Wilson insisted on paying the bill, and House was more than willing to let him. Wilson thanked Lisette profusely, assuring her that he was in fact feeling much better.

"Another satisfied customer!" Lisette chortled. She turned to House. "What time's your flight tomorrow, Doc?"

"Noon. Don't worry. I'll be back tonight for dinner. And breakfast in the morning."

"Y'all heading over to Bill's later?"

"Absolutely. Something going on I ought to know about?"

Lisette shrugged. Bill had told her about the doc's abilities at the piano. "He was askin' after you. It's Saturday. It's N'awlins. Y'all never know who might show up to play."

"I'll be there."

House and Wilson made their way back to the hotel in the sweltering humidity of the afternoon. Wilson's suit jacket was slung over one shoulder and he still carried the Express package with him. He felt clammy, and wanted nothing more than a long hot shower to scrub off the sweat and stink from his night in jail before crawling under the covers to try and forget everything about the last 18 hours.

"Who's Bill?" Wilson asked.

"Guy who owns a bar just up the block from the diner. Found it after the conference let out on Thursday."

"What did Lisette mean about showing up to play?"

"You ask too many questions. You want to know? Come see for yourself."

Wilson considered this. He was flying home the next day and all he had experienced of New Orleans revolved around the conference, the hotel, and the jail. Maybe I should go and check it out. It may be the only bit of fun I have for a very long time.

"What time?" Wilson asked, very nearly regretting having asked the question when he saw the mischievous look on House's face.

"I'll meet you at your room at 6. We'll grab some dinner first. Room 3302, right?"

Wilson stopped in his tracks and stared at House. "How the hell do you know what room I'm in?"

House turned around and rolled his eyes. "Christ, Wilson. Don't be so fucking paranoid." He pointed at the Express package. "It's right there on the packing slip."

Wilson closed the door to his hotel room and looked around. The tidiness of the room clashed with the chaos in his brain and the stench of his clothes, and Wilson couldn't peel them off fast enough, leaving everything in a heap on the floor. He went into the bathroom and climbed into the tub, pulling the curtain closed and turning the shower on. He set the water temperature as hot as he could stand it and let the cascading water rain down on him.

House tossed his backpack into the chair as he closed the door to his hotel room. He made a beeline for the minibar and poured himself a drink, carrying it over to the bed. Piling the pillows against the headboard, House made himself comfortable and turned the TV on, idly channel surfing between sips of scotch. Not surprisingly, he eventually found himself perusing the list of soft core porn selections available on one of the in-house channels but none of the choices captured his interest. Backtracking through the cable guide, House finally settled on a local channel that was showing a documentary on the history of music in New Orleans. In House's mind, short of sex, there really was nothing better.

Wilson turned the shower off and climbed out of the tub, grabbing a towel from the rack above the toilet. He rubbed the towel over his body as he left the bathroom in an effort to rid himself of the last bit of jail residue. Spotting the pile of clothes, he briefly considered the ramifications of starting a fire in his room. He let out a short, sardonic laugh at the thought as he kicked the clothes against the wall. With my luck I'd probably wind up right back in jail and be labelled an arsonist. My career would be destroyed before it ever got started.

Wilson glanced at the clock next to the bed as he moved to crawl under the covers. He still hadn't decided whether he was going to go to the bar with House later - but at that exact moment, pulling the covers over his head to shut out the world seemed like the perfect thing to do.