 |
MISTER LUCKY Swing Syndicate |
|
MISTER LUCKY Swing Syndicate |
| Chapter One: | The Cast |
| Chapter Two: | The Script |
| Chapter Three: | The Shows |
| Chapter Four: | The Photos |
| Chapter Five: | The Exit |
| Chapter Six: | Update: 1-29-2000 |
| Chapter Seven: | Update: 4-6-2000 |
| Chapter Eight: | Update: 7-15-2000 A New Chapter |
She dropped a dime on me - literally - right into my lap. The "clumsy" red head seemed just a bit too eager to pick it up, a thought I did not relish. I was busy waiting for someone - a snitch named Godot - and the bench at the bus stop wasn't big enough for what she had in mind. I dropped the dime back into her whitely-gloved hand, hoping she didn't like relish either.
"That and a dollar will get you a cup of coffee," I opined. (I gave up "quipping" for Lent, and "opining" sounded vaguely high-brow.)
She looked confused. Sure, coffee used to be just a dime by its lonesome; but that was then, this was later than then. Apparently the only inflation she was familiar with was the kind that stretched her well-tailored blouse until you were left with the clear impression of two pounds of saline yearning to make it back to the ocean.
"Do you have the time?" she asked. It wasn't fair to flaunt temptation in the face of a guy who'd just given up quipping, leaving him caught between the oldest line in the book and the national anthem of beer drinkers everywhere. I was about to opine on what "stands clear" when I realized she wasn't just making small talk.
"They just stole my diamond wristwatch!" she cried, peeling back the left glove. The slender slope of her sumptuously naked wrist was tantalizing, even for a clue, even in Daylight Savings Time. A Daylight Damsel in Diamond Distress. Just my kinda case. And they call me alliterate.
I shot a glance down the street, just in time to see the Margarita Brothers ducking into the
They were disguised in capes and carrying swords. Somewhat unusual for a couple of bogus banditos, but when incognito, they do as the Cognitians do. I gave chase.
As I reached the door, I lost the Margarita Bros., but ran smack into a familiar face behind the booth glass ... Helena Handbasket. She was smacking her gum, selling tickets and offering Lambada lessons to the construction workers sweating across the street. I drew her annoyed attention just long enough for a wisecrack - it's as close as she gets to opining.
"Lemme guess, you're looking for da Shriners." To her, every guy in a funny hat is a Shriner. I didn't have time to explain that a fez doesn't look anything like an admiral's head-banana, or that the KCs don't drive little go-carts. Different costume, different conveyance. Besides, they just own the joint. Time was a'wastin'. I turned to go, but Helena reached through the talk hole in the glass, grabbed me by the nape of the trench coat, smacking her gum louder than usual. "Ya gotta have a ticket, mac." Emphasis on the "mac". She pointed to the marquee above her head...
I bought my ticket and raced through the door. The band was setting up on stage, and some exceptionally coordinated individuals were preparing for the
The band's two guitar players, who had tried to Lindy their way to lumbago, were in the corner nursing twisted ankles, and the instructors were busy recommending that they stick to the stage from then on. Helena was shouting something like, "Is that your scabbard or are ya just glad to see me?" The band launched into the hottest sound check I'd heard since Dorsey defeated Truman, and somebody turned on the mirrored ball - it's not the way I like my mirrors on the ceiling, but that's another story, never mind, anyway.
In all the musical mayhem, I failed to notice two really ugly little old ladies who brushed by me on their way to the side door. Then I saw the sword sticking out from under one of their skirts - it was much too long for this neighborhood. Especially in spring.
As the door slammed behind escaping chrono-crooks, I ran headlong across the room, only to be stopped short by the doll in the gloves, who had graduated from dimes in my lap to bills in my belt. She didn't seem so worried about her timepiece any more. In fact, now that I had the time, I noticed she was quite a piece. So much for watching. In the confusion, we slipped through the wrong door - a broom closet - but that was okay too.
| Chapter One: | The Cast |
| Chapter Two: | The Script |
| Chapter Three: | The Shows |
| Chapter Four: | The Photos |
| Chapter Five: | The Exit |
| Chapter Six: | Update: 1-29-2000 |
| Chapter Seven: | Update: 4-6-2000 |
| Chapter Eight: | Update: 7-15-2000 A New Chapter |
