Part 2

"House!" Mei squealed. Grabbing the cardboard hat from the top of the stack sitting on the bar, she cut across the dance floor to greet him. She swooped an arm around his neck and pulled him down to her level. When he straightened, he sported a waxy red kiss and a garishly colored cone upon his head.

She stepped away and spun around, modeling her outfit. "How do you like?"

Instead of her slinky, jewel-toned, slit-to-the-thigh cheongsam, she wore a tuxedo. Her trim, boyish figure usually left her at a disadvantage compared to the more well-endowed girls, but not tonight. She was desirable in a faintly erotic way. "I must remember to thank Marlene when I return to the States," he said with approval.

Her eyes opened wide with naïve admiration. "When you see Miss Marlene, tell her the girls at Mischa's worship her." She waved toward the blond haired man making change at the register. "Mischa took us on our day off to see Morocco. We decided to dress like her for New Year's. That is, all the girls except…" She mimed weighing hefty melons. "…Ling." She narrowed her eyes. "She thinks her girls are too big to be stuffed down a shirt."

"Ling is a handful." House agreed dryly.

Mei's pearly white grin assured him his remark had sailed right over her head.

Mindful of his cane, she threaded her hand through the crook of his arm and led him into the smoky interior. "You came at a good time. Eddie just took a break. Will you play for us?"

Mischa loved expats even more than he loved Marlene Dietrich. The bar was awash with thirsty Americans. The only available seat was the piano stool. "I will, if you bring me a scotch."

She nodded and let go of his arm when they reached the far corner with the grand piano. "Play I Can't Give You Anything But Love, pretty please, House? The first drink will be on me."

He nodded and made himself comfortable, immediately tossing aside the idiot hat. He tested the pedals and ran his fingers over the well-worn keys. In spite of the noise, the lofty room had excellent acoustics. After a few warm up chords, he launched into a jaunty rendition of her request. By the time he finished the introduction, several girls had partnered up and sauntered onto the dance floor, blowing grateful kisses at him. They never seemed to tire of the song.

He continued to play a medley of upbeat tunes. Men soon joined the frenetic dancing, pairing up with the women. When everyone's brows glistened, he switched to a sultry, romantic love song. Lost in the music, the couples snuggled together. House estimated he and Irving Berlin would be responsible for the birth of at least five babies by October.

He glanced at his watch. The crowd at the bar had thinned drastically. No hot-blooded male wanted to be stuck holding an empty glass at midnight when he could have his arm around the waist of a luscious party girl.

From the dance floor, a girl flapped her hand in his direction, happy with his piano playing. He saluted her with his empty glass and decided to spin out the tune a little longer. He saw her signal Mischa to send him a fresh drink. If it weren't for the non-stop refills, he might have felt neglected. He shrugged off the depressing thought. He had bigger game in mind. Ling, the casaba queen, had yet to make an entrance.

A chittering sound drew his attention to the beaded curtain separating the bar from the card room. There was Ling, in all her voluptuous glory. She was encased in shimmering turquoise silk, and curvier than a mountain stream. Not only was she stunning, but he admired her shrewdness. She was a glittering bauble in a sea of black. What he did not care for was the accessory draped around her neck—the arm of a man who possessed a charming smile and killer dimples. Distinctive, hard to forget dimples.

House lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, his eyes never leaving the handsome pair. They were backlit by the card room, like lovers on the silver screen. He studied their animated flirting with the avid interest of a back row voyeur, but the coils of pleasure that normally laced through his loins at such a sight lay unnaturally inert. Frustrated, he stubbed the cigarette out. His interest in playing the piano was as dead as the ash.

By chance, a seat at the bar opened up. He took it as a sign to desert his current post. A few star-struck couples continued dancing to a make-believe orchestra, but most stood around as if they were shipwrecked survivors treading water. He brandished a soulful expression by way of apology. The poor kids would have to wait for Eddie's return.

Settling onto his new perch of cracked red leather, he tilted his drink to his mouth, preparing to medicate away the sight of Ling and her beau, but their reflections loomed in front of him, filling the mirror. Giving up any pretext of disinterest, he checked the time on his watch and drummed his fingers on the counter while he watched. Any minute now, Ling would be beckoning Killer Dimples upstairs to her room. She was on the first step holding his hand. House slumped in his seat.

But he was wrong. Killer Dimples was rooted to the base of the staircase, waving to someone in the card room. A less well-constructed replica without the etched cheeks joined him. House gauged the guy a little older, a little shorter, and a whole lot eager to spend time with Ling.

This was getting interesting. Even more so, with Killer Dimples heading toward an empty seat at the opposite end of the bar where Mischa stood. He could see that the émigré had also watched the little drama unfold. A manicured eyebrow arched in appreciation.

House dropped his gaze and strategically knocked his elbow into his neighbor's untouched drink, splattering the contents onto the man's shirt and lap. He mimed surprise and deep regret while the patsy uttered a string of furious oaths and departed for the washroom.

With the stool now vacant, House immediately focused his attention on his glass, printing wet circles onto the glass-topped, mahogany counter. The design would rival any artwork of Picasso's. His stomach tensed with a small stab of excitement when a puff of warm breath tickled his ear. Under half-closed eyelids, House glanced into the mirror. Killer Dimples was warming the freshly unoccupied seat and signaling a bartender.

Mischa immediately put his second-in-command in charge of his cash drawer and trotted over, his blue eyes sparkling, his thick head of wavy hair bouncing against his collar. "Happy New Year, Wilson," he said with a thick Russian accent. "Haven't seen you in a while. Thought you left Shanghai."

"Still here, but not quite the night owl I was when I first arrived." Wilson answered. "I wanted to explore Shanghai in daylight."

"But Shanghai has more to offer after sunset," Mischa said with a suggestive leer.

House watched Wilson check out the people at the bar, barely bobbing his head in agreement. If he caught the subtext he was deliberately ignoring it.

Leaning his elbows on the countertop and striking a well-rehearsed but casual pose, Mischa wasn't giving up. House was forced to do the unthinkable.

"Refresh my drink, Mischa, and bring my pally, Wilson here, whatever he wants."

He could sense Wilson stiffen in his chair.

Wilson cocked his head toward House's glass. "I'll have what my… pal is having."

Mischa glanced at House, opened his mouth to say something, but apparently thought better of it, and slunk away.

To House's disappointment, the drink offer obviously failed to spark any memories or kindle a conversation.

Wilson cleared his throat and spun around in his chair. Eddie had returned. Knee jiggling to the the music, Wilson's eyes never left the couples swirling around the dance floor.

House said nothing. He fidgeted with his cane until Mischa returned with the drinks, plunking them down without saying a word. With a shake of his shaggy mane, he whirled around and left.

"Cheers," House said, and raised his glass, uncertain whether or not Wilson would join him in a toast.

"Cheers." Wilson replied with a thin smile that could have passed for a grimace. "Thanks."

They clinked glasses.

After downing almost two-thirds of his drink in silence, Wilson pulled out a gold cigarette case. Eyes closed, he inhaled the smoke before smartly clicking his lighter shut.

House patted his pocket, pretending his own pack had grown legs and had taken a powder. "You got an extra?"

Wilson hesitated then placed his case and lighter on a cocktail napkin, sliding it toward him. "You know what these do to your lungs?"

"Turns them black, just like my heart." House snatched four from the case, lit one and pocketed three.

"Only four? Wilson said. "Why not take them all?"

"In honor of the four horseman."

Leisurely blowing out a curling puff of smoke, Wilson shrugged his shoulder. "Of course. Makes perfect sense."

They lapsed into silence again. Their glasses nearly empty, House was sure Wilson would return to the card room if he didn't dispense an amusing observation.

"So, since the last time I saw you, you became either a doctor or a mortician. By your need to be speak judgmentally, my money is on doctor. Stiffs are beyond help."

Apparently, it was a curve ball Wilson never saw coming. A deer frozen in the glare of an oncoming car's headlights looked less startled. "What? Have we met before?"

"Not formally introduced, but you helped me out of a jam. House, Gregory House."

"James." Wilson said. "You know the rest." But he continued to look puzzled.

"Remember the Italian Gardens? The speakeasy? Two thugs?"

The glazed eyes took on a shimmer of understanding. "You were the fella playing poker? Doc?"

"Me. In the flesh." House held up his cane. "Minus several ounces."

"Damn," Wilson swore under his breath. "I heard gunfire. When I got to the street, it was empty. Wally said it was a misunderstanding. Everyone was all right and to forget about it. He gave me a bottle of his best rotgut and closed early." Wilson bit his lip and averted his eyes. "It's my fault you got hurt."

"Don't be a sap." House said, dismissing Wilson's confession. However, guilt did have its uses. "But you know what they say, 'Whenever someone saves another's life, he's responsible for his debts forever.' You can start living up to your obligation by paying for the next round of drinks."

"If I didn't know better…" Wilson waved at Mischa, pointed to a bottle of scotch on the shelf and peeled off bills from his money clip. "I'd think this was all a setup, having me sit here."

Mischa glowered at House. He sent one of his bartenders over, who swiftly filled their glasses and placed the bottle between them.

The drinks lubricated Wilson's tongue. He filled House in on Morelli-still holding tightly onto his fiefdom. They compared notes on which deli in New York made the best pastrami sandwiches. Wilson insisted on Katz's while House argued Saul's was better, and had the best sauerkraut. Wilson was waxing enthusiastic about the last play he saw on the Great White Way when the lights dimmed and there were whoops and cheer.

Midnight.

Following an introductory arpeggio, Auld Lang Syne sprang to life on the piano. Everyone sang along. Confetti and streamers gyrated through the air. Strangers slapped House on the back.

Swarming like honeybees, Mischa's girls spread out from the dance floor, delivering hugs and kisses to one and all. A giggling flock descended on House, nudging each other to get closer so they could kiss him. Peering over the mob of dark hair, he saw that Wilson received the same royal treatment. Swaying on the stool with a sloppy grin, he appeared to be under the influence of liquor and female attention. As suddenly as they had come, the hive flew away. Wilson's smile lingered, but the interruption had created an awkward gap in their conversation.

Meeting halfway around the world on the cusp of a new year was cause for special celebration. But what could House do? Their new friendship was as fragile as a glass tumbler…

"I suppose a New Year's kiss is out of the question?" House asked, pausing for a beat. When there was no discernible reaction, he said, "Let's toast to old times and déjà vu." He filled their glasses, waiting for Wilson to raise his. "To us!" he said. In one fluid gesture, he downed his scotch and tossed his glass into the mirror, causing an undulating crack to run down its length.

Wilson stared in wide-mouthed shock, which quickly faded into amusement. He hauled off and released his glass, striking exactly where House's had, dead center. "To us!"

The second assault left the frame empty. Sparkling glass splinters littered the floor.

House hid his smirk as Mischa marched over, his face borscht red, letting loose a torrent of Russian. House turned to Wilson. "He says, fork over a hundred clams unless you want an international incident. The mirror was a family heirloom. It belonged to his dear, departed grandmother who gave it to him right before she was hung for thievery and murder."

Mischa eyes blazed death-rays at him as Wilson dropped bills into his open palm. Not until the wad of cash in Wilson's hand had significantly dwindled, did he stomp off.

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. "Great start to the New Year, House. I'm a hundred bucks lighter and have another seven years bad luck tacked onto the last time I saw you."

"It's a cheap way to guarantee living another seven years—good or bad. Do you regret it?" House reached under the counter and grabbed two clean glasses. He poured the last of the scotch into them.

"Actually, I don't." Wilson said. He seemed genuinely surprised by his own admission.

"How about we test our bad luck later today? I know this floating crap game—"

"Sorry, James will be busy," a voice said behind him.

House scowled as he turned around. It was Wilson's cut-rate twin, his hair freshly plowed into a series of lines by a wet comb. The white collar was smeared with Ling's favorite lipstick.

"Let me guess, killjoy brother."

"I call him Richard," Wilson said as he stood up and buttoned his jacket. "We're boarding a ship for the US tonight."

Richard was pressuring him to leave Shanghai, House deduced. He could hear it in Wilson's voice. It was either that or House's own situation was throwing off his judgment.

"Maybe we'll bump into each other when you get back. We can go to Nathan's in Coney and grab a hot dog." Wilson held out his hand.

"Yeah, sure," House answered. He gripped Wilson's hand and shook it. It was warm and firm and fit perfectly in his. "We'll do that."

After they left, House hunched over his bar glass, nursing his drink. Most of the patrons had retreated upstairs with a girl or had gone home. Mischa came over, wiping invisible stains from the counter, the anger from earlier forgotten. "Wilson is good to look at, yes? You two hit it off."

House heaved himself off the barstool. When Mischa wanted to talk, it was time to head for the door.

"Hey, did you hear me, House? Are you gonna see Wilson again?"

"Nope."

.

Slang Words
Sap = Foolish or gullible person
Taken a powder = Depart quickly
Great White Way = Theater section of Broadway
Clams = Dollars