France
1952
The nightclub that Rick Blaine used to own was caught forever behind in the palm trees and jagged fading brick, lost for all eternity in memories of the war. The neon sign meant nothing to anyone, as it blinked on and off for the ghosts in the shadows. The large arches in front with the streaming red carpet shimmered for the dead, as no one sacred would walk on the path anymore, to go into the bar and catch up on the latest gossip, no matter what type it was. It was a place for dignitaries and celebrities to congregate over drinks and catch up on life. Where love and music and beauty all got into one box and could be opened up in that bar and everyone would be happy as they danced into the faceless night. Even though bombs were being dropped and people were behind enemy lines, the nightclub was a way to escape it all, get trapped in a spider's web and forget it all, for a couple of hours or days.
He stood outside the entrance of it, a tan overcoat covering his black three-piece and his hat being drenched with the midnight rain. A clean-shaven face seemed to stare harder at the twin gold entrance doors, where people would walk in and out of on a daily basis. Rick was in control of it all once. All of the colorful characters- people like Louis Renault, Guillermo Ugarte, Signor Ferrari, and even that one special person Ilsa Lund Laszlo were there, making sure the knot in Rick's life was tied in a mighty public way. Taking off his hat and twirling it in his meaty, scarred hands, he gazed longingly at the size of the building, letting the water clash into his brown eyes. He was remembering again.
It was ten years ago since he last saw Victor Laszlo, the third man in the equation, trying to ruin his life with schemes and scandals. Rick's last memory of him was the airplane at the hangar, and the dead body of Strasser on the runaway, and the last glimpse of his true hated enemy leaving. A man of Rick's stature wouldn't care about things like this, but it got to him really deep down, and he couldn't shake it. He tried to keep it hidden, but it would bust out like hives to the nearest person, and it was the main reason why Rick Blaine changed from the pompous former owner of a bar to the depressed former owner of a bar. Closing his eyes, he felt himself pulling the trigger on the Major, watching the crumpled body slump unceremoniously to the ground and then watching himself walk into the dark mumbling about expenses with the Captain. It was all so close; yet so far away, what with Rick Blaine wanted in the world.
Reaching into his coat pocket, he held the revolver that killed Major Strasser. Small, black, loaded, deadly. Gripping into his right hand, he suddenly got a cold and chilly burst of rage and anger and walked into his own nightclub, pushing aside the door like it was the wind, and stared into the room, trying to oversee through all the chairs and tables for something and anything. His eyes shifted indifferently as he walked with the manner of a pallbearer, with the weight of something mysterious on his shoulder, as the gun was by his side. Trying to sift through the band that used to be there and the piano and the waiters and the bartenders and all of that, there was a body sitting at a table with one small glass of bourbon. He looked tall and thin, but most importantly, lethal. The light around him was dim and faded and Rick squinted harder to see who it was.
Victor Laszlo suddenly spoke up. "I'm here, Blaine."
"I go by Rick," said Rick, not moving at all, but focusing his steely eyes on the target. Slowly, he put his gun in his pocket, and marched like a soldier to where Victor was sitting and relaxing.
"Sure you do, Blaine, but what the heck...we're old friends."
"Old, you. Me, never. I'm more alive then I ever was."
His central point suddenly became vicious and his voice owned a snarl. "Don't you lie to me." The light suddenly lifted and it made Victor shine in his chair, looking more professional and established than he ever did.
"Don't take this personally, Victor, but you spotted that lie so quick it was amazing. It takes a liar to know these things."
"Want a drink, Rick?"
"I don't drink with customers."
"That was then, this is now."
"Doesn't mean it's changed for the better."
Rick took a seat across from Victor, and leaned in, folding his hands, only looking up to go eye and eye with Victor. For some reason, his heart leaped and it filled his mind with visions of Ilsa instead. He started to shake from the overwhelming pain, but he brushed it off and continued to stay on the warpath.
"You're not hiding from me anymore," said Rick.
"Because after ten years, you couldn't find me. You're no competition."
"I didn't realize that it was a game."
"It's anything but, Rick. That's what I like about you."
"So unaware?"
"So insecure. That was the word I was looking for." Victor finished his drink nonchalantly, briefly glanced at Rick, and got up toward the bar to get another glass. Before you know what happened, the bottle that Victor was reaching for suddenly exploded into sharp, prickly shards of glass, slicing Victor's hand and dripping blood on the clean white floor. Victor, grasping his hand tight in his coat, swirled around and saw Rick standing up with the gun in his hand, pointing it for Victor's heart.
"Rick..."
"Nah, Victor, I knew you were shady all along. You and that broad."
"Ilsa?"
"Of course, Ilsa, who do you think I was talking about? You pinhead. You know something? You're a real entertainer. Superstar. You should be in the picture shows the way you act through life, the way you sail the seven seas of life with your carefree attitude. When I said I was going to get you, I meant it. You didn't believe me, did you, Victor? No, no one does. Of course I was depressed. But I remembered one thing: you were still here, still around, and you weren't going to leave until I did it for you."
"Rick! You're talking crazy here!"
"Just my way of doing things. My new way. A new side of me, Victor. Maybe it's not a style for you, but I happen to like it." The gun stayed in Rick's hand as it went silent for a minute, the only sound being the blood escaping from Victor's vanity-stricken hand.
"Now, Rick..."
A gunshot went off in the nightclub, a couple of them even, and Victor Laszlo's need to stay hidden didn't exist anymore. Neither did revenge for Rick Blaine.
1952
The nightclub that Rick Blaine used to own was caught forever behind in the palm trees and jagged fading brick, lost for all eternity in memories of the war. The neon sign meant nothing to anyone, as it blinked on and off for the ghosts in the shadows. The large arches in front with the streaming red carpet shimmered for the dead, as no one sacred would walk on the path anymore, to go into the bar and catch up on the latest gossip, no matter what type it was. It was a place for dignitaries and celebrities to congregate over drinks and catch up on life. Where love and music and beauty all got into one box and could be opened up in that bar and everyone would be happy as they danced into the faceless night. Even though bombs were being dropped and people were behind enemy lines, the nightclub was a way to escape it all, get trapped in a spider's web and forget it all, for a couple of hours or days.
He stood outside the entrance of it, a tan overcoat covering his black three-piece and his hat being drenched with the midnight rain. A clean-shaven face seemed to stare harder at the twin gold entrance doors, where people would walk in and out of on a daily basis. Rick was in control of it all once. All of the colorful characters- people like Louis Renault, Guillermo Ugarte, Signor Ferrari, and even that one special person Ilsa Lund Laszlo were there, making sure the knot in Rick's life was tied in a mighty public way. Taking off his hat and twirling it in his meaty, scarred hands, he gazed longingly at the size of the building, letting the water clash into his brown eyes. He was remembering again.
It was ten years ago since he last saw Victor Laszlo, the third man in the equation, trying to ruin his life with schemes and scandals. Rick's last memory of him was the airplane at the hangar, and the dead body of Strasser on the runaway, and the last glimpse of his true hated enemy leaving. A man of Rick's stature wouldn't care about things like this, but it got to him really deep down, and he couldn't shake it. He tried to keep it hidden, but it would bust out like hives to the nearest person, and it was the main reason why Rick Blaine changed from the pompous former owner of a bar to the depressed former owner of a bar. Closing his eyes, he felt himself pulling the trigger on the Major, watching the crumpled body slump unceremoniously to the ground and then watching himself walk into the dark mumbling about expenses with the Captain. It was all so close; yet so far away, what with Rick Blaine wanted in the world.
Reaching into his coat pocket, he held the revolver that killed Major Strasser. Small, black, loaded, deadly. Gripping into his right hand, he suddenly got a cold and chilly burst of rage and anger and walked into his own nightclub, pushing aside the door like it was the wind, and stared into the room, trying to oversee through all the chairs and tables for something and anything. His eyes shifted indifferently as he walked with the manner of a pallbearer, with the weight of something mysterious on his shoulder, as the gun was by his side. Trying to sift through the band that used to be there and the piano and the waiters and the bartenders and all of that, there was a body sitting at a table with one small glass of bourbon. He looked tall and thin, but most importantly, lethal. The light around him was dim and faded and Rick squinted harder to see who it was.
Victor Laszlo suddenly spoke up. "I'm here, Blaine."
"I go by Rick," said Rick, not moving at all, but focusing his steely eyes on the target. Slowly, he put his gun in his pocket, and marched like a soldier to where Victor was sitting and relaxing.
"Sure you do, Blaine, but what the heck...we're old friends."
"Old, you. Me, never. I'm more alive then I ever was."
His central point suddenly became vicious and his voice owned a snarl. "Don't you lie to me." The light suddenly lifted and it made Victor shine in his chair, looking more professional and established than he ever did.
"Don't take this personally, Victor, but you spotted that lie so quick it was amazing. It takes a liar to know these things."
"Want a drink, Rick?"
"I don't drink with customers."
"That was then, this is now."
"Doesn't mean it's changed for the better."
Rick took a seat across from Victor, and leaned in, folding his hands, only looking up to go eye and eye with Victor. For some reason, his heart leaped and it filled his mind with visions of Ilsa instead. He started to shake from the overwhelming pain, but he brushed it off and continued to stay on the warpath.
"You're not hiding from me anymore," said Rick.
"Because after ten years, you couldn't find me. You're no competition."
"I didn't realize that it was a game."
"It's anything but, Rick. That's what I like about you."
"So unaware?"
"So insecure. That was the word I was looking for." Victor finished his drink nonchalantly, briefly glanced at Rick, and got up toward the bar to get another glass. Before you know what happened, the bottle that Victor was reaching for suddenly exploded into sharp, prickly shards of glass, slicing Victor's hand and dripping blood on the clean white floor. Victor, grasping his hand tight in his coat, swirled around and saw Rick standing up with the gun in his hand, pointing it for Victor's heart.
"Rick..."
"Nah, Victor, I knew you were shady all along. You and that broad."
"Ilsa?"
"Of course, Ilsa, who do you think I was talking about? You pinhead. You know something? You're a real entertainer. Superstar. You should be in the picture shows the way you act through life, the way you sail the seven seas of life with your carefree attitude. When I said I was going to get you, I meant it. You didn't believe me, did you, Victor? No, no one does. Of course I was depressed. But I remembered one thing: you were still here, still around, and you weren't going to leave until I did it for you."
"Rick! You're talking crazy here!"
"Just my way of doing things. My new way. A new side of me, Victor. Maybe it's not a style for you, but I happen to like it." The gun stayed in Rick's hand as it went silent for a minute, the only sound being the blood escaping from Victor's vanity-stricken hand.
"Now, Rick..."
A gunshot went off in the nightclub, a couple of them even, and Victor Laszlo's need to stay hidden didn't exist anymore. Neither did revenge for Rick Blaine.