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"I was raised in a funeral home. Dad was an undertaker. Mom played the accordion. Maybe that's where it all started. A surreal Canadian childhood and somewhat checkered public education led me to a career in US network television advertising and promotion. Five years later, fleeing my Emmy Award-winning success, I moved to Hollywood to begin a screenwriting career. Thirteen years (there's that lucky number) and hundreds of tv and film scripts later, I'm finally having fun writing, working on my first mystery novel. Now if I could just get my hair back."

The Regular by James Thorpe

Down on Sullivan Street, Harold Sanders was sitting in the Hideaway Lounge, perched on a red naugahyde stool at the piano bar. As he drained the last of his first single malt, he watched the soft, sad notes of an old love song hover on the smoke-blue air. Harold turned to the piano player. "Come on, Frankie. Jesus, you're breaking my heart."

Frankie, not looking up from his music, said, "That's my job."

"So, what do you know tonight?" Harold signaled the bartender for another drink.

"Same old same old." Frankie's hands hovered briefly over the keys as his eyes flicked up to Harold. "Hear about Morty's wife?"

"Yeah." Harold clicked his tongue. "Boy, you never know."

"Ain't it the truth?"

Harold took a timid sip of his new drink. "Isn't it though?"

Frankie's fingers dipped again to the chipped, yellowed ivories, coaxing out another tune from another age. "Hit and run, they say. Driver probably had too much to drink."

"Christ. Hope they catch the bastard," Harold said.

"Oh, I'm sure they will."

Harold rattled the ice in his drink. "Think so?"

"Are you kidding?" Frankie asked. "With all that CSI shit the cops use today? Hell, they can probably tell what color BVDs the guy was wearing." Frankie's eyes swung right and attached themselves to a passing pair of pendulum hips. "I saw an episode the other night. Only evidence they had was one strand of hair, but they still managed to find the killer all the way in another state."

"Aw, that's just television." Harold took another swig of his drink and squinted hard into the glass, as if he'd lost something valuable among the ice cubes. "Couldn't happen that way in real life."

"Wouldn't be too sure about that." Frankie watched the hips tick-tock toward the candlelit shadows of a banquette, where a broad set of tweed-covered shoulders sat waiting. Frankie sighed, segued into a new song, and looked back to see Harold fingering a matchbook.

"Still sounds like a long shot," Harold said, as he absentmindedly struck a match, peering through the flame at Frankie.

The piano man shrugged his shoulders. "Who's to say?" His right hand shot out and struck a minor chord. "Maybe an eyewitness? Somebody who saw the, uh... accident." Slim fingers pounced again––a C-sharp tinged with pathos.

"Ouch!" Harold dropped the match, sucked on his scorched thumb.

Frankie's eyes scolded. "Playing with fire."

Harold shifted on his stool. "This eyewitness... why wouldn't he tell the police what he saw?"

"Who said it was a 'he'?" Frankie asked.

"Oh. Well, nobody, I guess." He shifted again. "Just supposing."

"Okay, so suppose it was a he. Some poor Joe working the night shift... like I do. And let’s say he happens to be taking a smoke break round about midnight. Like I do. And this guy just happens to wander over a couple blocks to Delancey Street where he hears a noise like tires skidding, and he looks up and sees... wham! An accident. What do you suppose he should do about that?"

Harold’s throat was suddenly lined with gravel. "I don’t know. What do you think?"

Frankie shrugged his tired shoulders, bracing himself for two more sets he still had to play before closing. "One thing I learned sitting at this old eighty-eight, people are funny," he said. "They all want different things from life. Take me, for instance."

The gravel in Harold’s throat turned to cement. "What about you?"

"I been playing this hole almost twenty years now. And you know, I'd be happy just to sit here and play another twenty. I don't need much from life. I got my piano. I mind my own business. All I ever ask in return is a little courtesy, a little appreciation." His eyes latched on to Harold’s. "Maybe a little tip now and then. Is that asking too much?"

Harold blinked. His ears filled with a whooshing noise. It was the sound of his world deflating, collapsing in upon itself. All he could do was sit and watch, powerless, as the infinite universe shriveled and shrank down to the size of the Hideaway Lounge on Sullivan Street, where it was immediately sucked into the twin black holes of Frankie's eyes.

And in this sudden void, Harold saw the face of Morty’s wife flash before him in a brief, klieg-blaze of headlights. The rouge on her pale cheeks glowing in twin welts. Her wrinkled mouth stretched wide, gaping like a hooked fish gasping for air. The liver-spotted, blue-veined hands suddenly thrown up. In defense. Or surprise. Or surrender? Then a crunch of glass and metal and something softer that made a wet, squelching sound.

"No," Harold heard a familiar voice say. "That’s not asking too much." And then he realized the voice had been his.

The black holes crinkled at the edges as Frankie smiled. "Well, that's nice," he said. "You see, you and me... we think the same. I like that."

Harold felt around for his overcoat. Shaking fingers clawed his wallet free and tore out a hundred dollar bill, stuffing it into the brandy snifter Frankie used to hold his tips. Forgive me father, for I have sinned. He waited breathlessly for absolution. On his upper lip, tiny jewels of sweat sparkled in the candlelight.

"Well, thank you very much," Frankie said, acknowledging the donation. "Glad you enjoyed the music."

Harold stood slowly and, arms fumbling, searching for his sleeves, wrapped himself in his wrinkled grey shroud of an overcoat.

The piano man beamed up at him. "Maybe you'll drop in again soon?"

Harold had to get away from those eyes. "Sure," he said. He turned toward the door.

"Like tomorrow night, maybe?" Frankie suggested.

Harold froze. He put a hand on the piano to steady himself.

"I’m here five nights a week," Frankie said.

Harold heard a ripping, wrenching noise. He looked up in amazement to see the fake wood paneling tear itself loose from the walls and start advancing steadily across the room, closing in on him from all sides. If he didn't get out of there soon….

"Tomorrow night it is," Harold's voice said.

With each dream-slow step toward the exit, the stench of sweat and cigarettes and loneliness tugged at him, tried to drag him down into the thick, blood-red shag carpet. Just a couple more seconds and he'd be out in the street. Out of this nightmare. He flung the door open and threw one foot over the threshold.

"You know, Harold..." Frankie's voice snaked out across the room and grabbed him from behind, spinning him around like a rag doll. "I've got the feeling you're going to become quite a regular."

Their eyes locked for a second. An eternity. Harold could feel himself nodding very slowly, every movement a Herculean effort.

Frankie grinned at Harold, man to man. "Drive careful, now." Then, mercifully, he turned back to his piano.

Suddenly released, Harold stumbled backwards, out into the street. He gulped in the night air. Over the pounding of his jackhammer heart, he heard a train whistle keening in the distance. A few blocks over, a dog was barking. And behind him, just before the Hideaway Lounge door sighed shut, Harold heard the gentle tinkle of the grand piano as Frankie’s fingers tapped out the first few bars of "We're In The Money.”

THE END