When restlessness comes as a symptom of having nothing better to do, one tends to go looking for mischief. Arturo had been following the young man for a week.
Stalking was never an act he kept in his repertoire, but circumstances and suspicion called for such. It was no overnight thing, figuring out the secret, but even though the maestro had lost all else he still had his ears, and oh how keen they were.
You see, he was a fan of Phillip Delacroix’s. So much so that he risked his own humiliation just to seek the melodies kept only in clubs he used to haunt, himself. It was a small price to pay for comfort. What began as a spark of jealousy towards the young man, who’s reputation as the next great pianist and performer of Paris preceded him, had turned into a bitter admiration once the crooner opened his mouth.
Such a shame he opened his mouth at that little bookstore the Maestro followed him to in the dead of night. One doesn’t come across many store clerks with such dulcet tones, no less the type that register to another musician’s ears.
The hour was late, the club was empty save for the few sorry souls who stuck around after the music stopped, himself included. Only that night he had a purpose for waiting until Phillip Delacroix stepped off the stage.
“You are very talented,” he called to the boy from the corner of the bar--one of the many he’d been darkening as of late.