Though it is only 11 o’clock, Leonard is tucked up in bed, hairnet in place, sleeping soundly. He dreams of Joan of Arc. They are on a picnic together, holding hands. She smiles. He drums a rhythm on her body armour and smiles back. His fingers stop moving, but the drumming persists. Joan of Arc frowns. The drums swell. Joan starts to cry.
Leonard wakes to the sound of his brass doorknocker. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he swings his legs out from under the blankets and into his slippers. In a moment, he is padding down the stairs toward the door. Between bangs, he makes out a slurring grumble.
Leonard lets out a small moan before releasing the bolt, chain and latch, leaving the door to swing open. He turns and heads for the kitchen. There’s no need to inspect the visitor; he could smell the tobacco, sweat and cherry brandy stench from his bedroom.
As Leonard opens the fridge, he hears a growl of greeting from behind.
“Evening Muse. Anything wrong?”
“Hey Len, was you sleepin’? Did I wake you? I, ugh, oh, ‘scuse me… I got this idea see.”
Leonard heats some milk in a pan and takes two enamel mugs from his wooden mug tree. He yawns.
“Yeah, but it’s ok. What’s on your mind?”
“Right. So I was out at this bar see, with a few friends, some sweet, some very savoury, you know, my kinda people.”
Muse chokes out a throaty laugh while Leonard, nodding, turns off the stove, pours the milk, and sets the mugs on the table. As Leonard opens a drawer in search of pen and paper, Muse opens a hip flask and toddies up a milk.
“Anyways, we were havin’ a few drinks these friends and I, foolin’ around, laughin’ it up, when I gotta go the bathroom. Muse gotta go too, you know?”
“Everybody does, Muse.”
“Exactly! So I goes out the back to a stall and what do I see there on top of the cistern but some trashy romance novel, on top of a copy of Moby Dick! Some of my best and worst, right there in the commode of this noplace bar. Well, naturally I thinks of you.”
“Thanks.”
Muse shakes out a phlegmatic bronchial laugh. Leonard sips his milk and takes a few notes.
“No problem. So I thinks hey, here’s one for my boy Len! Romance and sailors in the toilet? Bullseye! It just needs a little something. Then I thinks to myself again, hey, Len’s a Jew - you is ain’t you?”
“Have been so far.”
“Great, great. So, now we got us a sailor and a Jewess, pour on a bit of sauce, maybe some nazi jive to get the hackles up. All we gotta do now is stir the whole thing up and round off with a classic Len bitter denouement and hell! We got ourselves a song!”
“Really? I mean, well, you’re the boss.”
“Damn right buster. A bit of work, and this one’ll turn out great.”
Leonard puts down his pen and stands to rinse out the mugs. As he wipes the sideboard, he feels a hand touch the nape of his neck. Leonard hangs the cloth over the tap to dry. The fingers claw down his back.
“You know the price of greatness Len? ‘Cause it’s time to settle up.”
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