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And now, with his headache cutting across his head once more, Bertram decided to finish his bottle of gin.



“It might help,” he told himself doubtfully.



Chapter Seventeen – kismet



Laura Mae entered his apartment, her eyes glowing with delight at the news she needed to impart: and, that’s why she had used the spare key she’d had cut to Bertram’s rooms, while she’d been caring for him.



Her news was important, she reasoned – hence the intrusion was justified, she told herself – besides which, Shrike was paying her well, to ensure his golden goose was at the theatre each night.



She had dressed to kill, as ever and assumed that the little man would either be still in bed or making breakfast, at this hour.



He was not…



She passed the kitchenette, looking in to see that the normally tidy man had left his kitchen to resemble one the day after a part, of fifty or so. That surprised her – yet it was what found in the small lounge which stopped her in her tracks and gave her jaw to drop open momentarily.



Bertram was sitting on a straight back chair in his underwear, socks and glasses, his sparse black hair touselled atop his head, as he stared at the headlines of each of the many papers spread around where he sat, in the middle of the room, holding his head with both hands. He was moaning softly…



The drapes were just parted and sunlight shafted into the lounge, illuminating the scene before here eyes and, Laura Mae gasped.



“I got news,” she squawked, walking quickly toward him.



“Yes,” he told her, hardly lifting his head – “I know.”



“There’s a beauty pageant in Atlantic City and, I have a place in the final…” she told him, her words all in a rush, as she opened the drapes further and allow the light into the room.



It was then that she noticed that Bertram was sweating profusely.



She carried on talking, busying herself around the room, folding the bed and soaking a flannel in the sink, that she used to cool his forehead.



“There’s no point…” he told her softly, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose – “no point at all.”



“Whaddya mean Bertram?” Laura Mae quizzed, rinsing the cloth.



“Everything and everyone is fated Laura Mae and, you entering the pageant won’t alter the outcome,” he told her, staring at the headlines before him once more.



It was then that she noticed the nationals and locals he was staring at – each had a headline that spoke of one disaster after another.



“Have you slept Bertram?” She asked.



“The winner is… or will be… am not sure anymore… a pretty brunette, by the name of Margaret Gorman… and, it’s the first of September… and, what is the date?” He queried of the puzzled blonde.



“Am I as pretty as her?” She asked of Bertram, as she helped him to stand and then manoeuvred him across to the couch, suddenly regretting that she’d been so tidy, only minutes earlier.



“You don’t her have connections,” he answered, as Laura Mae helped him lie down.



“It’s rigged?” she then in turn, trying to decide what to do next.



“Rigged?” Bertram muttered, closed eyes fluttering, as he fought his growing headache, “I don’t think history would record the first Miss America pageant as rigged, now do you?”



Laura Mae reached for the teapot on the table and asked Bertram, “Any tonic?”

Bertram turned to the youth, his face alight with the power he felt within, whilst his stomach reminded him that he needed to either be sick, or eat.



He couldn’t decide which though…



“I’m alright Mikey,” he answered, pushing the door open, “thank you for asking.”



Bug-eyed the lad watched Bertram stumble out of the theatre, puzzled as to how the man knew his name…



Chapter Sixteen – balloons pop





Bertram stumbled down the alleyway, having discarded the top hat and cape at the exit door, at the side of the theatre.



As the exhilaration he had felt left, fatigue overwhelmed him - as his headache returned and, he stumbled down the alleyway, toward the sound of traffic.



But, much as he needed rest – it was his own company that he sought.



And, as if his body were acting without instruction, Bertram waded through the crowded streets, on his way to his own apartment.



He needed silence – no voices that yearned to be heard; no images thrust into his brain – and, no need to intervene in the lives of others.



“And what’s more,” he mused, key held at the lock, “I seem to recall that I have half a bottle left…”



Bertram opened the door and entered a small hallway. From there it was a turn, to the right and he was in his kitchen, where he found a clean glass, which he took to the lounge, where he chose not to open the drapes.



The pull-out was still the bed it had been – so with some effort, he turned it back into a couch. Then he reached beneath the cushions and easily found what he wanted.



“Ah, good to see you,” he told the bottle of gin.



He poured a generous amount for himself, that he downed in seconds.



It was only after Bertram had started the second glass that he allowed himself to think back to events earlier that evening – and, the couple in the box, to the immediate right of the stage.



The act had already gone well, as Bertram had gone from one patron to another and, amusing some and irritating others; all to the delight of the rowdy audience.



Then he’d found himself at the far right of the stage, outside of the curtain and looking up at a corpulent gentleman in a too-tight tuxedo, sitting next to a young woman, dressed, or undressed, in as little as fashion would allow – so she had a lot of flesh on display.



Bertram had removed his top-hat, then given a grand bow, then stood straight with his hat in his right hand, as he’d looked up to the box and boomed out, “Ah Mister Jenkins, it’s good of you to grace us with your illustrious presence…”



The fellow in the box nodded his acknowledgement to Bertram who turned back, to the audience and began to remind them how much certain people could make on Wall Street. He had then said that if there were problems on Wall Street that Mister Jenkins would be alright, as he was ‘old money’.



As some of the audience began to verbalize their displeasure at what they had heard, Bertram stalked the stage, gesticulating wildly, as he continued his monologue, “’tis old money, borne of slavery folks!”



As Mister Jenkins cheeked had turned florid with suppressed anger and, the young woman clutched at his arm, Shrike the theatre manager had looked on curiously.



Much as it did not sit well with him, that a rich patron was mocked as he saw it – the response garnered from the audience gave him pause for thought.



The clapping had begun a millisecond after Bertram had paused a moment, right at the edge of the large stage, right in the middle.



The house lights had dimmed at his instruction and, as a single light illuminated where he stood, Bertram had placed his top back on his head and begun to speak; “But, with a rich lifestyle comes rich food. And, it’s rich food that will end…”



He had turned, to point up to the box, where Jenkins sat.



“…a rich mans life.” As he made his pronouncement the light that had been focussed on him turned to the box and Jenkins, who left through a door at the back fuming, dragging his pretty thing with him.



There had been a moment’s silence; then the light had moved back to Bertram, who had simply smiled, bowed, then bid the audience ‘goodnight’, to rapturous applause.



He had continued to hear the clapping as he had left the theatre, depositing his hat and cape with Mikey the young stage-hand again, on his way out.



And now, with his headache cutting across his head once more, Bertram decided to finish his bottle of gin.



“It might help,” he told himself doubtfully.