business," she said.

"To good business," Jurgen replied, raising his own glass and clinking
it delicately against hers. "And a Merry Christmas to all..."

"Now that," Mabel said, "is what I wanted to talk about." She spoke
quickly, with clarity--as if she had a speech memorized, and was
delivering it for an audience. She punctuated her sentences with wispy
motions of her long-nailed fingers. "I've been wondering to myself
just what kind of man you are. And I've concluded that you're a pretty
poor man." When Jurgen's smile suddenly dripped away she stopped and
closed her eyes theatrically. "Oh, that was unfortunately phrased. I
mean... you're not a wealthy man."

Jurgen sat up straight, and Mabel laughed--then set her glass down on
the table. "It takes no Sherlock Holmes," she continued, "to see that.
Why, you've been in here nearly every evening coming on six weeks--and
in all that time, I don't believe I've seen you in any clothes but the
rags you have on now. You must wash 'em, cause you don't smell like my
grandpa's barnyard--but I'd guess you don't have any other clothes."

Jurgen felt himself redden, and looked down, swirling the bourbon in
his glass until it ran up along the edge, almost flowing over the rim.
He should have pac