Onscreen, Dooley Wilson was at the piano in Rick’s bar, singing “Knock on Wood.” Rudge poured out three more shots and popped the tab on a fresh Bud.

The scene made him uncomfortable—the happy Negro and his orchestra, entertaining the well-dressed European sophisticates with jazz, all smiles and natural rhythms. Was it straight-up racist, simple and plain, or a fair representation of life back then? Both, maybe. Black jazz musicians probably played to similar crowds in Europe today—one of Mikey’s old boyfriends had moved to Paris, where he played in a Josephine Baker show that ran for more than two years.

Basically, Rudge figured, Europeans liked black music.

He slammed the shot and chased it with the Bud.

Humphrey Bogart was about to slip the letters of transit into Dooley’s piano when the screen suddenly froze. The buffer held the frame for about three seconds, and then the screen went black; neon green letters at the top read SEARCHING FOR SIGNAL.

Fuck!

Rudge knew exactly what it was—when they’d set up his system, the installer had spliced cables to connect the rooftop satellite dish to the TV; sometimes, a brisk breeze separated the splice near the front door.

It’d take him a second to fix. He cursed. It was late enough and dark enough—and he was drunk enough—not to put on pants. He heaved himself out of the chair and went to the door. He flicked the switch to the porch light several times; nothing happened.

Weird. That bulb was pretty new. An electrical fault? But the lights were still on in his living room, and his house was small enough that there weren’t many separate electrical zones.

Rudge stepped out onto the porch and looked up, curious. The white wire from the rooftop cable feed dangled freely; the cable tacked along the porch ceiling had been torn out and now lay across the floorboards.

God, he was a fool. For a second, Rudge wondered if he would’ve made the same mistake had he been sober.