Coq au Vin by Charlotte Carter

was a footnote to a footnote, at best. I can’t imagine that anyone let him make any recordings.”
    â€œWhen did you know him?” I asked. “How long ago?”
    â€œAh. Well, that’s not so easy to say. Fifteen—eighteen—twenty years? Time doesn’t mean a great deal to someone like me, you know. Not anymore.” He laughed that marvelous deep laugh again and took the fresh martini the barman handed him.
    â€œMight I just show you something?” I said.
    â€œOf course. Show me everything, dear girl.”
    I retrieved the glossy photograph from my bag and held it close to his hand resting on the bar.
    â€œIs that what he looked like?”
    â€œHave mercy!” he said in wonderment. “Yes, that was him. Don’t tell me your friend carries his picture around?”
    â€œWell,” I said, “she does adore him. All she’s ever heard are a couple of badly recorded tapes of him. She found this in one of the stalls on the Seine.”
    He turned the photo over in his hands a couple of times. “The French are peculiar, n’est-ce pas?” he said philosophically. “Wonderful—but peculiar. And would we have it any other way?”
    After a moment’s appreciative laughter, Andre asked, “What happened to Haskins, Mr. Melon? We heard he died young.”
    â€œUmm. I think that’s true. Died young and died tawdry, if I’m remembering it right. Let me see—must have been a drunken brawl somewhere—no—it was a jealous husband—or a woman scorned—something like that. He was shot to death in a car perhaps. Something absurd like that. He didn’t have the decency to just choke on a pig’s foot.”
    I couldn’t help it: I let out a shriek of laughter.
    â€œOh, I’m mean, child,” Mr. Melon said. “I’m just terrible, ain’t I?”
    Melon slid smoothly from his barstool, cane and all, when a party of five came barreling in, shouting their greetings at him.
    I had to get in just two more quick questions before he took his leave of us.
    â€œBy the way,” I said, “did you happen to know any of Rube’s lady friends? One in particular called Vivian?”
    â€œOh dear, I don’t think so.” He pursed his lips then. “The only Vivian I recall from those days was a young man, not a young lady. A British chap, and the less said about him the better.”
    â€œLast question,” I said. “Any idea if Rube Haskins was his real name? I mean, did you ever hear people call him by any other name?”
    He shook his head “Just ‘fool.’ You two children should have some of that St. Emilion before you leave tonight. It’s delicious. Ask Edgar to pour you some.”
    â€œHe’s something, isn’t he?” Andre said when Melon was out of earshot.
    â€œHe’s a stitch. But I wouldn’t want him to read me. He’s got one sharp tongue.”
    â€œWhat now?”
    â€œYeah. You got that right. What now? We know for sure now this is Haskins. But where does that leave us? How did he go from Ez to Rube—or vice versa? And which one was he when Vivian went picnicking with him?”
    Andre began to speak, but he stopped short when Morris Melon reappeared at the bar.
    â€œIs it true what I hear, children?” he asked us excitedly.
    We looked at him blankly.
    â€œThat’s right, play it coy, babies,” he laughed expansively. “Don’t be so modest! Some friends tell me you two are the talk of the town. They say le tout Paris is buzzing about the duets you’ve been performing. You must favor us with something.”
    His slow, steady clapping caught fire and before we knew it the whole restaurant was filled with coaxing applause.
    After a brief consult with the pianist, we started with the old Nat Cole arrangement of “Just You, Just Me.” A real up number. Everybody seemed to enjoy it. Then