Nightside 03 - Nightingales Lament

under new management. Some group of show business lawyers who knew a good thing when they heard it and were wise enough to present Rossignol with a reasonably fair contract. They were putting a lot of money behind her, and the word was she was going to break big. She was already recording her first album, with a respected big-name producer.
    The club that night was really swinging. The audience packed the place from wall to wall and danced in the aisles. It was a more usual mix this time, with hardly any of the old Goth element. Rossignol was moving upmarket with her new material. I was there on my own. Dead Boy was off working on another case, and Julien Advent had a paper to put out. I could have asked my secretary Cathy, but she'd lost interest in Rossignol once she'd gone mainstream. Cathy was strictly cutting-edge only.
    Backed by two Ian Augers, a new drummer, and all new backing singers, Rossignol sang of love and light and rebirth in her clear glorious voice, touching the hearts of all who heard her. She was strong and vibrant and magnificently alive. She still hung off the microphone stand and smoked like a chimney, though. The crowd loved her. She took three encores, to rapturous applause, and nobody even looked like they were thinking of killing themselves. It's nice when a case has a happy ending.
    After the show, I went round the back to her dressing room. To my surprise, the door was being guarded by Dead Boy. He had the grace to look just a little embarrassed.
    "So, this is your new case," I said. "No wonder you didn't want to talk about it. Bodyguarding is a bit of a step down for you, isn't it?"
    "It's only temporary," he said with great dignity.
    "Until she and her new management can agree on someone they trust."
    "She could have asked me," I said.
    "Ah," said Dead Boy. "John, she's trying to forget what happened. You can't blame her, really."
    "What happened to the bullet hole in your forehead?" I said, deliberately changing the subject.
    "Filled it in with builder's putty," he said briskly. "Once I've grown my hair out a bit, you'll never notice it."
    "And the hole in the back?"
    "Don't ask."
    I knocked on the dressing room door and went in. The room was full of flowers. I would have brought some, but I never think of these things. Rossignol was taking off her make-up in front of the mirror. She didn't seem particularly pleased to see me. She gave me a quick hug, kissed the air near my cheek, and we sat down facing each other. Her face was flushed, and she was still a little breathless from the set.
    "Thank you for all your help, John. I do appreciate it, really. I would have phoned, but I've been very busy putting the new set together."
    "I was out there," I said. "It went over great."
    "It did, didn't it? John . . . don't take this wrong, but, I don't want to see you again."
    "There doesn't seem any good way to take it," I said, after a moment. "What brought this on, Ross?"
    "You remind me too much of bad times," she said bluntly. "I need to move on, leave it all behind. Now I'm alive again, I see things differently. I live only to sing. It's all I've ever wanted or needed. There's no room for anyone else in my life, right now. And especially not for you, John. I am grateful for everything you've done, but... as near as possible, I want to live a normal life now. I'm not staying in the Nightside. It was only ever somewhere to make a start. I'm going places, John."
    "Yes," I said.
    "I'll write a song about you, someday."
    "That would be nice."
    She turned away and started removing her make-up again, pulling faces at herself in the mirror. "You never did say - who hired you to look after me?"
    "It was your father."
    She looked at me sharply. "John, my father's been dead for two years now."
    She dug into her bag and found an old photo. It was unmistakably the man who'd come into Strangefellows to hire me. So - a ghost. Not all that unusual, for the Nightside. Rossignol was touched.
    "He always was very protective."
    "Well," I said, "I guess I don't get paid for this case, either."
    I gave Rossignol a goodbye kiss, wished her all the luck in the world, and left her dressing room. Humming the blues.
    Scanned and somewhat proofed by LordCrey.