Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. All original plots and OC's are the property of the author. No copyright infringement is intended.

A few months ago, I read My Thoughts Be Bloody by Nora Titone, a well-researched biography of both Edwin and John Wilkes Booth detailing their rivalry. All that I've written in this story about the Booth family is based on information found in that book and on the web—from legitimate sources, and I've taken practically no liberties—just

a few-and avoided hyperbole. The OC's are based on actual characters in Edwin Booth's life.

Edwin Booth did have an affair with an older actress, Laura Keene, while they toured together but his drinking binges ended it. (She is known best as the actress who was starring in the play that Lincoln was watching when he was shot and she held his bleeding head while she sat on the floor.)

Edwin Booth did have the "glorious clap," as he referred to it and his first wife died from complications of the disease, having caught it from him. At the time, her illness wasn't diagnosed as she had no obvious symptoms—women often do not.

Edwin Booth also has a good friend, Adam Badeau, who was well-known in his own right as an author and a diplomat. He helped Booth to enter society and promoted him as an actor; they wrote each other when apart. Badeau served on staff for Ulysses S. Grant during the Civil War and retired from the military with the brevet rank of a Brigadier General. And although not discussed at the time, it was well-known that Badeau was a homosexual although there is no hint that his and Booth's relationship was anything other than just that of good friends.

All the World's a Stage

Act I: A Cast of Characters

The dark-haired young man winds his way through the back stage crew, apologizing for his clumsiness as he bumps into the props and stagehands, excusing himself as he makes his way until he reaches the staging area where the actors review their marks and feint strikes with stage foils-the balls on the ends imperceptible to a distant audience. One actor portraying Mercutio states, "Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives…" and the handsome interloper, who can't help but grin at the familiar dialogue, surmises the other actor is Tybalt. Edwin Booth leans against the wall in his tunic and tights and watches while he absentmindedly twirls another stage foil, waiting for Romeo's cue to come between the other two actors. Adam Cartwright, who feels he has stumbled into a foreign world, wonders about the experience of saying onstage to a theater full of people who are hanging on your every word, "Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up." Even though the audience already knows what horrendous result Romeo's intervention will bring about, they still hold their breath, anticipating what is to come. Viewing Shakespeare in the day is similar to watching all the great Greek tragedies eons ago—the audience is well familiar with the plots but it does not decrease the effect of the resulting anguish; the "catharsis" or "purgation" of emotions is achieved.

Adam stands quietly, waiting until the proper time but Booth sees him first and the two men exchange warms smiles of recognition. Edwin practically leaps across the space to grasp Adam by the shoulders.

"Adam! How wonderful to see you! What in the world are you doing in New Orleans?"

"Hello, Ned! I'm here on business—well, Ponderosa business. I'll explain it later—not too interesting. I didn't mean to interrupt a rehearsal but when I read in the paper about you opening tonight, saw the playbills posted all over town, well, I had to stop by and see you."

Edwin Booth, a handsome actor, only two years younger than the dark-haired man standing before him, surveys his friend's face with a critical eye.

"You look well, Ad. How is your father? Well, I hope."

"Yes, he's well. I'll tell him you asked after him; he'll be pleased."

"You know, Ad, you would make a perfect Tybalt; you have the dark looks required of the villain—like a big, sleek cat. And that voice! I swear, Ad, all the females in the audience would be swooning in orgasmic delight when you intoned your lines!"

Adam laughs. Yes, Ned still owns the naughty humor they both shared when they first met and became friends.

"Ned!" a man holding a script calls out. "Your cue! Get out here!"

"Go!" Adam says, giving his friend a gentle push.

But even as he walks away, Edwin is looking at his friend and gesticulating. "You must stay, Ad. Don't leave. I have plans for you. Wait here. I have to go play Romeo. God, I detest this role! Romeo is a milksop—an ineffectual, simpering, puling whey-face, lacking any vestige of masculinity! Ah, how love castrates a man!"

Adam laughs at his friend's comments and as he watches, Edwin Booth changes his posture, the way he holds himself and with arms outstretched as if attempting to enjoin the two characters of Tybalt and Mercutio into an embrace, begins his lines. Adam notices Edwin's voice has changed as well; it now has a tenderness—a persuasive tone.

"Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up."

"Come sir, your passado." The two actors, Mercutio and Tybalt, begin to clash foils and Adam observes they're talented at the art of fencing; both having the lightness of foot and elegance required for the art. They move about the stage freely, almost as if they're dancing.

Then Romeo, worried and weary, pleads with his friend, Benvolio, standing on the sidelines, "Draw, Benvolio! Beat down their weapons! Gentlemen, for…."

Mercutio stops parrying and thrusting-angry. "Damn it all, Ned, stop blocking me! The audience is to see me stabbed and my death scene—remember? But if you keep missing your mark…"

"The hell you say! I know where my mark is but with your awkward flailing and…

"Flailing! Now you listen, you bastard upstart, you pretender to your father's throne, you…"

"How dare you?" Ned pulls out his foil and pops the ball off the end. He takes a fencing stance. "En garde, you cur! I'll run your liver through!"

"That's enough!" A tall, thin man, older and looking extremely put-upon and holding a script, steps between them. "I've had just about all that I can take. This evening's performance had best come off without a hitch or I'll skewer both of you just as the critics will me! I know you are the headliner, Ned, but really—and you…"

"Booth here always steps in front of me, blocks me from the audience and I won't have it! The people may think the world of him only because of his father but I am not impressed nor humbled in the least! I should have my name equal to his—not below it."

Edwin turns to Adam, slyly smiling and winks. He turns back to the tall man, obviously the director, who is attempting to keep peace. "I will make sure that I step between them, not in front of them. But why he thinks anyone would prefer to watch him over me…"

Mercutio's arm shoots out to grab Edwin by his shirt front but the tall man intervenes by putting out his arms, keeping the actors apart. The rest of the actors on the stage watch with interest; they know that Edwin Booth is the main draw due to his famous father and has his name printed on the posters almost as large as the title of the play. Every night, in every city in which he performs, Booth receives flowers in his dressing room along with notes of undying love and devotion and many a young, besotted girl has begged to be deflowered by the young actor with the large, deep, sad eyes. And many young men also worshipped at the altar of handsome Edwin Booth sending small tokens of their admiration of his elegant beauty and abundant talent.

"That's it!" The tall man throws up his arms but hasn't let go of the script. "If you two keep this bickering up I'll replace both of you with understudies. Now, as they say in pugilistic circles, go to your separate corners. All of you-." He sweeps his arm encompassing everyone lounging against the walls enjoying the drama, "Get back to work or...I don't give a damn! Just no one ask me any questions! My head is pounding." He starts to walk away but turns on his heel and shakes a threatening finger at Romeo and Mercutio. "I meant what I said. And if I replace you—no pay."

"If you replace me," Edwin responds, "no play!"

The actors move off the stage, all discussing the unexpected, and far more interesting performance they had just viewed. Ned walks toward Adam, his eyes betraying his intentional mischief. Adam smiles in response.

"What was that all about? You really were blocking him from view, you know."

"Of course, I know. He'll give a better performance tonight for it. The tension between having to play my good friend and detesting me at the same time will produce just the right amount of ambiguity. But now, Ad, I have a marvelous idea! How would you like to be a super?" Ned throws an arm around his friend's broad shoulders. They are of the same height but Ned can feel the strongly muscled upper arms under his friend's lightweight wool suit. He can appreciate Adam's dark looks, his swarthy complexion and rich, deep voice as well as his beauty—a far different beauty than he himself possesses.

"A super? What the hell is that? And why would I want to be one?" And Adam laughs—his friend has brought about his good humor which he had lost in the meeting with lawyers earlier that day.

"Come with me…" Ned drops his arm and beckons for Adam to follow him, hurrying ahead through the labyrinthine corridors that wound through the back of every theater. They step gingerly through the trappings and appurtenances that litter the backstage area and they come upon a small room.

"Meg, my love!" Ned cries. A woman hunches over lengths of brocade fabric, her needle stabbing at a seam, stitching it together. Rack upon rack of costumes stand about her and there are spools of multi-colored thread, scissors, thimbles and such on a table along with rolls of lace. An open steamer trunk stands in a corner filled with more costumes. She looks up at the two men, her glasses perched on her nose, her hair more grey than brown. "This is my friend, Adam Cartwright."

"Another actor, I suppose." Meg sizes up the man. He's stockier than the other actors in the troupe but not portly as Juliet's father or Friar Lawrence are; he's just well-muscled but is an intimidating size and height.

"He's going to be a super in the group scenes, Meg. Can you fit him for tonight's opening? He's to be a Capulet—or a Montague. A Capulet, I should think—give him those colors. That way he can both dance at the ball and brawl in the street."

"Whoa! Wait a minute." Adam raises a hand as if that will put an end to everything. "I'm confused here. What's a super? And what does a super do and, again, why would I even want to be one?"

"A supernumerary! An extra person in the play. We're always looking for people to fill the background—it's hard to have a crowd scene without a crowd. All you have to do is walk on with the other supes…"

"No." Adam puts his hands out in protest. "I just want to see the play—I'll buy a ticket with everyone else."

"But, Ad, you can have one of the best seats in the house! In Shakespeare's time, the most expensive seats were on the stage! C'mon, Adam! It pays a dollar a night."

"But I'm no actor."

Meg chuckles. "Neither are many of the people in this play—at least according to past reviews."

"Say you will do it, Ad! And then after, we'll go out and get roaring drunk to celebrate your acting debut!"

"No…I don't think I want…"

Ned turns to Meg. "The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks." He implores Adam again. "You'll be helping out, Ad."

Adam is frustrated; part of him wants to perform, to fulfill his curiosity about being on stage but he also knows that he is being manipulated through his vanity and friendship with Edwin Booth. He decides. "All right. But just tonight for the opening and you can stick your dollar…." Meg looks up at him expectantly. "….back in your wallet."

Ned claps him on the back and they both grin. "Meg, can you fit him?"

"Stay a few minutes while I measure you," she says to Adam as she puts aside the heavy dress she's sewing, grabbing up a tape to measure him. "I have some vests and such that will hopefully fit you; I don't have time to let out or take in any other costumes, thanks to you, Ned. Polly is thicker in the middle and bustier than Minerva. Make my life easier and keep the same leading lady for a while, would you? Not every woman you bed needs to play your leading lady."

"Why, Meg," Ned says, taking her arms and giving her a turn about the room, "they do if I'm going to bed them-that's the way of the world. And you, Meg, my love, how would you like to play Juliet to my Romeo?" Ned winks lasciviously. She pulls away her hand and gives him a playful slap but she smiles. "You know you're the only woman for me, Meg, my one true love."

Adam enjoys the badinage and Ned steals a kiss from the wardrobe mistress who enjoys the attention of the likeable young man. She has often stood in the wings and watched Edwin Booth perform; he takes her breath away with his ability to become the characters he portrays. He can transport an audience to another place, another time.

Edwin and Adam turn around suddenly and Meg puts a hand to her chest; down the corridor, a woman's scream pierces the air—not just one scream but shriek after shriek. Adam and Ned head for the screams but Meg sighs and then picks up the brocade dress she had put aside, taking up her needle again. She's sure it's nothing serious and continues with her work; actors are so histrionic.

Ned pushes his way through those already drawn by the screams and enters the room, Adam pushing forward behind him. Standing in the dingy, little dressing room is one of the loveliest young women Adam has ever seen. Her hair is lush and shiny black, her features classically perfect and her figure is just beginning to fill out to its womanly promise; she is 17 at the most.

"For God's sake, Minerva!" Ned says as he stands in the room. The actors and stage hands who were curious about the noise fill the doorway.

"There!" she says, "That!" angrily pointing, stabbing at the air. They look, having to move further inside and there on the dressing table backed by a huge mirror, there among the pots of stage makeup, brushes and an abandoned hairpiece of black curls is a huge dead rat. "She did it! I know she did it! That jealous bitch! I'll kill her!"

"Now, Minerva," Ned says, holding onto her, "there's no proof that Polly did this—rats have been seen in the building before and it may have just chosen this day to die on the altar of your beauty."

"Are you sure it's not just another hair piece?" a female voice asks with a tinge of sarcasm.

Adam turns and an attractive woman in her early 30's stands in the doorway wearing a long Oriental, tasseled shawl over her layers of Bohemian clothing. She smiles knowingly, her arms crossed.

"You did it!" Minerva snarls, attempting to reach the older woman. "I'll scratch your eyes out, I'll poison you, slice up that face! Just because I'm playing Juliet, you can't bear it! You're a jealous whore! A no-talented…"

Polly snaps to an aggressive posture. "The pot calls the kettle black! Your only talent is falling on your back and I hear you don't even do that well! I had nothing to do with the rat but it does seem apropos—a rat for a rat! Better a dead whore for a rat but the law frowns on that. Or should the rat have been tossed on Ned's dressing table?"

"Polly," Edwin says, "did you do this?"

"Please!" Polly sniffs. "Do you think I'd stoop to something so—base, so revolting? My hands are clean and pure." She holds up lovely elegant hands, smiles and exits, calling behind her, "Give a good performance tonight, Minerva, my dear…and I mean on stage. Not on the mattress."

The on-lookers break away, talking among themselves, going back to their lives and only Adam Cartwright remains behind observing the two people left in the room. He decides that actors enjoy creating scenes, making grand entrances and exits—it must be in the blood.

"Now, Minerva, my sweet, relax and don't worry. I'll tell Sully to dispose of…the creature." He holds the girl's face gently and she softens under his touch. "You have your premier tonight—your first starring role, my sweet Juliet." He kisses her and Adam looks away, a smile playing about his lips. "Go rest in my dressing room, Minerva—settle those lines in your gloriously beautiful face."

"Yes, thank you, Ned. It's good that Juliet and her mother are on the outs—otherwise I don't think I could be civil to Polly—dialogue or not. I would have to spit on her." Minerva notices the dark-haired, beautiful man standing next to Edwin. "And who is this?

"Oh, this is a friend of mine—Adam Cartwright." Adam tips his hat. "Adam, Miss Minerva Baudelaire." Minerva puts out one arm, her fingers elegantly posed, and Adam takes them to his lips.

"My pleasure, Miss Baudelaire. I wish we had met under less disturbing conditions." He releases her smooth, white hand and she bridles under his attention, rewarding him with a dazzling smile that only enhances her loveliness. She considers this man's unusual yet attractive features—the light hazel-brown eyes, the high cheekbones and the lush, full lips. He continues to smile and she feels like a foolish girl with her first crush; more than anything else, she wants his attention.

"With that voice and your looks, I assume you are an actor, Mr. Cartwright?"

"No. In fact I'm a rancher from out west."

"But tonight," Ned says, putting one hand on Adam's shoulder, "He is an actor. I've convinced him to be a super—on the Capulet side."

"How wonderful! My side of the families." Minerva says, clapping her hands in delight. "Then we will meet again on stage. Perhaps we can 'bump' into each other during the ballroom scene."

"It would be my pleasure." Adam tips his hat again as Minerva leaves the small room in almost a dance holding up her skirt with one hand—her attempt to have this man notice her small feet, narrow ankles and lithe figure.

"Minerva Baudelaire, huh?" Adam says watching her go. She turns back once and smiles again and then goes on to Ned's dressing room.

"Minnie Bodine," Ned replies.

"What?" Adam laughs.

"Her name is Minnie Bodine and she's been with the troupe since she was 14 and ran away from home. First she helped with costumes and then was taken on as an understudy and now she has a starring role—even though she lacks any depth of talent. But she'll learn as I did."

"Yes, but you learned from the best—your father."

"Yes, and now I am the best and she will learn from me. I have taught her quite a bit all ready." Edwin Booth grins. "Come, Adam. Let's get you fitted for your appearance tonight."

"Ned, I'm not sure…"

"Think of the experience, Adam! You will be able to tell your grandchildren that you once appeared onstage with the great Edwin Booth! Now shall we go?"

~ 0 ~

Adam had nervously followed the other actors in the scenes and milled about awkwardly. Taggert had pulled him aside after the opening scene where he entered as a member of Prince Escalus' group, and hissed at him to stay relatively still while on stage except for the times of action, and even then to stay in the background. "The audience's eyes always go to who's talking as it should, but if you shift from foot to foot or rub your ear or scratch nose or such, well, the audience will look to you; they always look to action so stay still." Adam swore he would and made it a point to just stand quietly in the background—and sweat. He stood so still he could feel the beads running down his chest and the sides of his face.

Although Adam wasn't particularly modest, wearing the pantaloons that exposed a great length of his stockinged legs was intimidating—and embarrassing as the fabric became damp and darker near the crotch, the more he sweat. Considering his nervousness, Adam was relieved that with the glare of the limelight, the audience couldn't be as clearly seen as he had believed they would be and that was a comfort. But when the performance was over and he quickly stripped out of costume and placed it where the other supernumeraries put theirs to be steamed and brushed for the next performance. And once he dressed, he waited outside Edwin Booth's dressing room where "Romeo" was holding court with adoring female fans as well as a wealthy businessman who felt he could make a fortune by backing the young genius, for that's what Booth was.

Adam idles, his legs crossed at the ankles as he leans against the wall, waiting for Edwin so they can go out to dinner and then carousing as they had in Boston after Edwin's debut with his father in Richard III so long ago. He isn't paying particular attention to the others who are backstage, either part of the crew, the troupe or one fortunate enough to gain entrance to the private quarters of the insular world of actors. He feels the brush of a delicate hand against his nether region and snapping to, sees Minerva Baudelaire next to him. She moves closer until her skirts are crushed against his leg, her hand lightly teasing his thigh.

"What did you think of my performance, Mr. Cartwright?" She gazes up at him; for one so young, she seems most practiced in the art of seduction. But then perhaps it's a role she assumed. It seemed to Adam that everyone played a part in life, that all people had different roles at different times and different places. And at that moment, Minerva played the part of a siren.

So Adam considers his response to Minerva. After all, he had discussed the young Minnie Bodine at great length with Ned earlier that day.

"So," Ned says, "Minnie showed up at 14—ran away from home after seeing me onstage and she followed me around like a puppy—a beautiful puppy who was willing to roll over and show what she has to offer-but still so young! She was fresh and lovely—and just waiting and willing to be plucked."

"She's lovely still." Adam says, raising his brows in appreciation. He sips from the silver flask engraved with J.B.B.—Junius Brutus Booth, Adam assumes, an inherited piece from Edwin's father-and then passes it back to Edwin.

"At first she helped about the place, helped Meg, the wardrobe mistress and learned the art of stage make-up—it is rather grotesque up close and requires artistic knowledge of how to make one's cheekbones look so sharp as to cut the lover's flesh during a kiss—and she learned acting. Soon she was an understudy and somewhere along the line, was rid of the burden of her virginity—not by me, Adam—I assure you! My guess, is Taggert, the director. It is he who does the hiring of minor performers and such, and it is he who has the tastes of a satyr. Nevertheless, 'Minnie Bodine' would be laughable on a marquee so she chose 'Minerva Baudelaire.' A bit pretentious but as you saw, she does have a flair for the dramatic—actually, she's quite wearisome. A person can only take so much of it."

"What about Polly? Why does she hate Minerva so much-and I'm assuming it's reciprocal?"

"Ah, Polly! Polly and I toured together and became lovers—she taught me many things in two years and improved my education in the sensual aspects of life. Nothing like an older, experienced woman, Ad, trust me. But she's too old to play Juliet anymore—despite makeup layered on with a palette knife. So, Minnie starts tonight as Juliet and Polly as her mother. I reminded Polly…" Edwin passed the flask back to Adam, "that Lady Capulet is barely 14 years older than her daughter but there is no pleasing women! And that—in a nutshell—is the cause of the hostilities. Ah, 'I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space—were it not that I have bad dreams.' Hamlet—my father's most famous role."

"Is it true, what Meg said about your leading ladies?"

Edwin takes back the flask. "I am ashamed to say that yes, it is. But should you desire 'Juliet', Adam, well, indulge yourself. Besides, you're two years older than I and I'm sure you're more experienced. You can probably teach our darling Minnie a thing or two during your stay and I shall be the one to benefit from it. And how long can you stay?" Edwin takes a long sip. "You have made this miserable place so much better."

"Ned, I think that's enough to drink. You have your performance tonight—in just a few hours actually, and…" Adam leans forward, his arm outstretched to retrieve the flask while Edwin makes a dismissive motion.

"No need to worry, Ad, I am not a drunk like my father."

At least not yet, Adam thinks but leaves unsaid. He sits back and refuses the flask when Edwin again proffers it; Edwin tucks it back into his inside jacket pocket.

"I'll be here only a few more days—the issues should be resolved quickly unless there's another obstruction. My brother Joe's been left a small inheritance by a distant relative of his mother's. I came to settle the matter, submit proof of his birth, sign the necessary papers and take home the draft from the estate."

"Is he with you? Your brother, that is?"

"No—he's only 12."

"Ah, puts me in mind of my own brothers and sisters—I miss them all, especially the ones who died in childhood. But I support my whole family, you know. Now that my father has passed, my mother has no one else and she wants to keep John at home as long as she can but he's itching to act—and June, well, he's trying to make a fortune in California."

"Trying? Not succeeding?"

"Not in the least. Apparently, despite the stories told, gold nuggets aren't lying in the open just waiting to be picked up. But things aren't all so dire. Now, let me give you something to drink to!" Edwin pulls out the silver flask again. "My parents married the year my father died—once that conniving Delannoy bitch finally divorced him." He takes a long swallow, sighing afterwards. "Here, Ad, you must drink to my parents' marriage."

Grinning, Adam takes the flask and sips; the whiskey is already burning through his veins and addling his thinking. "To your parents' marriage."

"He loved my mother, you know. He really did, and would've married her before June was born if he had only been free."

Adam watches, wondering if he should intervene again but Edwin replaces the stopper and placed it back in his jacket.

"I'm sure he did."

"Yes, he did. Now, enough of this! We must make plans for this evening after the show! No women for me tonight—especially not Minnie! I don't think I can bear hearing her retell and retell the rat story which will alter and grow with each version."

Those words uttered earlier urged Adam to caution in dealing with Minnie.

"You were magnificent, Minerva. Wonderful. I have never seen Juliet played so well—you showed her maturity when faced in an untenable situation and made her actions convincing. I'm not a critic, of course—but then no one could possibly criticize you."

"Oh, you're far too kind." Minerva looks at the crowds of people who are jammed in Edwin's dressing room, many standing outside bearing bouquets of flowers, unable to yet get inside. Her face takes on a look of annoyance under her thick make-up which only exaggerates the small lines about her frowning mouth and eyes. "Flowers for him. I should be receiving more than…this!" She holds up the small bouquet of mixed flowers she had received at curtain call and then tosses them over her shoulder. "If you're waiting for Ned, it will take him a while to fight his way out from the fawning crowd." She fingers the lapel of Adam's suit, noticing the summer-weight of the fabric—perfect for the spring in New Orleans but cool as it was outside, the theater was overly-warm from all the people, the lights and her acting efforts. "Why don't you come with me to my dressing room? You can protect me should there be anything more threatening than a dead rat in there. And we can lock the door…"

But Adam doesn't have to think of a way to politely decline because a young man comes smiling down the hall followed by another, both well-dressed and bearing huge bouquets of multi-colored flowers. Adam surmises that each bouquet must have cost at least five dollars and they weren't bought from any corner street vendor selling poesy's or wilted, spotted gardenias.

"Miss Baudelaire," the first suitor says, "I am humbled to be in the presence of such a beautiful and talented actress. Please accept my small offering." He hands her the massive bouquet and Minerva smiles and thanks him with downcast eyes, putting them in the crook of her arm as she would hold a child. Then she looks expectantly at the other young man who wi flushed with emotion. Adam suppresses a smile at the man's obvious infatuation with the young actress.

"Oh, please, Miss Baudelaire," he says flushed with the gravitas of meeting an actress and a young, beautiful one at that. "Won't you accept these from me?"

"I should be delighted." Minerva takes the second bouquet as well. "Won't you gentlemen accompany me to my dressing room?" The men agree and Adam hears a few more people coming down the back stage corridor calling out, some holding flowers, some looking like newspaper reporters seeking a word or two for their copy, "Miss Baudelaire! Miss Baudelaire!"

"Won't you excuse me, Mr. Cartwright?" Minerva says, giving Adam a coquettish look.

Adam makes a slight bow and motions for her to go ahead without him and Minnie Bodine quickly finds herself the center of much-desired attention. As far as deserving—well, Adam has doubts about that but beauty takes one a long way in the superficial world; he knew that for certain

~ 0 ~

The two friends sit in a seedy bar in a disreputable part of New Orleans—the waterfront-a place where a naïve man could easily be shanghaied, rolled by a prostitute and her cohorts or stabbed through the gut with a buck knife for no particular reason. The sailors drinking in the dank bar which carries the pungent smell of sour vomit, sweat, cheap perfume and fish, have no idea that the elegant young man in the flowing clothes of a poet, shoulder-length, wavy, dark hair with the sad, dark eyes and the refined nose is a lauded actor or that his friend who looks born to the stylish suit he wears is a contradiction—an educated man given to deep thoughts and moral quandaries who works at physical labor. All that the gaudily-dressed barmaids know about the two customers is that the thinner man likes to lap up the alcohol—questionable as the substance was—and that the other man, the one who observes everything and everyone, is far more in control of himself and his desires.

"Miss" Edwin calls out, raising a graceful hand in a distinctly theatrical manner. "Another bottle of your finest for my friend and me."

"I think you've had enough to drink," Adam says, trying to be gently discouraging. "We should head back to the hotel. Much later and we may not make it back safely." Much to the friends' delight they discover that both are staying at the Maison Dupuy Hotel on Toulouse Street.

"No, no, Ad. I can never have enough to drink—I have discovered that. You see, my brother John inherited my father's looks—handsome and physically powerful. Even June isn't as handsome as John. As for me, I am proud to say I've inherited by father's talent and his trunk of costumes, but I have also inherited my father's lust for the grape—or the barley or whatever will ferment. It's like a disease, you know—one that can't be cured. But then I'm sure you remember from the time you met him—that we first met…" A barmaid comes over to the table and places a bottle down, waits to be paid. "Thank you, my lusty beauty." Edwin makes a dramatic gesture as if on the stage, large and effusive but makes no effort to pay.

"Here," Adam says, standing up to speak to the woman; she has bad teeth and garish makeup—it is as if she too is performing a part and applied the make-up accordingly. He hands her two silver dollars and she smiles showing gaps in her teeth, drops one coin down the front of her dress. "Don't serve us anymore liquor. Understand?" The barmaid smiles and goes about serving others and Adam sits back down.

Adam wonders just how he is going to get Edwin back to the hotel. It won't be easy but maybe Ned will pass out and he can just sling him over his shoulder and carry him until a hack is found or they reach the hotel which is not too far away. But in the meantime he sits and listens indulgently; his friend Edwin is a troubled man.