A/N – After The Music Man, Hello, Dolly! is my favorite musical. Given that Hello, Dolly! takes place in 1890 and The Music Man takes place in 1912, it definitely isn't out of the realm of possibility that Harold Hill could have crossed paths with Dolly Levi at some point during his travels before he got to River City. Given that both Harold and Dolly have such strong, charismatic, and commanding personalities, I always thought it would be a lot of fun to see how they bounce off one another. Now, a full ten years after discovering both musicals, I have finally gotten around to writing about it!

XXX

I have always been a woman who arranges things,
for the pleasure – and the profit – it derives.
I have always been a woman who arranges things,
like furniture and daffodils and lives.
~Dolly Levi, Hello, Dolly!

A man can't turn tail and run just because a little personal risk is involved.
~Harold Hill, The Music Man

XXX

June 1902

It wasn't often that Harold Hill harbored any regrets. Once he boarded the train out of town, he left the past firmly behind.

But not this time. Appalachia had been a close shave. Too close. Usually, close shaves made him feel even more exhilarated and itching to move on to the next escapade. But something about this particular trip rattled him. He'd initially taken the Appalachians for simple backwoods hicks, but he hadn't realized just how violent in the course of protecting their own that they could be. It was certainly the nearest he'd ever come to death in the course of a con. And they hadn't even figured out he was playing them completely false – not yet. They'd merely caught him taking a few untoward liberties with a local gal. She'd been entirely willing, of course, but her father was furious. Furious enough to round up a local mob and demand, at gunpoint, that the swindler make an honest woman of his deflowered daughter. Harold had actually been dumbfounded to find himself in such a ludicrous bind – he'd thought shotgun weddings were a thing of the past, if not an outright myth! But even though he found out, in the most unpleasant way possible, how persistently some places still clung to this outdated tradition, he wasn't about to submit to it. Unfortunately, all the pretty speeches he'd made in an attempt to wheedle his way out of such a suffocating comeuppance for surrendering to temptation only got him gagged as well as bound while they brought out the tar. And it had been boiling hot. His left arm would never be the same.

Harold wasn't quite sure how Marcellus managed to get him out of that scrape. His memories were hazy and tinged with pain once the tar hit his skin. He dimly recalled a gunshot ringing out, followed by a burst of shouting and sheer pandemonium, and then a strong pair of hands slicing away the gag and the rope, hoisting him to his feet, and guiding him out of melee. He didn't fully regain his faculties until shortly after his shill had somehow managed to drag him onto the nearest train northward and clean his wound. Now that they were on their way back to civilization, where they could cool their heels and consider their next move, he was scot-free. Even if he'd had to sacrifice a great deal of his own dignity, they'd escaped with the money, and that was the main thing.

But that stubborn little knot of dread in the pit of his stomach refused to go away so easily. Harold had never faced such an angry crowd, and he was pretty sure the only reason he hadn't been shot outright was because they wanted to put the fear of God into him first. If Marcellus hadn't gotten him out of there, he was certain he wouldn't be alive today. He ought to be more grateful. But Harold had always prided himself on his independence and ability to talk himself out of any situation on his own. So it wasn't exactly a comforting feeling, knowing how much he owed to another man for his own life. Especially not when said man was looking at him with narrowed eyes, like he'd finally come to his limit on what he was prepared to endure for his boss's sake.

"How's your arm?" Marcellus asked gruffly, when he caught Harold looking at him.

His arm still burned like the devil, but the conman smiled as if he didn't have a care in the world. "Barely a twinge."

Looking even more annoyed, Marcellus grunted something noncommittal.

For some silly reason, Harold felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, which did not blend well with the dread that had already taken up residence there. "Thank you again for getting me out of there," he said, lending a bit more heartfelt sincerity than usual to the breezy rejoinder he always gave whenever they emerged unscathed from a scheme. "I owe you one, Marce."

"You owe me a million," Marcellus said peevishly.

It wasn't the first time his shill had saved his bacon, but it was the first time he'd ever sounded so resentful about it. When Harold shot him a probing, bewildered look, his expression softened and he added in a chastened voice, "But who's counting?"

"Apparently, you are," Harold said sullenly, too out of sorts to pretend otherwise, and turned away to look out the window.

XXX

When they stepped off the train into New York City, Harold immediately went to find Clara, an actress and burlesque dancer he liked to look up whenever he passed through the city. He was dimly aware that Marcellus picked up some Rubenesque opera singer in the theater district, but didn't spend a whole lot of time observing what his shill did, as he was too eager to purge the acrid memories of Appalachia from his mind and body. With Clara, he didn't have to go through the tiresome pretense of buying her dinner or even buttering her up with flattery and flirtation. He could just knock on her door and she'd drop her drawers for him. Which she did – quite literally. Apparently, he'd caught her at a very good time. It was just what he needed, so he didn't waste any time dropping his trousers in return.

After he'd finally finished taking her any and every which way he could think of, the knots in his stomach finally loosening as he did so, she laughed at his exuberance. "That was something else, even for you! Did they not have any women where you've been?"

"Not like you," he grinned.

It wasn't at all a romantic sentiment, and it certainly wasn't said in an affectionate tone of voice. But she crinkled her pert little nose and swatted him away, anyway. "There's never been another woman like me, honey. But don't you go getting all sentimental – it's not a good look for you."

"Oh, I wasn't being sentimental," Harold assured her. He tapped her backside. "Not many gals allow a fellow to make use of the backdoor so freely as you."

"Silly gals," Clara laughed. "They don't know what they're missing!" As she eyed his body very appreciatively, her eyes fell on the unsightly scar he'd most recently acquired. Before he could turn away or even distract her, she reached out a long, tapered finger and traced the scar on his arm. "Oh, Harold! What happened this time?"

"Got too close to a hot stove," he said smoothly, forcing himself not to flinch away from her gentle but probing touch. From a certain point of view, it wasn't exactly a lie. After all, he wouldn't have gotten boiling tar poured on him if he hadn't tried to talk his way out of that cockamamie shotgun wedding. He hadn't really needed to seduce that gal on this trip, as there was no music teacher in town. But after several cons where he'd been forced to pretend attraction to a string of plain and even unappealing women, he was parched for some real pleasure. And she'd been such a pretty little thing, too, with her wide blue eyes and silky blonde hair. A little inexperienced for his tastes, but she unfolded just beautifully beneath his touch and, after a little private tutoring, he had her writhing beneath him as expertly as any sadder-but-wiser girl. It was just too bad they'd gotten caught by her father, who'd never fully warmed up to what he was selling in the first place –

Harold came out of his reverie to find Clara looking up him with measured, almost appraising, eyes. "That must've been quite the stove that burned you, honey."

It wasn't sympathy that colored her tone – not exactly, anyway – but it made the knot of dread in Harold's stomach came back full force. He'd never let a woman get his number or his goat before, and he wasn't about to start now. Ignoring his discomfort, he immediately rolled Clara beneath him and pasted on the most smoldering smile he could muster. "Well, you should have seen what I did to the stove. I definitely got the better end of the deal."

Clara's eyes lit up, and she tightened her arms around him. "Ooh – are you going to show me?"

Finally, he had an excuse to shut her up, so he did. Round two was even more debauched and drawn out than the first. But this time, Harold wasn't solely in it for his own enjoyment. While he didn't hesitate to relish the variety of pleasures Clara offered, he also made sure to tire her out, but good. Once she'd finally had enough and settled into a sated sleep, he shook off his own exhaustion and slipped out of her rooms.

While Harold might return to this city someday, he'd never look up this particular gal again. He'd come to her one too many times, and now she knew far too much about him for comfort. Although she didn't love him, or even demonstrate the slightest sense of possessiveness, she had become a liability rather than an escape. She cared just enough about him to ask prying questions, but not enough to demand any devotion. Her caring, even just a little, bothered him in a way he couldn't really explain and didn't want to think too deeply about. Her not caring would make her an excellent witness for the prosecution if the law ever caught up to him. Because she had no loyalty, she'd feel no compunction to protect him, especially if she was put into the position of having to save her own skin in exchange for betraying his whereabouts. So it was best that he washed his hands of her completely.

XXX

Marcellus did not look at all pleased when Harold found him curled up contentedly in the Rubenesque opera singer's boudoir, woke him up quietly but urgently, and dragged him, still yawning and bleary-eyed, onto the nearest train out of town. If Harold hadn't been so eager to move on, he would have laughed at the irony of the situation. Usually, it was Marcellus interrupting his canoodling and urging him to skedaddle.

But neither man was much inclined to merriment at the moment. Marcellus even grumbled something about having wanted to stop by his old neighborhood in Brooklyn but, at Harold's direction, had grudgingly boarded the northbound train. Harold was in such a haste to get going that he hadn't even bothered to check his P.O. box. Not that there was any reason to keep it anymore – at least, not since his mother's death just a few years back. He really ought to disband it, as it cost him some of his ill-gotten but hard-earned money to maintain. Ah well, he'd get around to it the next time he came through the city.

Given that it was just before sunrise when Harold hustled them onto the train, the car they were occupying was largely empty. At least, empty enough to huddle together and talk in low voices without much danger of being overheard. Besides, New Yorkers tended to mind their own business.

Harold nudged his dozing shill awake. "So what should our next move be, you think?"

"Whatever it is, we should stick to the East Coast," Marcellus said, rubbing his eyes. "It's what we know best."

"Yeah, but we've pretty much exhausted the territory over the last ten years," Harold pointed out.

Marcellus considered. "What about Pennsylvania?" he asked tentatively. "We only did that one town… "

"Nope," Harold said staunchly. He would never set foot in that state again if he could help it. Not after what happened with Eileen.

Marcellus laughed – and rather unkindly, the conman thought. "You're running out of states, Greg – soon you won't be able to go anywhere without the law on your tail!"

Pushing his irritation away, Harold suggested, "How about the Midwest? Other than those two little Missouri towns we fleeced, we've only ever passed through the region on trains. There's a whole land of untapped potential out there. Wide open fields, simple farmers… " And farmer's daughters, he thought with a grin, remembering the delectable women he'd wooed out there.

Marcellus snorted. "The Midwest? My accent would stick out like a sore thumb, and you almost got caught in that first little town!"

"That's only because I was just starting out," Harold retorted, sounding a lot more defensive than he would have liked. "After nearly ten years, I'm no longer a greenhorn to this racket."

Marcellus's frown deepened into a downright scowl. "But you don't know a thing about the Midwest!"

The conman gave a careless wave of his hand. "What I don't know I can learn – or fake."

"That's the same attitude that nearly got you killed in Appalachia," his shill said darkly.

"Now look here, son," Harold snapped, his temper getting the better of him at last, "you're not the only one who does all the rescuing around here. I've saved your hide more than a time or two before – and you don't see me giving you a hard time about it. What's come over you?"

In response, Marcellus just glared at him, and an extremely tense silence fell between the two men. But Harold gazed levelly back, meeting the man's gaze without consternation or dismay. He may not have been wiser – though unsaid, it hung heavily in the air that it was his weakness for a pretty face that got them into hot water in Appalachia – but he was older, and he wasn't about to be shamed by his own shill. However, as Harold stared steadily back, it suddenly struck him how old Marcellus looked. He was still a young man, but he was no longer the scruffy and overawed teenager who'd begged to tag along with him on his cons.

Marcellus's frown finally ebbed. "Look, Greg," he sighed, sounding as weary and careworn as a man twice his age. "It's just been a bit rough going, lately. I didn't mean what I said. You're like a brother to me… "

Harold tried to grin, but only managed a small smile. "Never mind, Marce. I forgive you. Now let's get off at the next stop and go to the mercantile, and then the tailor. We need supplies, and I need a new suit or two."

XXX

A note regarding the OCs in this chapter – if you're curious about what happened with Eileen, Harold tells Marian that Story in Scars. Clara (or her photo) also makes cameos in I Only Have Eyes for You, The Paris Experiment, and Triumph of the Early Bird.