Within this framework, what followed was strained, even macabre. Eliminating the patter and the upbeat numbers left little but blues and other songs of equal melancholy. The effect was as depressing as a gravestone, the applause irresolute and short-lived. Yet Andy plowed ahead, mouthing the inconsequential words as if they possessed real meaning, and gradually his listeners warmed to him. Their clapping grew more fervent; the evening was still not beyond salvaging, not as a show but for him as a person.

The worst was yet to come.

As Andy reached the finale of his act, a subdued commotion backstage drew his attention to the wings. Rocco Vecchio -- a perspiring, haggard Vecchio -- was standing there, flanked by two men in the uniforms of armored transport guards. Vecchio was nodding and pointing at the large suitcase he held.

Andy felt his heart thud heavily with relief. He waved at Fox to cut off the finale introduction. The music died away discordantly. He drew a deep breath. ``Ladies and gentlemen, in place of my regular closing number tonight, I'd like to sing something of a different nature for you. Ray, if you please -- the' Cradle Song'.''

He sensed rather than heard the gasp that swept across the audience. Nor could he blame them. This particular song at this particular time could only be interpreted as the ultimate in bad taste, callous exploitation beyond the bounds of decency. Having no choice, he plunged into it, anyway, holding onto the microphone for support.