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MISTER LUCKY Swing Syndicate |
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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 |
The note slipped under my windshield wiper was too obvious to be cryptic and too cryptic to be obvious. I decided to try obvious first. I'm not much good with cryptic.
"What has 8 walls and a lot of wood, but doesn't mind being stepped on?" the note read, where you could actually read the handwriting. Either it had been raining pretty hard, or the hand doing the writing had been to medical school. I headed to HARTFORD looking for an obviously non-cryptic doctor who'd been out in a monsoon.
Some called it ZHIVKO'S. Some called it LEDGENZ . Still others called it THE SCHWARTZ; while some, who had their first visit while the place was still a German POW camp in the 40s, called it something else altogether in a language I didn't quite understand. I just called it what the current bartender, Helena something-or-other, called it as she served me a martini with sugar around the rim.
The sugar probably should have been salt, and the drink should definitely have been a margarita, but margarita and martini both begin with "M" and Helena didn't seem like the type to draw fine distinctions. It wasn't `till later that I realized it had been a distinctly subtle warning.
"Looks like your getting ready for a party," I said, demonstrating my incredible grasp for the blindingly obvious.
"Ya, um," she said, smacking her gum so loud I reached for my gun, but stifled the urge to dive for cover. She'd have followed me right to the floor and I didn't have time for a pleasure cruise. "Da Mr. Lucky Swing Orchestra's comin' ta town."
A sign above the door told me the rest:
I thought back on the ride. It was an easy drive from the big City -- Hwy. 41 North to Hwy. 60 West. When you get to Main St. in Hartford, turn left to go straight south. Can't miss the place a few blocks down on your left. It's big. If you do miss the place, tell the cops that you ended up in the field past the t-intersection (or, worse yet, in the Municipal Cement Pond) while you were on your way TO the bar. They love that one.
I looked around the room. Big would be an understatement. Biggest octagonal ballroom and dance floor around. A regular dancer's paradise. Enough wood on the floor to make a Redwood forest weep but it ain't Redwood, and neither was the baseball bat I saw swingin' at me when I glanced back at the bar. It was the mostly-illiterate Margarita Brothers, who'd been hiding down with the Tequila Bottles, hence the note's bad handwriting and ditto hence the barmaid's subtle warning. It was a trap. I should've given her more credit.
I dived for the floor, grabbing my hat, which only my quick reflexes kept from becoming a permanent addition to my cranium. When I got to the floor, Helena was already there. She offered mouth to mouth, but I suggested we re-schedule as I was currently still in the process of breathing on my own. She opened a secret trap door that the prisoners installed back in the 40s. She slammed and locked the door behind us, and we were safe for the moment.
I pulled out my Zippo and, in the dim light, realized that we were in the prisoner's secret reading room. At that moment, I vowed never again to judge a blonde by her cover. Since I had a couple extra minutes, I opened the book.
| 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 |
