Next time the devil rings your doorbell

He’s your closest of friends and he says look away

The devil comes not bearing sharp horns

Or with hooves now

But with friendship, with memories

A fragrant bouquet

Wahhh-waaahhhh-wahh! From the orchestra pit, horns wailed and drums boomed, echoing throughout the building and causing the scaffolding to tremble slightly beneath Margaret’s feet.

She looked around to get a better sense of the space she was in. Above and behind her were steel-framed platforms, sets for musical numbers that had already happened or would follow Sinatra, that could be lowered onto the stage. Above that, lighting, props, whatever, hung from the rafters. The hellscape backdrop that had landed behind Frank would soon be hauled up behind a thick black curtain that kept everything out of view. On the brick wall behind Margaret was a steel door from an exterior hallway on what must’ve been the top floor of the auditorium; anyone who opened it and stepped through would plunge to the stage. And between her and the crowd, Sinatra sang with every fiber of his soul:

You will not know the circumstance

He hugs you, he loves you, and he enchants

And the devil may dance

The devil may dance

Margaret negotiated the scaffolding, quickly realizing that at this height and with the musical performance so loud, no one could hear her. With each step she took, the scaffolding wobbled; it was secured only from above. Her safest path seemed to be to follow the beam she was on to another piece of scaffold, jump onto it, then onto another, which led to a sturdy-looking ladder leaning against the wall.

Third time the devil’s at work now

Success is yours if a corner you cut

No one will be wise to this sad compromise

No one but you and the ache in your gut

A quickly pulsing bass-drum roll led into an extensive instrumental section—crying trumpets, sympathetic violins, disorienting cymbals. Beneath Margaret, the devil dancers sashayed around the stage and subtly gyrated. Slowly, cautiously, she walked to the end of the scaffolding, grabbed the thick black chain for balance, and began shifting her weight onto the next beam.

Above her, the random top-floor door opened, revealing the silhouette of a man. The figure was too stocky to be Charlie, but Margaret had allowed herself a moment of fantasy to imagine that it was. Where was Charlie now? The man retreated, then a different silhouette appeared, this one clearly Manny Fontaine, tux jacket gone, sleeves rolled up. He watched her for a moment, then, unbelievably, he leaped through the air and grabbed hold of a chain. It swung, and he shimmied down to the scaffolding she had just left with an athleticism that surprised her.

“The folder,” he said.