Title The Sweet End of the Lollipop

name Scribe

fandom Some Like It Hot

pairing Joe/Jerry

criticism If constructive

archive If you like. But tell me where.

disclaimer I did not invent, nor do I own, any of these characters. I make no profit from this.

Summary: In the `20s, two down-on-their-luck musicians witness a gangland slaying, and take it on the lam, in drag, with an all girl orchestra.

Chapter 1 Notes:

`nellie': used to denote campy gayness.
`church key': slang term for bottle opener.
`Pimlico': Chicago race track
`chopped liver, matzoh, and kosher wine': Orthodox `Jewish food.
Oscar Wilde': famous gay poet and genius of the Edwardian era. Yeah, I figured you probably knew this,but I like talking about Oscar.

Chapter 2 Notes: In the previous chapter, Joe tells Nellie that his mother was a Schwartz. Tony Curtis, who played Joe, was born Bernard Schwartz.

gefilte fish: n. Finely chopped fish, usually whitefish, pike, or carp, mixed with crumbs, eggs, and seasonings, cooked in a broth in the form of balls or oval-shaped cakes and usually served chilled.
kugel: pudding
kosher: adhering to Jewish dietary laws, mostly concerning cleanliness hora: a traditional round dance of Israel
Galveston Hurricane: 1900 devastating hurricane that basically wiped Galveston Island flat. Over 6000 lives lost.
knishes: dumplings filled with spiced potatoes and meat.

Chapter 3 Notes:

e e cummings, poet famous for, among other things, his disdain of the traditional use of capitalization and punctuation.

Man O' War was a world famous rece horse who broke many records, and lived over 30 yrs.

To `pass on the right' means you really, REALLY want to get passed something, since it generally isn't legal to pass except on the left.

Gaston IS `The Phantom of the Opera', and Lon Chaney's unmasking in that film was considered one of the most horrific sights ever.

During the silent era, most theaters had an organist or piano player to provide synchronized music for the features.

Billy Sunday and Aimee Semple McPherson were famous evangelists in the twenties, well known for massive hell fire and brimstone revivals.

Chapter 4 Yiddish words:

schmooze: talk casually, chat.

Bubbeleh: an endearment.

Mamser: bastard.

Mentsh: a nice gentleman.

Babkes: beans, nothing.

Toches: buttocks, behind.

Goyim: non Jewish person.

Schlepping: dragging

Other terms:

It: the best, the ultimate, without equal (used in the twenties as a defining quality of personal charisman).

bromo: short for bromide. Asprin and bicarbonate drink for settling digestion (like Alka Seltzer).

The Sweet End of the Lollipop
by Scribe

The nineteen twenties. Ah, a colorful era. Flappers, the Charleston, jazz, hip flasks, Stutz Bearcats, Joe College (sigh), bathtub gin, speakeasies...

Yeah, speakeasies. Ya know, they aren't so glamorous when you HAVE to be in `em. When they're your bread-and-butter. Of course, with the kind of living me and Joe pulled down, there wasn't any butter, and precious little bread.

Joe played saxophone, I slapped the bass fiddle. Neither one of us was ever gonna play with the Philharmonic. Oh, we weren't so bad. But I think it was that English guy, Oscar Wilde, who said there is nothing quite so bad as not so bad. I always liked old Oscar. He spoke to me.

I guess I'd better introduce myself. My name's Jerry. Never mind the last name, it was different when this story starts anyway. Why? You'll find out later on. It's too complicated to go into right now.

Anyway, maybe I should give you some background before I leap into the story. It'll help if you know a little bit about me and Joe, and our history together.

God bless, Ma. She passed away believing that the call was gonna come from Pablo Cassals at any moment. She just knew her baby boy was gonna solo on stage at Carnegie Hall some day.

Instead said baby boy ended up haunting agents' offices and playing in smokey speakeasies for peanuts and, well, peanuts. In other words, whatever free food I could swipe. They were never big on feeding the band. Actually, that's how I had my first gay experience. I was nineteen, and I told Ma I was playing at a college party. Instead, I had a gig at some place so low that it didn't even have a name. It was just `the rathole where you can get booze'.

It was 1921, and Prohibition had been in nationwide effect for a little over a year. Mr. and Mrs. America had a powerful thirst, and the underworld, good capitalists that they have always been, leaped to fill the need. The speakeasies weren't as rampant as they would be later on, but there were enough of them for there to be class levels, and this one was bottom of the barrel.

The band consisted of a piano player with nine fingers (I'm not kidding you, nine. Said it got bitten off in a dispute over a cute blonde), a drummer who was generally either a half beat ahead or behind everyone else, a saxophonist, and me.

I'd had to leave the house before supper, and I'd skipped lunch, so my belly was sticking to my backbone. Mom had probably left me a little something, but we had another hour to play, and my stomach was starting to rumble like a bowling ball headed down an alley toward a strike. I was getting dirty looks from the drummer because the gurgling was keeping better time than he was.

Break time came, and I eased over to the bar and started snarfing peanuts. The saxophone player slouched over and watched me gobbling. He was a tall, slender blonde guy named Al, more than twice my age. "Yo, kid. Ain't yer mama feedin' youse at home?"

"Yeah. But I'm hungry now."

"Well, shit, you need somethin' more than that. C'mon back to the break room an' I'll share wit' youse."

That sounded terrific to me. Never turn down free food, one of my ruling philosophies, even at that young age. I followed him back to the break room, and he handed me a thick ham sandwich. I sat on the ratty little love seat they had provided us, and started to devour it.

"Jeez-us, kid. Careful, or youse will bite off yer fingers."

I spoke with my mouth full. "I'm sorry. But I figured I'd better get this down before you came to your senses and changed your mind."

"Dat will not happen." He sat next to me, throwing his arm across the back of the seat behind me. "Kid, how old are youse?"

I eyed him warily. "Twenty one."

He snorted. "I ain't da cops, kid. Tell me da trut'."

I sighed. "Alright. Nineteen."

He nodded. "Good. I wuz afraid youse wuz younger'n dat."

I finished the sandwich, sighing contentedly. "Why would that worry you?"

"Cause den I might notta had da noive ta do dis." He reached into my lap and started to unbutton my pants.

Well, to say I was startled would be the understatement of the decade. "Hey! What are you doing?" He had me unzipped, and his hand was inside, moving around. All at once he found the slit in my boxers, and I went stiff. All of me. Everywhere, if you catch my drift. "Al...what's going on?"

He had pulled my prick out into the open. It was hard as a rock, and oozing clear fluid. He said calmly, "I gave youse my sammich. Youse owe me a hot meal." Then he bent down and swallowed me.

The only reason I didn't come up OFF the cushions was because he was sort of laying across my thighs. I didn't have a lot of time to reflect on the ramifications of what was happening. I was too busy going crazy. I was a virgin to everything except my own hand, and this was a mind numbing experience for me.

I watched, stunned, as that sleek blonde head bobbed up and down in my lap, listening to the thirsty slurps and smacks as he licked and sucked my turgid flesh. He pulled free for a second, my spit shiny dick slipping from between his lips with a muted pop, and said, "Youse taste pretty damn good, kid. Gotta REAL nice cock."

"Uh...thank..." he bent back and took me in his mouth again. "Yow. I mean, you. Thankyou. Thankyouthankyouthankyou..." I yelped and shoved up into his mouth, having my first orgasm caused by another person. I was so green that I didn't even know to warn him, or pull out. Luckily, that wasn't what he wanted. He hadn't been kidding about the hot meal. He drank me dry, sucking greedily, then licked me clean before tucking me back in my pants.

He grinned and patted me on the cheek. "Tanks, kid. I allus DID like sausage an' cream better'n ham." Then he walked out, whistling jauntily. I just laid there, panting, shell shocked. Talk about a revelation. That was it. From then on, my Mom's hopes for grandkids was a futile pipe dream.

1926. Eh, not my best year. I kept reading in the papers and magazines that the economy was booming. Wall Street was bullshit...Wait, that's bullish. No, on second thought, considering what happened three years later, the first term IS appropriate.

In any case, I hadn't been invited to the prosperity party. You'd have thought I'd be doing better. I mean, I'm a musician, right? When people are rich and happy, they go to clubs, and throw parties. They need musicians, right? They did before Thomas Alva Edison and Guglielmo Marconi stuck their damn noses in it and invented the phonograph and wireless radio. Anyway, I figure they owe me for 89*lost wages.

I was twenty-five, and had been making my way in the world alone since my ma had died about five years earlier. I was lonesome, I'll admit that. I would've still wanted to be with Joe if I hadn't been, but I guess the loneliness was MY reason for latching on to HIM. I don't know what HIS reason was for latching on to ME.

I was making my rounds of the musical agents. I didn't have a regular representative. It wasn't all that easy to get an agent, let alone a GOOD one. Too many musicians , too few agents, too few gigs. The best I could manage was spot work, filling in for one, or two, or at best, three nights.

I made my way along my usual route, but there wasn't anything. It was beginning to look like I'd have to invest in a hat, so I'd have something to put down to catch change while I played out on the sidewalk. I finally ended up at Sig Pollakoff's. Sig was something of a musician pimp. He could get you gigs, but they were usually dogs, and you really kicked back to him. Still, beggars can't be choosers, and I was about ready to beg.

Nellie, the secretary wasn't in the outer office when I went in. What WAS in the office was Joe. And I found that I didn't really care about Nellie. He was sitting in one of the rickety straight back chairs, reading a racing form. That should have tipped me off to avoid him right there, but...Well, you just had to SEE Joe.

He had thick, curly black hair, crystal blue eyes, and the darkest, thickest lashes I'd ever seen on man, woman, or beast. He also had a cupid's bow mouth that made my cock stir with interest. He looked up at me as I came in, eyes cool, but friendly.

I looked around, and inquired, "Nellie?"

He smiled at me, and my heart almost stopped. He said, in a thick Brooklyn accent. "Not so's you'd notice it."

I blushed. "No, I mean the secretary. Sig's receptionist?"

"I know whatcha mean. She stepped out for a minute. C'mon in, she should be back soon."

I came in, depositing my case near the desk. I noticed that he also had a battered musical instrument case near his feet. Well, it figured, didn't it? Considering where we were. His suit was almost as cheap and threadbare as my own, so I knew we had at least our poverty in common.

I sat beside him, he offered his hand, and we shook. "I'm Joe."

"Pleased to meet you, Joe. I'm Jerry."

Joe jerked his head toward the back office door. "You got a gig from Sig?"

I had to smile. "No, but hope springs eternal."

"Me neither. They said there wasn't anything, but I figured I'd stick around, just in case. It ain't like I got somewhere I gotta be."

"Same here."

"Man, I hope he comes up with something for me. There's a pony at Pimlico in the fifth tomorrow that's a sure thing."

"There's no such thing as a sure thing."

"Sure there is! I know the trainer's brother in law, and he says that this baby is wired. Look," he showed me the entry. It made slightly less sense than ancient Greek. "Phosphorus Dreams, at twenty to one. All I gotta do is lay down a few bucks, an' I'll be swimmin' in gravy."

"Yeah, well, make sure you save enough dough to get the stains out of your tie. If I get a gig, I'll be spending my loot on renting a place that has smaller rats."

"Rotten digs,huh?"

"I've seen haunted houses with better decoration."

He grunted. "You live alone?"

"Well, aside from the mice and cockroaches, yeah."

"You oughta get you a roomie. Then you could both kick in on rent, and get a better place, cheaper."

"Oh, I don't know about that. I still wouldn't be able to afford more than one room, and sharing one room with someone..." I trailed off.

"I done it before. You just gotta find the right person. You seem like you'd be easy to get along with."

*I'd like to try getting along with YOU.* But what I said was, "Yeah, well, no one's offered."

Nellie bustled back in, her plain face shining. "Here ya go, Joe. Nice and cold." She handed him a brown paper bag, and received a bone melting smile in return.

"That's my girl!" He twisted the bag down around a glass bottle, and I realized it was a beer. Nellie had gone out and gotten him a beer! Nellie wouldn't have crossed the room to pour a glass of water if her grandmother was on fire.

Joe pulled a church key out of his pocket, and flipped the cap off the beer. After taking a long pull at it, he offered it to me. "Have a belt."

I took the paper wrapped bottle and tipped it to my lips. The glass rim was faintly warm from where his lips had rested, and my hand trembled a little, so that I was worried I'd spill brew down my chin. I managed to swallow without dousing myself, and handed it back. "Thanks."

Nellie noticed me. Her smile dimmed. "Oh, it's you."

"Why, so it is! Anything for me today?"

"I think so. Lemme check."

My hopes soared.

"Hey, you told me there was nothing." Joe protested.

"There IS nothing, for you. Besides, this is a crap gig, you don't want it."

"Sez who? What is it?"

Nellie picked up a note card off her desk. "It's a bar mitzvah. Five bucks, you kick back one, and you get all the chopped liver and matzoh you can eat."

"Kosher wine?"

"How should I know? Probably."

"That's for us, then."

Nellie and I both stared at Joe. "Us?" I asked.

"Sure," He threw an arm around me, and I wondered if I could keep from swooning. "Jerry, buddy, you don't know how grateful I am that you said that you wouldn't work any gig unless I worked it, too."

"I did?" He gave my shoulder a squeeze. I looked at Nellie. "I did."

She looked suspicious. "Can you play the horah?"

"Nellie, baby, my mama's maiden name was Schwartz. Give us the address."

Nellie gave us the address and time, and we left together. "What was that all about?"

"I knew you wouldn't mind," Joe said confidently. "We'll make a great team, Jerry. Two can live as cheap as one, like they say. And when you kick in on the stakes for Phosphorus Dreams tomorrow..."

"Wait a minute, hold it." I stopped.

He walked a couple of paces, then turned back to me. "What's wrong?"

"Well, you're just ASSUMING I'm going to let you move in. Or move in with you."

He looked genuinely puzzled. "You ARE, aren'tya?"

"I...you...but..." I stared at the beat up case dangling from his hand. "What do you play?"

"Saxophone."

I sighed. "Yeah, I am."

(2)

So we played the bar mitzvah. It turned out that Joe could have known from horas, but he faked it pretty good. By the time we got to it, the grownups had enough of the kosher wine Joe had asked about inside `em that they really didn't give a damn.

True to Nellie's word, there was all the chopped liver, matzoh, and also gefilte fish we could eat. I knew Joe had flim flammed Nellie when he called the gefilte fish `dumplings'. I even wrapped up some noodle kugel in my handkerchief and slipped it in my pant's pocket to take home. It had lots of raisins in it. With my diet like it had been lately, I could use all the iron in my diet I could get.

The kid's parents kicked in another five bucks each tip, which would NOT be reported to Sig. That got a hearty `mazel tov' from me, I can tell you. I was looking forward to eating steady for at least the next couple of days. I'd done a few diets of complementary crackers from the diner and ketchup soup made with free hot water, and the prospect of eating cheese sandwiches instead was pretty appealing.

So, I really should have said no to Joe, but...Well...you gotta know Joe to understand. I really never had a chance. Very few people do.

For example: his landlords. After the gig, we went to his rooming house to get his stuff. He was living in a third floor walk up. We were headed for the stairs in the dim first floor hall when the door to the front apartment opened, and a fluttery voice called out, "Oh, Joe." Joe froze, and I saw him wince. But when he turned around he had a smile brighter than the sun coming up over the Great Lakes. "Irma! Baby!"

Irma was a blowsy woman in her mid forties: lots of lipstick and rouge, and a permanent wave set so tight it wouldn't have been blown out of place by the Galveston hurricane. She might have been a marginally attractive woman, except that she was (shudder) simpering.

On hand rested on a haunch that would have done justice to a Clydesdale. I was glad there weren't any babies around to be alarmed when she pouted. "You didn't show up last night. I TOLD you Max was bowling. The pot roast got cold. And I had to explain to him when he got home why he had to eat cold cuts before he went out, but there was pot roast when he got home."

"Sweetheart, I'm so sorry, but it wasn't my fault." He put an arm around my shoulder. My mouth went dry. Boy, he smelled good. Or was that just the kugel in my pocket? Well, SOMETHING warm seemed to be in my pocket right now, but it sure wasn't soft enough to be noodle pudding.

"I had to sit up with Jerry here. He was awful sick." He gave my shoulder a significant squeeze, and I groaned. Actually, I would have groaned anyway, even if I wasn't supposed to be deathly ill, after that squeeze.

Irma's eyes flicked over me, and dismissed me. I get that reaction a lot from women. Yeah, I like guys, but it's still kinda insulting. I mean, it's like the dame at the bar who turns around and smacks the guy who's just been peacefully drinking next to her all evening, and the bartender says, "What did ya do that for? He didn't say a word to you, and I KNOW you wouldn't have been interested if he had." and she says, "Yeah, but a lady likes to be ASKED." She said shortly, "Sorry ya were feelin' bad. What about t'night, Joe? He's goin' ta play poker."

"Tonight for sure, Irma, baby." He gave her a kiss. She was wearing open toes mules, and I swear her toes curled.

He started for the stairs again, and actually got his foot on the first one when again we heard, "Oh, Joe." This time he looked like he was sucking on a lemon, but once again the smile was pure sunshine when he turned around.

Irma looked embarrassed. "Joe, about the rent. You know I know you're good for it, but it HAS been six weeks now. Goodness knows, it's not ME, but Max..."

"Sure, baby, sure. I understand. Tomorrow for sure. Got a big gig."

"Oh, good. Well..." She twiddled her fingers coyly. "Tonight. I'm making knishes."

As we finally started up the stairs, Joe muttered, "Not exactyl what I'd CHOOSE for my last meal."

"What big gig do you have lined up, Joe? Do they need a bass?" He gave me a mildly disgusted, pitying look. "Oh. Gotcha."

We tramped up the stairs, turned at the landing, and started up the second flight. Above us, I heard heavy footsteps coming down the corridor. Joe's blue eyes widened, and he said, "Crap!" and turned to hurry back down.

Unfortunately, it's a little hard to get past a bass fiddle case in a narrow stairwell. Before he could slither past me, a voice overhead boomed. "Joe!"

Boy, Joe could give the best imitation of a statue I've ever seen. And he can change expressions in a split second. If you thought the switch when he saw Irma was impressive, the one he did now was downright awe inspiring. From "Crap!" to "Hallelujah!" in the blink of an eye. "Max! Buddy!"

"Don't `buddy' me, you cock tease." An animated brick wall came down the staircase to meet us. Oh, all right, it wasn't a brick wall, it was a man. But a lot of `brick' analogies came to mind when you saw Max. `Brick wall', `thick as a brick', `a few bricks short of a full hod'...You get the idea. In other words, he was big, dumb, and not too tightly wrapped. NOT a good combination.

"I waited t'ree hours at dat damn bar for youse. Da o'ny fuckin' good of it was dat I got a good meal when I got home. Sometin' inspired Irma ta get off her duff and act'lly COOK."

Again my shoulder was squeezed. Max narrowed his eyes, and I felt that perhaps this was not the best tactic Joe could have chosen. "Max, I'm so sorry. But my friend got into town last night, and he wasn't feeling so good. I had to sit up with him."

Max's eyes flicked over me, as Irma's had.

Uh oh. No, they didn't. They didn't `flick'. They `stroked'. He smiled, showing maybe an ounce of gold on his teeth. "Well." He thumped down a few more steps. "Dat's too bad." He reached out and patted me on the cheek. "Youse feelin' better now, little buddy?"

Well, maybe I HADN'T been ill the night before, like Joe said, but I know the smile I managed right then was sick. "Uhhhhhh..."

"Dat's good. Joe, youse comin' to da bar t'night." There wasn't the lift at the end of the sentence to indicate that it was a question.

"Sure, Max."

Max straightened my tie. "Bring yer little friend, eh?"

"Ummmmm..."

"I like `im. He's a smooth talker." Max squeezed between us, headed downstairs. I somehow got groped in passing. Man had a hand like a baseball mitt: big and leathery. I went up on tiptoe like Pavlova. When he got past us he said, "Joe? About da rent. Irma's gettin' kinda antsy..."

"I understand. Tonight."

He stared at me, smiling. "Well, maybe you, `n me, `n yer friend here can figure somethin' out, hey?" Then he thumped down.

Joe blew out a breath, and started back up the stairs. I stared after Max, making sure he wasn't going to be coming back up. I did NOT want that man behind me, for many different reasons.

"Jerry, c'mon." Joe called from above, and I followed him.

"Precisely WHAT the heck was all THAT about?"

"Max, the landlord. He's, er, not as easy to put off as Irma."

"Was he hinting at what I THINK he was hinting at?"

Joe was unlocking a door. "Yeah, probably so. Don't worry, I know what bar, and we won't go anywhere near it."

"I should hope not." We went into the room. "I'll tell ya, Joe. That was almost one of those three F situations: fight, flight, or...you know. I'm no good at fighting, I was ready for flight, and I'm pretty sure what HE was thinking of."

"Actually, Max is more of a catcher than a pitcher, if ya know what I mean." Joe had a cardboard suitcase open on a rickety cot and was dumping clothes into it. He snapped it shut, "But when he DOES, man! Talk about a Louisville slugger. Alright, let's go." I turned toward the door. "Where ya goin'?"

"Well, you said let's go..."

"Not that way." He opened the door. "You wanna run into Max again downstairs?"

"Let me think. No."

"Then come on." He stepped out onto the fire escape.

"You expect me to hump a bull fiddle down a fire escape."

"That, or risk having Max hump..."

"Out of the way." I managed.

(3)

We snuck down the fire escape as quietly as was possible, dragging large instrument cases. It might have been easier if I hadn't kept constantly shifting the bull fiddle case in an effort to keep Joe's ass in view.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I'd already had a demonstration of just how reliable and sincere he could be. I knew that, logically. My dick, however is a creative, rather than logical, thinker, and that ass has always been enough to inspire sonnets. Hell, epic poems. That ass was enough to make e e cummings use capital letters.

Any way, once we got down to street level, we eased down the street. Joe blew out a breath of relief after we got a few blocks away. "Man, am I glad to get away from there. Those two were seriously cutting into my social life. C'mon, let's drop off Sig's blood money and get it over with."

As we trotted along, I wondered how to broach the subject of Joe's, erm, social life. "Boy, Irma sure was acting...uh...possessive."

"Yeah, well, Max ain't been exactly active on the home front, if ya know what I mean."

"Oh. He's been out in, uh, bars, huh?"

"Bars, parks, movie theaters, alleys...Max isn't too picky about location. Don't even need a horizontal surface. But I don't cotton to that too much. He's so damn tall that ONE of us always ended up with leg cramps."

"Oh. So you...Uh. I mean, Max is...a guy. And Irma..." Have I mentioned that sexual arousal sometimes shuts off the coherent speech switch in my brain?

Joe stopped so abruptly that I almost ran into him. With a sigh, he put down his saxophone case, and turned to me. His blue eyes were twinkling, despite his serious expression. "Jerry, are you asking me if I like guys as well as girls?"

"Oh, that's none of my business! I would never dream of..."

Joe grabbed either side of my face and, right out on the street, kissed me. Hard. With tongue. I hung on to the fiddle case for support as my knees went weak. When he let me come up for air, he said, amused, "Does THAT answer your question, quiz master?"

I licked my lips. "I think that may very well be the answer to the question of the meaning of life." I tried to discreetly move my case in front of my crotch. Jerry Junior had woken up from his nap, and wanted to come out and play.

"Okay. We've got that out of the way." He picked up his case, and we continued on our way.

We dropped off the two buck we owed Solly, then Joe borrowed two bucks from Nellie, with some mention made about that evening, and a casserole supper at Nellie's.

Once out of the music building, Joe said, "Okay. It's early yet. Whaddaya wanta do?"

"Aren't you going to have a casserole supper with Nellie?"

"Nah. Domesticity makes me break out in hives. I didn't actually say I'd COME, I just said it sounded wonderful."

I began to wonder why Joe hadn't chosen a career in politics. "Well, we could go see a movie. There are a lot I haven't seen." I didn't like going to the show alone.

"Sounds good. First we'll stop by my bookie's and pool our dough on Phosphorus Dreams, then..."

"Whoa, whoa, WHOA, Man O' War!"

Joe stopped, again with that innocent look. "What's wrong, Jer?"

I wiggled a finger in my ear. "I'm sorry, my wax must be building up again. It almost sounded like you said `our' dough."

"Well, yeah. You don't think I'd let a pal pass up such a golden opportunity?"

"This is one opportunity I will pass on the right."

"But Jer..."

"No."

He frowned. Oh, bruuuuuuh-ther! That mouth pouting! But I held strong. If we were going to have a friendship, or anything else, I had to set the tone RIGHT NOW.

He said mildly. "Okay, Jerry. What would you like to see?"

I was a little surprised that he was giving up so easily, but decided to just be grateful. I hadn't let him bamboozle me, like those two schlubs at the apartment. "Oh, I don't know. Nothing too rough. Maybe a comedy."

"Nothing scary, huh?"

"No." I shivered. "I can't handle the scary ones."

"Okay." His eyes were glinting. I should have known. "How about that one?" He pointed at a nearby theater, with only one or two people straggling through the doors. "It was released last year, so they cut the admission price WAY down."

"Sounds good. Is it a comedy?"

"Nah. It's a theater story. `The Phantom of the Opera'."

I should have known, I should have KNOWN! `Theater', he said. `Opera', he said. `A romance', he said. HIS LIPS WERE MOVING, I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN HE WAS LYING!

It wasn't too bad to start out with. A little spooky, with the old opera house, and the g uy in the cape and mask, but I could handle it. And the romance was kinda nice. The guy who was in love with the girl opera singer was....rrrrrrruff. If you know what I mean.

Then she gets kidnaped! Eek! He drags her down into these creepy sewers. Double eek! The he's at the organ, and the theater organist is playing the CREEPIEST music I've ever heard in my life, and the opera bimbette is sneaking up on ol' Gaston, and I'm getting tenser, and tenser, and tenser, and I realize that I've got hold of Joe's arm like I'm on the Titanic, and he's a life preserver, and then she...

RIPS THE MASK OFF HIS FACE!

"AAAAAAIIEEEEEE!"

Yep, that was me. I screamed like a girl. And climbed into Joe's lap. Boy, we got some funny looks.

I had my arms around his neck, my face buried against his shoulder. I could smell the pomade he used on his hair. Violets. I was shaking like a Chihuahua in an icebox. And I was waiting for him to shove me off onto the floor.

But he didn't. He put HIS arms around Me and started patting me on the back. "Aw, Jerry! I'm sorry. I wasn't expectin' that, I swear, or I woulda warned ya. Geez, these people got some nerve, showin' stuff like that right out in public where it can scare kids."

"I'm...sorry. Is...is it over yet?"

"Noo, he's still runnin' around up there, bigger'n life and twice as ugly." I'd started to lift up, and he put his hand on the back of my head, pushing it back down to his shoulder. "Better stay there till the end, just to be on the safe side."

"Um...okay."

So, there I was, sitting across a pair of firm male thighs, my torso pressed against his. Nature came a'calling. I started to get hard.

Geez, was I ever grateful that it was dark in that theater. My face was turning deep red, and I had a tent in my trousers big enough to host a revival by Billy Sunday and Aimee Semple McPherson combined, but heaven only knows what the sermon would have been.

I shifted a little, hoping that the cloth over my crotch wouldn't bind so noticeably. It didn't work, so I shifted again.

All of a sudden, Joe's lips were right up against my ear. The touch was silky smooth, and his breath was hot, "Doll, you gotta stop that. I can't DO anything here in public. Save it for when we get home, okay?"

I froze. "Whattaya mean, Joe?"

He snorted softly. "What do I mean." I yipped softly as his tongue suddenly curled around my ear, at the same time as my hand was drawn down and pressed against a very large, very firm, very warm erection that did NOT belong to me. "Does that explain things?"

Oh, yes.

I used to get teased by some of the guys because, when I got hold of a newspaper, I didn't turn first to the sports, or the entertainment section, or event the advice column, crosswords, or comics. I went straight to the daily vocabulary builder. I like to express myself. Some will tell you that they would have done the world a service if they'd shot the guy who thought up that newspaper feature before I discovered it. Anyway, it came in handy.

Epiphany. Noun. A comprehension or perception of reality by means of a sudden intuitive realization.

In that moment, I saw reality clearly. Heck, I even saw the future, up to a point. We were going to a bookie joint. I was going to give most of my paycheck to Joe. He was going to put it on Phosphorous Dreams. Then we were going to go back to the flop we were going to share, hopefully for a long time, and have sex. And I was probably going to regret it somewhere down the line.

I could live with that.

(4)

Joe finally let me off his lap a minute before the lights were turned back on. I stood up, moving away to give him room. I tend to think he probably could have stood up without grabbing hold of my belt to steady himself, but I didn't feel like complaining.

We went out to the lobby and collected our instruments from where they were crowding the ticket seller's booth. I waited while Joe schmoozed with the giggling woman for a few minutes, and came away with a couple of free passes.

As we left, I said, "Joe, do you do that with EVERYBODY?"

"Do what, Jer?"

"You know, the..." I winked, leered, and gave the best imitation of his smile that I could. Probably looked like I needed a bromo.

"Well, yeah. Ya gotta use what ya have ta make it in this world, Jer. God blessed me with a certain amount of looks and, if I may say so myself..."

"You will, anyway, so you may."

"As I was sayin', a certain amoutn of 'It'. Who am I to not use what God gave me?"

"Hm. I see. So you're on a mission from God to make time with everything that has a pulse, as long as you can get something from them?"

"No, Jer. Only the attractive ones."

This was probably one of the few times in his life Joe was being totally honest. I should have turn and run, but right about then he squeezed my butt, so it looked like I was on the attractive list. Of course, at the time I had no idea how LONG that list was...

We went by a delicatessen, and I longingly examined the knackwurst and pastrami piled behind the glass at the counter while Joe whispered with a large, evil looking man near the back door. That, apparently was the bookie. I could hear phones going off back in the room behind him. When someone slipped through the door, I could catch a glimpse of long chalk boards, filles with letters and numbers that chronicled the loss of major portions of finance for the people of the neighborhood.

I'd given almost all my cash to Joe, but I still need something in my stomach. I... ahem... had HOPES for later, but I needed PROTEIN. A plump, fair haired young man with a round, shining face, leaned on the glass case, watching me drool. He was wearing a pristine apron, and his shirtsleeves were held back by bright pink garters. "Something I can do for you, dollink boy?"

I blew out a breath sadly, eyeing the corned beef. "Cheese sandwich?"

He stood back, hands on slightly rounded hips. "A cheese sandwich he wants, yet. What are you, a mouse?"

"A broke one."

"Oh." He jerked his head toward where Joe and Mr. Evil were still talking. "So, Mister Hot Pants has latched on to you?" I shrugged, smiling sheepishly. He sighed. "Bubbeleh, I'm not saying Joe isn't a sweetie, or attractive. But he's more of a mamser than a mentsh. You could do better. Now, I got a cousin named Albert. LOVELY boy, and a dentist, yet!"

Joe came over. "Feivel, are you tryin' to matchmake for another of my fellahs?"

A (I believe plucked) eyebrow arched. "So? Like you'll miss one?"

Joe put his arm around my shoulders. "This one, I would miss. What are we havin' for supper, Jer?"

Ah, I saw that the meal was up to me. Okay, well, not like I hadn't expected it. I started to open my mouth, and Feivel said, "What with what you left him? Babkes, you'd have. But, I can't let such a little dumpling fall away, can I?" He started building sandwiches.

"Better be careful," Joe teased. "Give away the store and Yani will kick you toches."

Again the eyebrows arched, and the hand went to the hip. "Listen to the goyim boy trying to talk Yiddish. He might TRY, but he LOVES this toches too much to do anything bad to it. Besides, dollink, this old girl hits BACK." Mr. Evil BLUSHED. And grinned. Suddenly he didn't look so ferocious.

Feivel held out a bulging paper sack, but when Joe reached for it, he snatched it back. "Grabby! Keep your hands off this. It's for bubbeleh. IF he wants to feed you, then he can." I accepted the bag with muttered thanks. "It's nothing, dollink. Just make the rat beg for it." He winked. "ALL of it, see?"

I blushed, but winked back. There weren't too many of us brave enough to be so open about our...er, preferences. Feivel might be fluttery, but he had to have a lot of guts.

My place was only a few blocks away from the bookie joint/deli, but that was some long blocks schelpping our cases. I was worn out by the time we made it up the three flights of stairs to the rat hole I was calling home.

Joe stowed his sax in the closet with my bass, the two instruments snuggling together like they belonged that way.

I'd scarcely dropped the groceries on the table and gotten out of my coat. By then, Joy had kicked off his shoes and socks, hung his jacket over a chair, and was taking off his shirt. I stared. He hesitated. "You don't mind, do you? I don't usually bother with a shirt unless I'm goin' out. I think there's a little nudist blood in me somewhere."

"No. By all means. Be comfortable. Take off anything you want." He stopped while he was still wearing the strappy, ribbed cotton undershirt. Damn it. On the PLUS side, he took off his pants. I started to try to control my breathing as he stood there in his boxers, folding his trousers neatly. "You got a coupla hangers, Jer?"

Want a hint of how far in the gutter my mind was with this gorgeous man around? For a split second, my overheated brain told me he was asking about my balls. Sanity prevailed, though, and I got him two hangers from the closet, so he could put up his suit neatly.

"Jer, would you please take somethin' off? You're makin' me feel under dressed, here." When I hesitated, he came over and pulled off my tie. "There. That's a start. Now, go on."

He stood there, watching me, while I slowly stripped down to my underwear. I was wearing a thermal underwear, and he cocked his head at it. "I get cold, okay?"

He shrugged. "I didn't say anything. So," he rubbed his hands together. "How do you want me?"

You know, I always thought that having all the blood drain away from your brain into the Southern parts of your anatomy would hinder your brain functions. I must have been right, because all I could manage was, "What?"

"The begging. You know, for my dinner? How do you want me to do it? Big puppy dog eyes?" No puppy dog in the history of the world ever had such large, liquid blue eyes. "On my knees?" He dropped to his knees, hands flopping in front like paws. "Panting?" He let his tongue loll out and panted.

I almost came in my shorts. I quickly snagged my robe off a chair and put it on. "For heaven's sake, get up and eat."

He got up. "All right, Jer. But I usually do my eatin' from THAT position." He rummaged in the sack. "Hm. Ham and liverwurst. Here..." He handed me a sandwich. "You have the ham, I prefer sausage."

"Excuse me." I left the room for the bathroom down the hall, moving faster than a flapper's fringe when she does the Charleston. Once there, I wet a rag with cold water and stuck it down my pants, desperately trying to wilt my rampant hard on. No such luck.

Finally I gave up and went back to the room, trying to hold my robe so that it didn't look like I was smuggling a Louiseville slugger.

The liverwurst sandwich was gone, and Joe was sprawled out on my bed, licking his fingers. "You wasn't sick, or anything, were ya, buddy?"

"No, no. I'm fine."

"Good." He got up and came over to me. "Otherwise it'd kinda crimp things tonight, wouldn't it?"

"Uh..."

Joe pushed his hands inside my robe, laying his palms flat against my chest. "Ya know, Jer, you really MUST be cold natured." His fingers found the thrusting knobs of my nipples, and he stroked them through the thermal fabric. "If you're so cold wearin' this blanket that your nipples stil get hard."

I groaned. He moved in closer with an angelic smile. "Unless maybe it ain't the cold that's makin' 'em stiff, but maybe the heat?" He kissed me, running his tongue over my lips.

"Joe, I..."

"Tell me what you want, Jer."

What I wanted? Well, there was a switch. I was surprised. I'd gotten the impression that Joe, as self centered as he was, would be a selfish lover. It looked like I was wrong. "I...don't know."

He pulled back a little, but his hands never stopped doing magic things. "Jer, don't tell me you're a virgin. Not after that lap dance you gave me at the show."

"Oh. No. No! I'm just...um...well..."

He smiled again. "Shy?"

I sighed. "Well, I'm not sure if that's the right term. I AM standing here with a man I met less than four hours ago playing with my nipples."

"You're shy. That's so sweet. Just tell me if you want to top, or bottom."

"Joe, if what I wanted out of life was to lead, I wouldn't play the bass. I'd be in FRONT of the band, waving a baton..." He started to say something, "And don't you DARE make a comment about what TYPE of baton I'd be waving, or I'll smack you!"

He laughed, pulling me into his arms. "Oo, I just LOVE a tough cookie!" He kissed me again, and this time I opened my mouth and let his tongue slip in.

Ooo. Whuff. Let me tell ya, despite what he told a certain blonde a few years later, Joe KNEW how to kiss. Very warm and wet, soft when it should be, hard when that would make it better. By the time he was ready to come up for air, he knew the inside of my mouth better than my dentist ever THOUGHT about.

I was just kind of hanging in his arms by then. The only part of me that seemed to have a bone left in it was my cock. THAT was harder than a chorus girl's heart.

Joe held me up with one arm around my waist, and jerked the robe off, then plastered our bodies together and dived in for another kiss. The hard bulge of his erection pressed firmly to mine. As he ground his hips against me, I felt a warm, spreading dampness on the cloth over my dick, and wondered vaguely if that was HIS pre-cum, MINE, or a combination.

He growled against my mouth. "Jerry, are you gonna take off that outfit, or do I peel you like a banana?"

I pulled back a little, and started to take off the top. I was startled into getting it tangled over my head when I felt him jerk my bottoms down to my knees. My prick was so rigid that it smacked me in the belly.

Then, before I could sort myself out, my cock was enveloped in the hottest, wettest place it had ever been. I jerked, and yelped, and Joe LAUGHED.

I...you...he...

Have you ever had someone laugh while they have your hard prick in their mouth? Hm, well, if you're a woman, I suppose not. Although given what happened later... No, I'm not gonna go there yet.

Anyway, it is the absolutely most INCREDIBLE sensation. And I came, right then.

God, talk about embarrassed.

I mean, not only does it look like I have a hair trigger, but I go off in his mouth, without warning. How rude.

He didn't seem to mind, though. While I was still weakly trying to get to daylight, he grabbed my ass, steadied me, and drank down every drop. When I finally managed to rip the top off, I found him contentedly licking the last few smears off my deflating member.

"Joe...I'm sorry about that. But you..."

He patted my thigh, standing up. "Don't apologize, Jer. I'm glad you liked it. It's just that I didn't really give you much time to enjoy it, did I? Kinda unfair. Get those long johns off and get on the bed with me, okay?"

Okay? Such a MILD word...

By the time I got the bottoms of my underwear off, Joe had stripped, and climbed into my narrow bed. I suppose it was just as well that I'd already cum. I mean, I'd had a legitimate excuse before. It's perfectly understandable to shoot your load when someone's sucking you. But to cream just from looking at your lover lying there naked...Well, that would be a bit embarrassing.

All I could do for a minute was just gape at him. He was so perfect. He grinned, held out a hand, and said, "C'mere, shy violet."

The second I got on the bed with him, he grabbed me and pulled me under him, lying on top of me. Then he began a slow, sensuous grind. Heaven. I spread my legs so he could settle into the vee, giving him freer access, and started humping up to meet him.

While he pushed his hard cock againt mine, Joe kissed and licked every square inch of my torso he could reach. I was soon damp, tingly, and panting like a dog on an unshaded sidewalk in Georgia during August.

He whispered in my ear. "You gonna let me in, Jer? You like that?" I couldn't talk, my speech center was shorted out, so I just nodded. "Good boy. You got somethin'? I don't want to hurt you, baby."

I wordlessly pointed at the night stand. He rummaged in the drawer, and came up with the bottle of hand lotion I used to keep my skin from chapping in the cold Chicago winter weather. "Oh, yeah. This'll work champion. C'mon, doll, get situated."

He helped me lift my legs up and hang them over his shoulders. In that position, I was open for him. He squirted some of the lotion into his hand, and began to stroke it along the crease of my ass. Oh, that felt good!

When I felt the first tentative press at my ass hole, I pushed back on it. His finger was sliding up inside of me before Joe quite knew what was happening. He laughed softly in delight. "Well, ain't you the eager little thing!" He started to work the finger in and out, gently at first, then with more force as I pushed and squeezed with my internal muscles. His eyes were hot as he pushed in the second finger. "You DO know what you're doin', don't you?" I smiled at him. "Damn, that's so sexy."

"We've established that you're not popping my cherry," I breathed. "So how about getting on with it?"

"And you're bossy, too. Okay, sweetcheeks." He removed his fingers, and I felt the blunt, spongy head of his cock nudge at my entrance. Then he pushed firmly.

My back stiffened in pleasure as the thick staff slid slowly up inside me It scraped over my prostate in passing, making me buck and push it the rest of the way in with a jolt that made Joe gasp. "Oh, geez." Now he was panting, and looking a little surprised. I think he had believed up until that moment that this was going to be a more of less fuck-for-his-supper arrangement. He was just realizing that he was going to really ENJOY this.

Enjoy it he did. We BOTH did. He started to fuck me with long, smooth strokes, pulling out till just his head was still trapped in my body before sliding back in. Gradually the strokes became shorter, and harder. Finally he was pumping with hard, fast jabs, our flesh smacking together. I was whimpering and moaning in ecstacy. Damn, he was good! No wonder Irma and Max and whoever were so infatuated with him. In his next life, Joe was probably going to come back as some sort of professional stud animal, bull or stallion.

And he WAS considerate. At least physically. Without being asked, he wrapped his still slick hand around my cock and started to stroke me in time with his thrusts. I whined, and scrabbled at him, raking my nails across his erect nipples. That made him growl, and push my knees back almost to my ears, pounding into me. I yelled his name as my sperm fountained out of me, splashing on his hand, and my chest, reaching all the way to my chin.

I deliberately bore down on him, milking his buried shaft with my inner muscles, and he came with a groan. I felt the hot gush, and the slippery fluid eased his way even more, so that the last few thrusts glided, smooth as silk, as he started to soften.

At last he unbent me, lowering my legs and letting his cock slip out of my stretched hole. He lay on top of me, holding me, as I felt his sperm begin to trickle out. Joe kissed my face softly. "That was...was..."

"Tiring?" I suggested.

"Phenominal. Spectacular. Ball draining." He kissed me again. "Can you cook? I'll marry you if you can cook."

I was only half joking when I said, "I'll buy a cookbook tomorrow."

Part 5

Phosphorus Dreams lost, of course. If the race had been for hurdles, he'd have done all right, since he tossed his jockey, jumped the rail, and cantered off into racing history. If he'd just run a
straight course, he might have won. The bastard certainly could MOVE. They never DID catch him. Rumor has it that he settled down to stud in Ohio. I wish him well.

That pretty much set the tone of how things were going to be with Joe and me. We'd work, scrape up some cash. He'd have a 'sure thing', or at least 'a hunch', and I'd eventually fork over, against my better judgement. Sometimes he won, usually he lost. Either way we'd fuck our brains out. He'd either be celebrating, or trying to distract me from my snit. I could live with it, though I preferred the celebrating.

I didn't really try to change him. I could tell that was a sure way to push him off. If there's one thing I know, it's that you don't try to change someone you love. Then they wouldn't be the person you fell in love with, would they?

We were together constantly for the next three years. The flops changed, but only in location, really. When we were flush, there'd be a couple of days at a nice hotel, maybe. With room service, even, as Feivel would say. But it never lasted long. Another long shot always came along, and it was back to the mouse mansions.

I cared about Joe, but, well... You know how it is. After any couple has been together for awhile, sometimes one of them starts taking things a little for granted. I was never Joe's one and only,
I knew that. There was a steady stream of guys and dolls, but they never lasted more than a week or two. He always came home to me. I guess I was the cheated on spouse, who decides that they're better off WITH the louse than WITHOUT him.

It was never hearts and flowers with Joe and me to start with, so I kind of LIKED someone making a little fuss over me, treating me like I was special. I got very well acquainted with Feivel and Yani. If it wasn't for them, we most likely would have starved at one point or another. Feivel really had too soft a heart to be a businessman. All he ever wanted in return for stuffing my face was the chance to flirt with me, and hell, I enjoyed it.

Luckily Yani knew it was harmless. Thank God, because he could have broken me over his knee without disturbing the crease in his pants.

Anyway, it was the beginning of 1929, middle of February, and we FINALLY had another gig. Things had been rough. It had been four months since the last time we could count on a paycheck. Well, perhaps counting on a paycheck was a little strong... May of the places we worked at didn't make it from one week to the next. I suspected that a few of the owners arranged to have themselves raided so they didn't have to fork over back pay for the staff.

I've worked some weird places in my time, but THIS...

It was a funeral parlor. No, I'm not kidding. Mozerrella's Funeral Parlor, 24 hour service. Only in Chicago, huh?

I can hear you now. "Jerry, I can imagine YOU playing the bass in some sad, slow dirge. You can get that sad, hound dog look on your face that would suit. But JOE? And the sax? Not really funereal material."

I gotta agree. Given any funeral, Joe would most likely be trying to chat up the widow. Or with Joe, the widowER. But Mozerrella's wasn't you typical stiff crating emporium.

You came in the front, and Mozerrella himself, a grey, respectable looking stiff, greeted you with that smooth, sad way all the corpse handlers cultivate. If you were wearing a black crepe armband, and happened to mention that you were there for Grandma's funeral, and you were shown to the 'chapel'. I guess that's what the place was named, The Chapel. Tell 'em that you were a pallbearer, and you were guaranteed a ringside pew.

Anyway, the organist twiddled a knob, a panel slid back, and you could step into either heaven, or hell. It depended on whether your personal politics were wet, or dry.

The Chapel wasn't very big, but oh, boy was it lively. Grandma must've been a hell of a gal, because her wake was jumpin' every night. We did the biggest business in coffee you ever saw. That was rye coffee, scotch coffee, Canadian coffee, sour-mash coffee... You catch my drift. All served in the LOVELIEST little demitasse cups. The real owner, Spats Colombo, was too damn cheap to provide mugs.

There was a postage stamp sized dance floor, a short chorus line of nice enough, leggy blondes, and the band, which included us. For the past week, anyway.

That night we were working our way through 'Sweet Georgia Brown' while the girls did their little tap-and-shake-that-fringe bit for the yahoos. The place was as noisy, smokey, and crowded as I'd ever seen it. That's why I didn't notice Mulligan right away.

See, with all the time I'd worked in the speakeasies, I'd gotten sort of a nose for law enforcement types. If I hadn't been distracted by several things, I'd have noticed him right away, and maybe we wouldn't have gotten caught up in the mess that followed. But then, I never would have met... I'll get into that later.

In any case, I was distracted. Thoughts of our outstanding debts were upper most, as usual, but the lost filling in one of my teeth was taking a close second. I was hoping to salvage enough of my paycheck to have it taken care of. Just a little inlay, didn't even have to be gold. But we owed back rent, Yani's deli (hey, Feivel couldn't cover for us forever, but he tried), three Chinese lawyers were suing us for a bounced check at the laundry (and I STILL say they were the reason those damn tuxes were so threadbare), and we'd borrowed money from every girl in the chorus line. Well, JOE had. We NEEDED those checks.

I noticed a few things. The big guy in the cheap suit was trying to get the waiter to seat him at the table that was 'reserved for the immediate family', read: Spats Colombo and whatever goons he brought along. There was a drunk calling for another cup of coffer, unable to get a waiter's attention for some reason. He made the mistake of waving his cup...

...and sloshed sour-mash coffee on Spats Colombo's spats.

Oh, brother.

That little section of the room got REAL quiet. You did NOT smudge, stain, dirty, smear, or in any way disrespect Spats' spats. Spats jerked his head at the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse who made up his current entourage. They hustled the protesting drunk away toward the exit. Hm, he was still breathing. Spats must be in a good mood.

Colombo made his was to the 'reserved' table, sat down, pulled out an immaculate hankie, and carefully wiped his spats clean. The big guy was watching all this with a great deal of interest. I felt a little twinge when the waiter brought him his coffee and soda, and he said maybe he should have the check, in case the place got raided. Brrr. Bad luck, mentioning things like that. The waiter shrugged it off. Who was going to raid a funeral? But I decided to watch the guy a little more closely.

I tried to talk to Joe about the upcoming paychecks, and my filling. He, of course, was appalled that I'd want to spend our first dough in months on something so frivolous. He had his eye on a dog at the track tomorrow: Greased Lightening. Sounded premising. But then, ALL of Joe's 'sure things' sounded premising. This time a waiter's brother-in-law was in charge of setting the electric rabbit that led the dogs around the track. I could almost see that. After all, Joe had been leading me in circles for three years.

So, Joe was planning on putting the whole bundle on Greased Lightening, at ten-to-one. And he would probably include whatever cash he could sweet talk tonight out of the chorus girl he was
currently winking at.

I tried to talk sense to him. "We should pay some on account."

"On account of what? When this comes in, we can pay everybody OFF."

"But what if he loses? What if this joint closes and we don't have any more coming in?"

"What if, what if. This place is gonna stay open a long time. Why do you have to paint everything so black, Jer? What if we get raided? What if you got hit by a truck? What if the stock market crashed? It ain't gonna happen."

I kinda quit paying attention right about then, because the big guy was poking a hole in the end of his damp cigar to let some air in. He was doing it with the pin of a Federal Agent's badge.

Joe continued. "Suppose Mary Pickford divorces Douglas Fairbanks? Suppose Lake Michigan over flows?"

I poked Joe, hard. "Don't look now, Joe, but the whole town is underwater." I pointed. He looked. He looked at me. Without a word we both started to pack up our instruments. Hey, some couples
eventually develop ESP.

The big guy checked his watch, and said, "Four, three, two, one..."

...and police axes crashed through the wall.

I've heard that a fire in a circus tent causes the worst pandemonium known to man. I'd stack that raid up against it any day. Customers, chorus girls, and waiters flew in every direction, screaming. The ones running for the side exits fell back into the mob as axes, then burly cops, crashed through them, too.

The big guy stood up and roared, "Alright, everybody--this is a raid! The name's Mulligan. I'm a federal agent, and you're all under arrest." Somehow, this didn't seem to calm anyone's nerves.
Joe and I kept packing.

Once we got our instruments stowed, we began to fight our way through the crowd toward some stairs. It wasn't easy, going against the flow of people (who included the recently ousted drunk, in one piece and still hollering for another cup of coffee), but the cases helped.

Mulligan approached the table where Spats sat with his four henchmen, all with glasses of white stuff in front of them. Spats and Mulligan apparently knew each other. Spats expressed surprise that Mulligan thought he was taking him in. Mulligan offered him membership at an 'exclusive county country club, for retired bootleggers', even saying he'd have a special pair of striped spats made for him.

As we sneaked up the stairs, Mulligan was telling him that the rap was for selling eighty-proof coffee, and Spats protested that he was only a customer, and not even drinking, at that. The glasses held buttermilk. Boy, the sacrifices a business man will go to. Then he asked who had so misinformed Agent Mulligan. Could it be, perhaps, Toothpick Charlie? Mulligan, bland as unsalted butter, said, "Toothpick Charlie? Never met him." I suddenly wished I could send some flowers to Toothpick Charlie, whoever he was.

There may have been more to the conversation, but we didn't hear it. We made our way up to the second floor, then out onto the fire escape. The cops were so busy loading patrons and staff into the big, black squad cars that they didn't notice two little musicians sneaking down the escape and, well, escaping. We snuck down the alley, leaving the chaos behind.

As we paused at the other end of the alley to put on our coats, I groused. "Well, that solves the problem of who to pay first. The landlady's gonna lock us out, and Yani won't let Feivel slip un any more knackwurst, even if Feivel threatens to stop letting Yani slip him HIS knackwurst. And you can't borrow any more from the girls because they're all in jail" Joe shushed me, saying he was thinking. Always a dangerous prospect.

"We can't go to Yani, as much as we owe. I wonder how much Sam the Bookie will give us for our coats?"

I exploded. "Sam the Bookie? Our COATS? Are you NUTS?! You're not putting MY coat on that dog."

"But I told you, it's a sure thing."

"It's below zero, we'll freeze. We'll catch pneumonia."

"It's ten-to-one! You'll be able to buy TWENTY overcoats."

I glared at him sternly.

...so the next day we're walking down the street, shivering. The only reason my blood wasn't frozen in my veins was that it was boiling over. I finally couldn't hold it in any more. "Greased
Lightening! Why do I LISTEN to you?! I should have my head examined."

Joe cut a look at me. "I thought you weren't speaking to me."

"Look at the bull fiddle. It's dressed warmer than I am."

We came to the music building, where I had first met Joe. You'd think I'd have learned that the place was no good for me, wouldn't you? We passed fellow shivering, starving musicians on the sidewalk.

As usual, the place was a cacophony of music and voices. We made our way down the corridor, checking each agent's office. KEYNOTE MUSICAL AGENCY. "Anything today?" "No." "Thank you." On to JULES STEIN-MUSICAL CORPORATION OF AMERICA, a little crumbier than the first. "Anything today?" "No." "Thank you." On to Sig Poliakoff's, where we'd first met, and chummiest of the lot. "Anything today?" "Oh, it's you. You've got a lot of nerve..." "Thank you."

He closed the door and tried to move off, but from inside we heard Nellie call, "JOE! Get back here." He shrugged at me helplessly, and we went in.

Nellie was tapping her foot, arms crossed, and the second secretary had paused in her typing. This was going to be better than a Pearl Pureheart cliffhanger.

Joe started, "Look, Nellie, if it's about last Saturday night, I can explain..."

Nellie looked at me. She wasn't INTERESTED in me, except as someone she knew had to also put up with Joe's bull shit. "What a heel! I spend four dollars to get my hair marcelled, I buy me a new negligee, I bake him a great big pizza pie…" She glared at Joe. "...and where were you?"

I was curious about this, too. "Yeah, where WERE you?"

Joe gave me The Look. "With you."

"With me?"

He rolled his eyes. "Don't you remember?" He turned a sincere look on Nellie. "He has this bad tooth. It got impacted--his whole jaw swole up."

This was news to me. "It did?" Again the look. "Boy, did it ever!"

"I had to rush him to the hospital and give him a transfusion. We have the same blood type."

"Type O." I supplied.

Nellie arched a pencilled eyebrow. "Oh?"

Joe used his wheedling tone of voice. "Nellie, baby, I'll make it up to you."

Nellie pursed bee-stung lips. "You're making it up pretty good so far." Nellie was no dope.

"I swear, Nellie. The minute I get a job I'll make it up to you. I'll take you to the swellest restaurant."

I jumped in. "So, how about it, Nellie? Polliakoff got anything for us? We're desperate."

Nellie smiled slowly. I should have known. That smile was as sly as a skulk of foxes (skulk, another word I learned from my newspaper vocabulary column. I run across rancorous or mordacious yet. Anyway, I didn't consider that she wanted to get back at Joe, and didn't care WHO got caught in the fall out.

"Well, it just so happens that he IS looking for a bass and a sax..."

Part 6

I could hardly contain myself. "Did you hear that, Joe?"

Joe wasn't so easily excited. "What's the job?" He knew how he'd treated Nellie, and was rightfully suspicious of any favor she offered.

"It's three weeks in Florida." Nellie offered.

I think I may have squealed. "Florida?!"

Nellie began to lay it on as thick as a flapper troweling on rouge. "It's at the Siminole-Ritz, in Miami. Transportation and all expenses paid."

THAT won Joe over. He smacked her a wet one on the cheek. "Isn't she a bit of terrific? Come on," he started toward the back office. "Let's talk to Poliakoff."

Nellie stopped us cold. "Hold up a minute, boys. He's got some people in there with him."

I didn't mind waiting. My mind was busy conjuring up golden sandy beaches instead of streets filled with dirty slush, palm trees instead of those skinny, shivering excuses that peep out of holes in the sidewalk, with little fences around them in a vain attempt to keep the city dogs from watering them. Millionaires instead of cheesy gangsters. Sounded good to me.

A few minutes later Sig came out with a brassy looking blonde broad and a prissy looking dude in thick specs. He shook hands with them, saying, "Sue, Bienstock, don't worry. I'll have your replacements on the train by eight." They didn't look too confident, but they left.

The moment they were gone, Joe and I followed him back into his office. "Sig, can we talk to you?"

"Just a second." Poliakoff got on the phone. "Nellie, get me long distance, wouldya?" He turned his attention back to Joe. "What is it?"

"It's about the Florida job."

"The Florida job?"

"Nellie told us about it," I blurted. "We're not too late, are we?"

Poliakoff blinked at us. "What are you, a couple of comedians? Get out of here!. Long distance? Get me the William Morris Agency in New York."

Joe wasn't giving up that easily. "You need a bass and a sax, right?"

"The instruments are right, but you..." he looked us up and down dismissively. "You are not." he spoke into the phone. "I want to speak to Mr. Morris."

I couldn't let a prime opportunity like this slip away without a fight. "What's wrong with us?"

"You're the wrong shape. Good-bye. No, not you, operator. I'm holding."

Joe frowned. "The wrong shape? You looking for hunchbacks, or something?"

I shuddered. "Please, Joe!" He'd suckered me into seeing Lon Chaney in 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame' by telling me that a hunchback was something like a tailback, or a linebacker, and it was a film about French football. I didn't sleep for two nights. Luckily he was between side sweeties, and kept me company.

Poliakoff gave us a peculiar look, and said, "It's not the backs that worry me."

Joe kept at him. "What kind of band is this, anyway?" Poliakoff sighed. "You got to be twenty-five..."

I piped up, "We can pass, we're close enough."

He continued. "You got to be blonde."

"We could dye our hair."

"And you got to be girls."

"We could..."

"No, we couldn't!," Joe snapped.

It finally hit me. "You mean it's a girls' band?"

"Yeah, that's what he means. Good old Nellie! I ought to wring her neck."

Okay, I was crazy. But I was desperate. "Wait a minute, Joe. Let's talk this over." I looked at Sig. "Why couldn't we do it? We've done a little of it before. Remember the Gypsy Tearoom? We wore gold earrings for that. And what about that gig with the Hawaiian band?" I shimmied to refresh their memories. Sig, God bless 'im, was actually distracted from the phone for a second. "Grass skirts, right?"

But Sig cleared his throat, and looked at Joe. "What's with him? He drinks?"

"No, and he ain't been eating too good lately, either. His belly is empty, and it's making him act like his head is the same. Jerry, you've flipped your wig."

I clapped my hands. "Now you're talking. We get a couple of second hand wigs. A little padding here, a little padding there. We can call ourselves Josephine and Geraldine."

He wasn't buying. He started to drag me toward the door. "C'mon, you. Josephine and Geraldine."

Sig covered the mouthpiece of the phone and said, "Look, if you boys want to pick up a little money tonight, at the University of Illinois they are having, you should excuse the expression, a St. Valentine's Day dance. Six dollars a man."

"We'll take it," Joe snapped.

"You got it. Be on campus in Urbana at eight o' clock."

"Joe," I protested. "All the way out to Urbana for twelve bucks?"

"We can at least get one of the coats out of hock."

As we headed for the door, I heard Poliakoff saying, "Mr. Morris? You got two girl musicians available--a sax and a bass?"

I had to give it one more shot. "If Morris can't come through."

Joe grabbed my arm. "Come on, GERALDINE!" and jerked me out the door.

As we went into the outer office I whined. "It's a hundred miles out there, and it's snowing! What are we gonna do?"

"I'll think of something. Don't crowd me."

Nellie smiled at us sunnily. "How'd it go, girls?"

"You!" I fumed. "We ought to wring your neck!"

Joe snapped, "Please, Jerry! That's no way to talk to a lady."

I looked around pointedly. "Where?"

He ignored me. He was good at that, sometimes. But he had a reason this time. He turned on the charm. I mean, I heard the switch flip. "Nellie, baby," he purred. "What are ya doin' tonight?"

She regarded him suspiciously. "Why?"

"Because I got some plans." Joe's eyes said that those plans involved Nellie doing some sweating and moaning.

She was melting already, but fighting it. Fool. "Oh, I'm not doing anything. I thought I'd just go home and have some COLD PIZZA."

Joe leaned closer, voice seductive. "And you'll be in all night?" The bones were gone now. She whimpered. "Yes, Joe."

Joe's lips were against her ear as he said softly, "Good. Then you won't be needing your car."

That woke her up. "My car?! Why, you..."

Joe shut her up with a kiss. All I could do was shake my head in admiration. Isn't he a bit of terrific?"

A little while later we were making our way down a slush filled street toward Charlie's Garage, dragging our cases with us. And I JUST couldn't let it go. That job had sounded so PERFECT. "We could've had three weeks in Florida," I whined. Yes, WHINED. I'm not ashamed of it. Some situations call for a self-pitying tone. "Laying around in the sun, frying fish..." Joe just growled at me to knock it off.

We stepped over the chain across the entrance and went in. It was your typical garage: a row of parked cars, lube rack, gas pump, couple of mechanics in greasy overalls. The only thing different was the table against the wall where five gents sat under a bare bulb playing stud poker. And hey, this was CHICAGO. If it wasn't typical, it CERTAINLY wasn't out of the ordinary.

The dealer had a toothpick stuck in the side of his mouth, and it waggled while he called the cards. "King high. Pair of bullets. Possible straight. Possible nothin'. Pair of eights..."

He looked up. I don't know exactly WHAT caused the reaction I mean, I know Joe and me looked a little rough around the edges, but... The guy turned the color of a piece of Limburger, jumped to his feet, and whipped out a GUN! The other four must've thought this was a swell idea, because a second later we had FIVE guns pointing at us. I almost plotzed. Toothpick snarled, "All right, you two! Drop 'em!"

I was bewildered, as well as scared. "Don't you mean, 'put 'em UP?'"

He sneered. "Wise guys."

Joe said, "We're just here to pick up a car."

"Oh, yeah?" He nodded to one of the grease monkeys, who came over and started to open our cases.

Joe clarified. "Nellie Weinmeyer's car."

The garage guy grinned, showing the base and sax to the others. "Musicians."

Toothpick snorted, wiping sweat off his forehead. "Musicians? Comedians, more like it." But they all put the gats away and went back to their game. As the mechanic started to lead us back to the
cars, I could hear him. "Okay, aces bet..." I was a little surprised Joe didn't try to sit in on the game. But then, he's always liked the ponies and hounds more than cards. I guess he prefers to lose his money with something that can't laugh in his face.

Joe was telling the mechanic, "It's a '25 Hupmocile coupe. Green."

The car was near the gas pump. "Need some gas?" the mechanic asked.

Joe looked at me, and I sighed and started digging through my pockets. "Maybe about forty cents worth."

"Put it on Miss Weinmeyer's bill?"

Joe signaled me to put away my silver. "Yeah. Fill it up."

The guy unscrewed the cap and stuck the nozzle in the tank.

Right about then, I heard tires squealing, so I cast an eye back toward the entrance. I was just in time to see a big, black Duesenburg bust through the chain and skid to a halt maybe ten feet
from the poker table. I didn't like that. Most garage customers are NOT in that big of a hurry for service.

It must've struck the card players as funny, too, because they all jumped up and went for their guns again. But they were too late. Four men jumped out of the Dues, two of them carrying machine guns, and the other two had sawed-off shotguns. I never can keep the hands in poker straight, but I know for DAMN sure that if you have four handguns in the hole, you should never try to draw against two pair (tommy guns and sawed offs) showing.

The new arrivals looked familiar. I realized that the last time I'd seen them had been in The Chapel, at the reserved table, with glasses of buttermilk in front of them. Spats Colombo's 'immediate family'.

One of them barked, "Alright, everybody. Hands up and face the wall."

I think maybe Jerry saved my life. I was just staring, mouth open like I was trying to catch flies. He grabbed me and pulled me down behind the Hupmobile just before the second goon looked over and saw the mechanic, standing frozen at the pump. He grinned and waved his tommy gun at the poor schmo. "Hey! Join us!" Like he was asking the guy over for sloe gin and the Charleston. The garage man put up his hands and went and lined up against the far wall with the others, and the guy yelled, "Okay, boss."

We were near ground level, so I had a perfect view of the perfect pair of immaculate spats on the feet of the man who got out of the Duesenburg. I grabbed Jerry's arm and whispered, "It's Spats
Colombo!" He slapped a hand over my mouth.

Spats strolled over to where the men were lined up, at gunpoint, against the wall. "Hello, Charlie. Long time, no see."

The dude who'd first drawn down on us, the one who still had the toothpick in his kisser, said, "What is it, Spats? What do you want here?"

"Just dropped in to pay my respects." Well, a man in the undertaking business...

"You don't owe me nothing."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. You were nice enough to recommend my mortuary to some of your friends." Spats was at the table now. He picked up the discarded deck and calmly began to deal out another round of cards.

Charlie was sweating now. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know, now I got all those coffins on my hand. I HATE to see things go to waste."

"Honest, Spats. I had nothing to do with it." He was sounding desperate, and you know what? I didn't blame him a bit.

Spats laid down a fifth card at Charlie's place, then turned up the hole card. He frowned ostentatiously. "Oh, too bad, Charlie! You would've had three eights." He tossed down the cards. "Good-bye, Charlie."

"No, Spats! No, no, no..... NO!"

Spats nodded, the tommy guns came up, and they started to chatter. I closed my eyes and moaned, "I think I'm going to be sick."

That's when the gas tank of the Hupmobile overflowed, shooting the nozzle out onto the floor with a thud and a gush.

They heard it, of course, and wheeled around, zeroing in on us. Spats barked, "Alright, come out of there."

We did, doing our best to raise our hands while holding on to the instruments. I couldn't help taking a quick look at the foot of the bullet pocked wall. I wish I hadn't. Joe said quickly, "We didn't see anything."

Staring, mesmerized, I murmured, "No, nothing. Anyway, it's none of our business if you guys want to knock each other off..." Joe nearly drove the air out of me with his elbow.

Spats was looking at us speculatively. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

"We're just a couple of musicians," Joe assured him. "We come to pick up Nellie Weinmeyer's car. There's a dance tonight." Nudging me, he started to edge away. "C'mon, Jerry."

Spats almost looked amused. "Wait a minute. Where do you think you're going?"

"To Urbana. It's a hundred miles."

"You ain't going nowhere."

Oh, I didn't like the sound of this. "We're not?" I piped.

He sneered. "The only way you'll get to Urbana is feet first."

We would have been goners, if Spats' men had been a little more thorough. See, there was one tiny spark of life left in one of the guys at the wall. Toothpick Charlie, covered in blood, but toothpick still clenched between his teeth, had started to try to crawl to a phone. Spats and his men were preoccupied with terrorizing us before they offed us. Ever notice how many villains lose their chance to kill the hero because they just HAVE to flap their gums?

Spats said, "I don't like no witnesses."

"We won't breathe a word," Joe assured him.

"You won't breathe nothing, not even air!" He gestured toward one of his goons, and the guy leveled the machine gun at us. My insides went from 98.5 to about zero in a split second.

But right about then, Charlie reached the phone. He was too weak to hang on to it, though. All he did was pull it of onto the floor. The gangsters whirled at the sound. Spats snatched the tommy gun from his henchman, and thoroughly perforated ol' Charlie. No oversights this time. Then he walked over, his spats now spattered with blood, and kicked the toothpick out of the corpses mouth.

Some day I gotta find out where Charlie is buried and send flowers. While they were all preoccupied, Joe and I sneaked off. Well, we ran for the entrance like scalded jack asses, instruments in hand. They fired a couple of blasts at us as we made it out the door.

I think they would have followed us, but right about then the sirens started up. I heard a car start up and squeal away, but they didn't seem to be following us. We ducked down an alley. As I ran, I moaned, "I think they got me!"

Joe gasped, "They got the bull fiddle!"

I felt myself as we high-stepped. "You don't see any blood?"

"Not yet. But if those guys catch us there'll be blood all over. Type O."

"Where are we GOING?"

"As far away as possible."

"It won't be far enough! We don't know them, but they know us. Every hood in Chicago will be looking for us, and that's a LOT of hoods, Joe!"

A couple of motorcycle cops flashed past the end of the alley we were in, and several beat patrolmen on foot. They were all heading in the direction of the garage. News was spreading fast. Joe dragged me into a cigar store on the corner. "Got a nickel?" Same old Joe. The world falling down around our ears, and he wants to borrow money. Same old Jerry. I gave it to him.

He dropped it in the slot of a pay phone and started dialing. At last! Sanity. "You're calling the police."

"The police? Are you kidding? Not a chance. We'd never live to testify against Spats Colombo." He gave the operator the number.

"But we got to get out of town!" I stroked my cheeks. "Maybe we should grow beards."

"We ARE going out of town, but we're going to shave."

"Shave?" I yelped. "At a time like THIS? Those guys got machine guns, they're going to blast our heads off, and you want to SHAVE?!"

"Shave our legs, stupid."

"But Joe..." I stopped. I thought. "Ooohhh."

Joe started speaking in a soprano. "Hello? Mistah Poliakoff? I understand you're looking for a coupla goil musicians. Mhm. Mhm. Well, It just so happens that me and my friend..."

I started trying to decide if I wanted to be an ash blonde, or a gold blonde.

Part 6

We went to Feivel. He cried, and cleaned out his cookie jar to stake us. When I told him what we had planned, though, he brightened up. "Dollink!" he squealed, throwing plump arms around my neck and kissing my cheek. "Finally, you come to your senses!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Joe growled.

"Shut up, you brute," Feivel said absently. "You won't use one dime of that money for expenses, Dollink. You just come with me. Yani! Watch the store."

"Feivel," he started to growl.

Feivel glared at him. "So, you're LIKING sleeping on the couch now?" Yani shut up. Feivel led me and Joe upstairs to the apartment he and Yani shared. He took us through a neat little parlor and into a nicely decorated bedroom. There he threw open a big walk-in closet, gestured, and said, "What's mine is yours, bubbie."

I gaped. My God, it looked like Sale Day in the Ladies' Department at a decent department store. I mean day dresses, evening dresses, tea dresses, traveling suits, play suits, even a couple of formals. There were shoes in every color of the rainbow, most of them with heels and pointy toes. "Feivel," I whispered. "I had no idea."

He shrugged. "Yani doesn't like me to dress up for anyone but him. Eh, I hate hiding my light under a bushel, but I love the schlemiel, so what can I do? So, you..." he cast a disdainful look at Joe, "And I suppose you, since you're bubbie's friend, can just take what you need. I have tons. Oh, but not the blue chiffon, nu? I'm saving that for our anniversary."

We were all about the same height, so that worked out. Feivel was plumper than either of us, but he was also a whizz with a needle and thread. He altered several outfits for each of us while we, um, got ready.

First we shaved our faces, twice for the least stubble possible. Neither of us exactly had heavy beards, but... Hey, a little mustache on a dame CAN be kinda cute, but there are limits, even for a man who likes 'em natural.

Joe cussed a blue streak shaving his legs, nicking himself a couple of times. It wasn't so difficult for me. I hardly had any hair to start with, and, well, I just have a light touch.

He balked at shaving his pits. "Come on, Joe! How do you expect to feel fresh with those bushes under your arms?"

"I don't expect to feel FRESH, I expect to feel ALIVE."

"Look, we're going to be wearing evening gowns for the band. You can't count on long sleeves. It just wouldn't be very attractive, Joe, and there's probably a band policy..."

"Oh, shut up and hand me the soap."

I'd never shaved there, either, and... No, I hadn't shaved my legs before, either. What are you thinking?

By the time we were done, Feivel had the outfits ready. He dug underwear for us out of a dresser. "You shouldn't worry, these have all just come from the Chinese laundrey, where they curse your name, by the way."

Since neither one of us was even an A cup, we didn't have to bother with bras. Thank heavens the style was for no bust or hips these days. Feivel had some very silky underwear, and as I slipped them on, I began to think that women really had the right idea. They were much nicer than the plain cotton or knit long johns I was used to. Reeeeal nice, if ya know what I mean.

We both flatly refused girdles. Feivel sighed. "Well, what with the stockings being rolled down, they aren't strictly necessarry. You're not like me." He slapped his plump hips. "You don't really NEED them."

The stockings were a revelation. I'd never felt anything so soft and smooth in my life. They made me wish the fashion was for full length stockings. I really wished I could feel what it was like to smooth those babies up my freshly shaved thighs...

Excuse me. I was just remembering there for a moment. Harrump.

Joe and I got into the dresses and looked at each other. We both sighed. "We're not through yet," Feivel cautioned. "Go. Sit at the vanity."

Joe and I sat patiently while he instructed us on how to apply makeup, then handed us rouge, lipstick, powder, and eye shadow. We set to work. The first efforts were wiped off with many a sigh and a rolling of the eyes toward heaven. "This time try to look just a LITTLE less like the Whore of Babylon, bubbie. Less Ringling Brothers, more Clara Bow." The second try met his approval.

"Now, for the final touch." He brought two wigs out of a box, fluffing them. "I'm glad the trend is to short haircuts. I would have hated to give up my fall." He handed one to each of us. Joe made me swap wigs with him, taking the lightest blonde for himself, the hussy.

We fitted them on carefully, then looked at each other. After a moment, Joe shrugged. "I'd date you."

"You'd date Medusa if she'd hold the snakes, Joe." I looked at myself in the mirror, and paused. "Hey," I said wonderingly. "I'm kinda cute."

"Cute? You're a doll, bubbie." Feivel kissed my cheek. "If I was a lesbian, I'd be all over you. You're going to do all right. You..." He scowled at Joe. "Well, if someone with a steady job asks, say yes. You won't get many offers. You, my angel," he pinched my cheek. "You hold out for one of those Florida millionaires."

"Feivel," Joe growled. "He's a guy."

Hand to hip. "Any your point is?"

Feivel managed to scrounge up a couple of cheap suitcases for us, and a couple of even cheaper coats. But they DID have fur collars. What beast gave up it's life for our adornment, I can't say. But there was a distinct smell of cheese about the fur collars, and I think I might have seen a crease across one of the furs that looked like it could have been made by a rat trap. Cloche hats and the most godawful instruments-of-torture shoes I've ever run into completed the ensembles.

We said our good-byes. Yani pinched Joe's butt. The last thing I saw was Feivel beating him with a rolled up newspaper, telling him that if he was going to ACT like a dog, he could be TREATED like one. Ain't love grand?

The platform was bustling when we arrived at the station. As we hurried along the side of the train, I could hear the announcer calling, "Florida Limited leaving on Track Seven for Washington, Charleston, Savannah, Jacksonville and Miami. All aboard. All aboard." My heart was racing. It was beginning to look like we were going to make it!

Unfortunately, as my feet were racing also, I slipped in those damn heels and twisted my ankle a little. I stopped to rub it, complaining, "How do they WALK in these things?"

Joe paused. "Must be the way the weight is distributed. Come on."

We started off again, toward where we could see passengers embarking. A gust of wind came along and sent our skirts flying. I had to stop again to pull mine down to a decent level. Never mind modesty, there were certain things about me at that moment that needed to remain a mystery, if you know what I mean. "And it's so DRAFTY. Why aren't they catching colds all the time?"

"They have an extra layer of fat under the skin for insulation. Quit stalling, we'll miss the train."

I complained. "I feel so naked. Like everyone's looking at me."

"With those legs? Are you crazy?"

Well, he didn't have to say THAT. It wasn't like he was Marlena Deitrich, either. We'd almost reached the Pullman reserved for Sweet Sue and her Society Synchopaters. Girl muscicians, carrying musical instrument cases, like us, were boarding, one right after the other, all blondes. A brassy broad and a prissy dude who had to be Sweet Sue and Bienstock were supervising.

I suddenly got cold feet. Not surprising with those skimpy stockings instead of socks. I stopped. "It's no use," I moaned. "We'll never get away with it, Joe."

Joe snapped at me. "The name is 'Josephine'. And it was your idea in the first place."

Just then a Blonde came hurrying past us. Please note that I said Blonde, with a capital B. This girl DESERVED to be capitalized, and probably had been. Ofte. She was the dream of every red-blooded American male who'd ever read College Humor. And she was carrying a ukelele case. I stared after her in awe and dismay. "Who are we kidding? Look at that, look how she moves."

Joe was staring, too, but with more awe than dismay. "Yeah. Kinda like Jello on springs. She must have some kinda built in motor." He shook his head. "I'm tellin' you, Jer. It's a whole different sex."

I shrugged. "Oh, hell. What am I afraid of? No one's asking me to have a baby."

Joe nodded. "Right. This is just to get out of town. The minute we hit Florida, we'll blow this set-up."

I glared at him, and began to speak untruths. "This time I'm not going to let you talk me into anything that..."

Right then a newspaper boy came by, waving his papers and bawling out the headlines. "Extra! Extra! Seven Slaughtered in North Side Garage! Fear Blood Aftermath!"

I looked at Joe. "You talked me into it. Come on, Josephine."

"Attagirl, Geraldine."

We hurried for the Pullman. I don't know about Joe, but I tried for the Jello-on-springs motion. I think maybe I achieved pudding.

Sue was greeting each girl as she board. "Hi, Mary Lou - Rosella - Okay, Dolores, get a move on – How’s your back, Olga?"

Bienstock was checking things off on a list. "Clarinet, drums, trumpet, trombone..."

We minced on up, and Joe caroled, "Well, here we are."

Sue looked us over. "You two from the Poliakoff agency?"

"Yes, we're the new goils."

I chimed in. "BRAND new."

Sue gestured to the gent with the thick glasses. "This is our manager, Mr. Bienstock. I'm Sweet Sue."

Joe started introductions. "My name is Josephine, and..."

"And I'm Daphne." I got SUCH a look from Joe, but I just smiled.

Bienstock made another couple of ticks on his list. "Saxophone, bass. Am I glad to see you girls. You saved our lives."

Joe smirked. "Likewise, I'm sure."

Sue enquired, "Where did you girls play before?"

Uh oh. No one had said anything about references. I said casually, "Oh, here, there... and... around."

Sue cocked an eyebrow. Joe said quickly, "We spent three years at the Sheboygan Conservatory of Music." They looked impressed. Did Sheboygan HAVE a Conservatory of Music?

Well, they didn't have time to question, because the conductor was yelling, "All abooooard!"

Bienstock said, "You're in berths 7 and 7A."

I tried to be a lady. "Thank you ever so."

He beamed. "You're welcome."

"It's entirely mutual." As I started up the steps after Joe, I stumbled. Bienstock went to help me, aaaaand I got a little pat on the bottom.

"Upsie-daisy."

I arched a penciled eyebrow at him coyly. "Fresh!" Joe grabbed me and jerked me up into the vestibule.

Behind us, Bienstock took off his glasses and polished them, then slipped them in his pocket. I do believe he was gazing after me with a touch of admiration. I heard him say, "Looks like Poliakoff came through with a couple of real ladies."

Real? I managed not to snicker.

Sue answered, "Yeah. You better tell the other girls to watch their language."

They mounted the steps, the porter pulled the steps up, and the train started. We were off. Joe quickly dragged me out of the vestibule, grabbed me, and pushed me up against a baggage rack. He said one word in an angry whisper. "DAPHNE?!"

I smiled at him serenely. "I never DID like the name Geraldine."

Part 7

Author's Notes: I should have mentioned this before. Sugar Kane is played by Marilyn Monroe, the Ultimata Blonde. Once again, in the movie, Jerry does most of the lusting after girls, it's different here. He starts to feel like a sister toward Sugar.

We moved into the car that had been designated for the band, and there they were: the Society Syncopaters. There were some two dozen or so, all taking off coats, putting up luggage and instruments, getting themselves settled. They were all blonde, all young, and mostly pretty. They looked like a band of angels. Brother, can looks be deceiving!

Well, I wanted to start off on the right foot. Despite what Joe said about scramming as soon as we hit Miami, I was looking forward to spending three weeks with this group. So I caroled, "Hello, everybody! I'm the bass fiddle. Just call me Daphne."

Joe just stood there, gaping, till I nudged him. "I'm Josephine. Sex... I mean, sax."

There was a lot of laughter scattered in the hellos they called back. I heard one of them say, "Yeah, they'll fit right in!"

A girl called Mary Lou called cheerfully, "Welcome to No Man's Land!" and the others sing-songed, "You'll be sooorry!"

Rosella, a slightly plump girl, walked past, scratching her waist. "Take off your corsets and
spread out."

I said firmly. "Oh, I never wear one."

A girl named Olga looked curious. "Don't you bulge?"

I always wanted to act. "Oh, no! I have the most divine little seamstress that comes in once a month--and my dear, she's so inexpensive..."

Dolores, the joker of the group, giggling, said, "Say, kids, have you heard the one about the girl tuba player that was stranded on a desert island with a one-legged jockey?"

Now THAT sounded interesting. "No, how does it go?"

But before she could start, Bienstock came up behind us and wagged a finger at her. "Now cut that out, girls. None of that rough talk." He put a hand on my shoulder, and Jerry's. "THEY went to a conservatory." I don't know about Jerry, but he SQUEEZED me.

"C'mon, DAPHNE." Joe pulled me away toward our seats as the girls had a good laugh over the 'conservatory' bit. As we started to take off our coat, Joe whispered, "How about that talent? This is like falling into a tub of butter."

I hissed, "Watch it, Josephine!"

But he continued. "When I was a kid, I used to have a dream - I was locked up in this pastry shop overnight - with all kinds of goodies around - jelly rolls and mocha eclairs and sponge cake and Boston cream pie and cherry tarts..."

"Listen, moron--no butter and no pastry. We're on a diet!" I was about to hang my coat on a cord that ran along the wall when Joe grabbed me roughly.

"Not there! That's the emergency brake."

Something shifted inside my clothes and I clutched at my, you should pardon the expression, bosom. "Now you've done it! You've torn one of my bosoms loose."

"You better go fix it."

"Well, you better come with me." We headed toward the 'comfort stations', and Joe started for the one marked MEN. I grabbed him just in time. "This way, Josephine." I pushed him into the one marked WOMEN. He jerked away pettishly, and something else gave. I sighed. "NOW you've torn the OTHER one."

There was trouble in the Ladies' Lounge. Trouble had platinum blonde hair and a figure that would have made the Venus de Milo go on an exercise and diet regime. She had one leg up on the settee, and her skirt was somewhere up around Ottowa. She was in the process of removing a small silver flask that was tucked in one garter, but she guiltily pulled her skirt down when she saw us, giving a breathy little, "Oh!"

I quickly crossed my arms across my displaced chests. "Terribly sorry."

She looked relieved. "That's all right. I thought it was Sweet Sue. You won't tell anybody, will you?"

Joe gave her an innocent look that hadn't been authentic on him since he got out of rompers. "Tell what?"

At ease now, she dug out the flask again and opened it. Joe managed to keep his eyes from popping out of his skull, but just barely. The Goddess continued. "If they catch me once more, they'll boot me out of the band." She poured a drink in a paper cup. Starting to sip it, she paused, eyeing us. "You the replacement for the bass and the sax?"

Joe, for once in his life, seemed incapable of speech, so I performed introductions. "That's right. I'm Daphne, and this is Josephine."

"I'm Sugar Cane."

Joe found his tongue. He didn't do what he wanted to do with it, but he managed to speak. "You certainly are." I elbowed him, but she didn't seem to notice.

"He means, what an interesting name."

"I changed it. It used to be Sugar Kowalczyk."

"Oh." I nodded. "Polish?"

"Yes. I come from a very musical family. My mother is a piano teacher and my father is a conductor."

Joe glared at me for elbowing him, and jumped back in. "Where did he conduct?"

"On the Baltimore and Ohio. I play the ukulele. And I sing to."

Joe turned a look on me that said she'd just confessed that she did brain surgery in her spare time. "She sings, too."

"I don't really have much of a voice," she admitted. "but then, it's not much of a band, either. I'm only with them because I'm running away."

I could sympathize with that, given our current situation. "Running away? From what?"

She rolled her baby blue eyes. "Don't get me started on that." She offered the flask. "Want a drink? It's bourbon."

I started to reach for the flask, because I could've really USED a drink. Unfortunately, my chests started to slip, and I had to refold my arms. "We'll take a rain check."

Sugar downed the cupful of bourbon as neat as any dipsomaniac I'd ever seen. If she kept drinking like that, her not much of a voice would soon be nonexistent. "I don't want you to think that I'm a drinker. I can stop any time I want to. Only I don't want to. Especially when I'm blue."

She sighed heavily. It did interesting things to the front of her dress, a fact which Joe did not miss.

"We understand." Oh, no. Joe was being understanding. This could be dangerous.

"All the girls drink," she complained. "But I'm the one that gets caught. That's the story of my life. I always get the fuzzy end of the lollipop." She closed the flask and tucked it away in it's little elastic safety deposit box, and stood back up. "Are my seams straight?"

Joe murmured, "I'll say."

"Oh, well." She twiddled her fingers at us as she exited into the car. "See you around, girls."

Joe called after her, "Bye, Sugar!" Then he turned to me and said vehemently, "We been playing with the wrong bands!"

I glared at him. "Down, Josephine."

"How about the shape of that liquor cabinet?"

I turned. "Get cracking on that over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder," I snapped. He started to unbutton my dress to fix the brassiere. "Look, just forget it. One false move, and they'll toss us off the train. There'll be the police, and the papers, and the mob in Chicago..." He wasn't listening. "Boy, would I like to borrow a cup of that Sugar."

I spun around and grabbed the front of his dress. "Look, no butter, no pastry, and no Sugar."

He looked down, then looked up at me indignantly. "Now YOU'VE torn MINE."

A little later, Sue organized a practice session to get us broken in. All the girls set up at one end of the car, and Bienstock lounged at the other end, reading a Variety.

We started out with 'Running Wild', and brother, did they! Those were some hep kittens, lemme tell ya! They swung it just as hard as any gin joint band I ever sat in with. Everyone except me and Joe, that is.

Ya see, we figured that we had better put forth the image of 'ladies', so we were playing as daintily as if we were providing chamber music for a royal high tea. That didn't fly.

Sue rapped her baton, and we all wheezed to a halt. She pointed at Joe and me. "Hey, Sheboygan. You two, what was your last job, playing square dances?"

Joe piped up, "No. Funerals."

"Would you mind rejoining the living? Goose it up a little."

We looked at each other and shrugged. "We'll try," I agreed. Sue raised her baton, then lowered it again, eyeing my bass. I checked it out. Good gravy! There was a row of bullet holes stitched neatly across the front. Raising her eyebrows, she said, "How did those holes get there?"

I smiled tentatively. "Mice?"

Joe jumped in. "We got it second-hand."

Sue shrugged. "All right, let's take it from the top. And put a little heat under it, will you?"

She gave the downbeat, and the band started up again. This time we gave it all we had. Hey, we had to make a good impression if we wanted to keep the jobs. Joe RODE that sax, and I slapped and twirled that bass fiddle like I was a Victorian lady and it was a masher. Sue looked absolutely amazed by the hepness of these two conservatory cats.

Sugar moved up into the aisle with her uke to do a chorus. Man, that girl could cook like Fannie Farmer! "Runnin' wild! Lost control! Runnin' wild! Mighty bold." She shimmied, she shook, she wiggled. She had more motion in her backfield than the entire American football conference ever THOUGHT about having.

Joe was leaning forward over his sax, trying for a better view. I was going to have to have a talk with him about that. We didn't want them to think we were THOSE kind of girls.

Almost to the end of the chorus, the bank failed. In other words, Sugar's garter gave up the good fight, and the flask clanked to the floor. The music died, and Sugar froze. She looked positively stricken, poor kid.

She had reason. Sweet Sue looked furious. She howled, "BIENSTOCK!"

The manager dropped his Variety and came running. "Yes, Sue?" He didn't say 'You bellowed?', but it was there in his voice.

Sue pointed at the flask, as if it was poisonous. "I thought I made it clear I don't want any drinking in this outfit."

Bienstock picked up the flask and faced us sternly. "All right, girls. Who does this belong to?"

Everyone just looked at each other. Heck, no one wants to be a rat. "Come on, now. Speak up." He zeroed in on Sugar, who was quaking. Way to look innocent, girlfriend. "Sugar, I warned you!"

She was almost in tears. "Please, Mr. Bienstock."

"This is the last straw! In Kansas City you were smuggling liquor in a shampoo bottle. Before that I caught you with a pint in your ukulele..."

Man, I HATED this. She was such a sweet, vulnerable kid. But what could I do? I didn't think quick enough. Joe decided to do something. He stepped forward and said meekly, "Pardon me, Mr. Bienstock, but can I have my flask back?"

Bienstock was in full rant, and scarcely noticed. He handed it over, saying, "Sure," and got wound up again. "Pack your things, and the next station we come to..." It finally hit him, and he snapped his head around to look at Joe. "Your flask?"

Joe smiled brightly. "Uh huh. Just a little bourbon." He started to slip it down the front of his dress.

"Give me that!" Bienstock grabbed the flask back.

The gallantry had the effect Joe wanted. Sugar was beaming at him like she'd just found her truest friend. Uh oh. I was ready to hit Joe with the bull fiddle.

Sue said dryly, "Didn't you girls say you went to a conservatory?"

Joe nodded. "Oh, yes. For a whole year."

"I thought you said three years?"

I said lightly, "We got time off for good behavior."

Sue scowled. Somewhere, babies cried. "There are two things I will not put up with during working hours. One is liquor, and the other one is men."

I blinked angelically, then shuddered. "Men? Oh, you don't have to worry about THAT! Those rough, hairy beasts with eight hands." I looked at Bienstock archly. "They all want just one thing from a girl."

He blushed. "I beg your pardon!" Yeah, yeah. Methinks the manager doth protest too much.

Sue decided there'd been enough attention given to the whole mess. She rapped her baton and bawled, "All right, girls. From the top again."

Once more we waded into 'Running Wild'. Sugar, plucking her uke, smiled warmly at Joe. Here, her look said, was a true blue pal. Joe smiled back. It wasn't too bad. He didn't ACTUALLY have to wipe drool off his chin, but his mouth was watering like a kid in a pastry shop.

This was going to be a long, dangerous train ride.

Part 8

We were getting ready for bed. I had a nice granny nightgown, down to the ankles, and Joe had a pare of striped pajamas that we BOTH could have fit into. I insisted on Joe taking the upper bunk. I didn't want him--er, sleepwalking.

The aisles were filled with girls in various states of dress and undress. I saw more lingerie in those few minutes than I had in my previous three incarnations. Pity it didn't do anything for me, except make me envious of some of the ensembles. For JOE, though...

He was like the young sultan, regally reclining, and greeting his harem as it swirled around him. "Good night, Mary Lou. Dolores dear, sleep tight. Nighty-night, Emily."

Emily called back brightly, "Toodle-oo," as she climbed up into her berth.

Joe growled. "Oo, how ABOUT that toodle-oo?"

"Steady boy. Just keep telling yourself that you're a girl." I admonished.

I heard him muttering. "I'm a girl. I'm a girl." Two more shimmied past. "Get a load of that rhythm section." I glared, and he sighed. "I'm a girl. I'm a girl. I'm a girl. GOOD NIGHT, SUGAR!"

I followed the direction of his eyes. All you could see was a pair of legs hanging out of an upper berth while the girl removed her stockings, but that was all you NEEDED to see for a positive ID. Sugar stuck her head out, smiling, "Good night, honey."

Joe grinned sappily. "Honey. She called me honey." I'd seen that look before. Without another word I removed the ladder he'd used to climb into his upper berth and slid it under my lower bunk. "Hey! What are you doing?"

"I want to make sure that honey stays in the hive. There'll be no buzzing around tonight."

He complained. "But suppose I gotta go for a--erm... drink of water?"

"Fight it."

"But suppose I lose?"

I pointed at the brake cord. "Then pull the emergency brake." I had watched Sweet Sue and Bienstock, at the other end of the car, on opposite sides of the aisle, watching us, and whispering together. I hissed, "They're suspicious about something already. We can't take any chances."

Bienstock clapped his hands. "Everybody settle down and go to bed. Good night, girls."

Everyone started to climb into bed, close curtains, turn off lights. "Good night, Josephine."

He sighed as I closed the curtains. "Good night, Daphne." As I lay down, I could hear him muttering. "I'm a girl. I'm a girl. I wish I was dead. I'm a girl. I'm a girl..."

I lay down and drifted off to sleep. I should have known better. I knew Joe couldn't get down from the berth without my knowing it. It never occured to me that someone would climb up and join him.

Apparently a little while later, Sugar sneaked down the aisle. Finding no ladder, she borrowed one from across the aisle, and climbed up. She'd come to thank 'Josephine' for sticking up for her. Joe was so startled that he banged his head sitting up. Well, it IS a little startling when you suddenly find that your wet dream seems to be coming true.

(Oh, in case you're wondering how I know all this since I was snoozing away, Joe told me after the honeymoon. Which honeymoon? Never mind. We'll get to that in due course.)

Sugar said, "If it hadn't been for you, they would have kicked me off the train. I'd be out there in the middle of nowhere, sitting on my ukelele."

Joe sympathized. "It must me freezing out there. When I think of you and your poor ukelele..."

"If there's anything I can do for you..."

Was there EVER a more loaded offer in the history of the world? I KNOW Joe smirked when he said, "Oh, I can think of a million things." She suddenly climbed all the way up into the berth. "And that's one of them."

"Ssh. Sweet Sue." Throught the slit in the curtains, Joe saw Sue pad up toward the Ladies' Room. "I don't want her to know we're in cahoots."

"We won't tell anyone. Not even Daphne."

"I'd better stay here till she goes back to sleep."

"Stay as long as you like."

Sugar slid under the covers. "I'm not crowding you, am I?"

"No." I figure Joe started to sweat right about her. "It's nice and cozy."

"When I was a little girl, on cold nights like this, I used to crawl into bed with my sister. We'd cuddle up under the covers, and pretend we were lost in a dark cave, and were trying to find out way out. Say, you're getting flushed. Is anything wrong? Oh, you poor thing! You're trembling all over." She touched his forehead. "And your head is hot, but your feet are cold. Let me warm them up a little." She rubbed her feet vigorously against Joe's. "There. Isn't that better?"

Joe started chanting again. "I'm a girl. I'm a girl."

"What's that?"

"I'm a very sick girl."

"Maybe I should go before I catch something."

"I'm not THAT sick!"

"I have a very low resistance," Sugar explained.

I can see Joe's eyes lighting up now. "You know Sugar, if you feel you're coming down with something, the best thing is a shot of whiskey. I know where to get some. Don't move." He climbed over her (it's a wonder he ever made it across, Joe never WAS much of a mountain climber, and the urge to rest in the valley between Sugar's twin peaks must have been monumental), opened the curtain, and leaned out and down, toward my berth, where I was sleeping the sleep of the innocent. STOP LAUGHTING!

He rummaged in the suitcase I had at the foot of the berth and found our bottle. But he leaned just a LITTLE too far and slipped. Lucky for him he landed in the aisle and not on top of me. I would have been so mad at him risking our necks that I would have performed the first sex change operation in America by removing his equipment with my bare hands.

Sugar whispered, "Are you all right?"

He whispered back. "I'm okay."

"How's the bottle?" Sugar was a girl with firm priorities.

"Half full."

Joe might have gotten away with it, but his fall had alerted Dolores in Number Four, and she peered out to see him going to the drinking fountain for cups. Joe didn't notice, scurrying back up into his berth. "I tell you, this is the only way to travel."

As Sugar poured, she said, "You better put on the lights. I can't see what I'm doing."

Joe was vehement. "No lights! We don't want anyone to know we're having a party."

"But I may spill something."

"So spill it! Spills, thrills, laughs, games..." I can picture the smirk. "This may even turn out to be a surprise party."

Sugar lit up like a little girl. "What surprise?"

"Uh uh, not yet. We better have a drink first."

Sugar handed over a cup of whiskey. "Here. This'll put hair on your chest."

"No fair guessing."

Just as they drank, Dolores poked her head in and chirped, "This a private clambake, or can anybody join?"

Joe started to shoo her away, but Sugar said, "Hey Dolores, you still got that bottle of vermouth?" When Dolores nodded, she said, "We have bourbon, let's make Manhattans." As Dolores started down the ladder, she added, "And bring the cocktail shaker."

When Dolores went for the vermouth, MaryLou in the lower berth woke up. "What's up," she yawned.

"Party in upper seven."

MaryLou perked up. "I got some cheese and crackers. Need a corkscrew?"

"Yeah."

"I know where I can get one." She went across the aisle and woke up Rosella. "Party in upper seven. Lemme have the corkscrew."

Rosella climbed out, interested. "I don't have it. I loaned it to Stella. I'll get more cups."

Soon the whole car except Sweet Sue, the manager, and me, were sneaking into upper seven for the party. Now, normally, this would have been hog heaven for Jerry: about a dozen girls crammed with him into space meant for, at most, two. BUT, he had designs on Sugar, and the other girls were in the way. He tried to shoo them out, but everyone was having too good a time.

Olga brought the cocktail shaker, which turned out to be a hot water bottle. Someone else brought Southern Comfort. I wish I'D been invited. The parties I end up at are usually smaller, and duller. Sugar started mixing Manhattans. The girls were passing around cheese, crackers, peanut butter and salami.

You may be wondering what I was doing while this was going on. I was sleeping. Yes, through all that. I'm a great neighbor to have if you like your music loud. I can sleep through almost anything. I couldn't sleep through Emily reaching down and shaking me, though. Nothing will wake you up like someone asking if you have any maraschino cherries on you. When I just muttered, she went back to the party. A second later I sat up. "MARASCHINO CHERRIES?!"

I looked. There was a ladder where there should have been no ladder, and girlish legs were ascending. I got out and looked. Assorted legs were sticking out of upper seven. I peeked throught the curtain. Thirteen girls... and Joe. "What's going on here? Josephin?"

From somewhere at the back of the crowd I heard. "It's not my fault! I didn't invite them."

"Everybody out." I ordered.

Sugar started to climb down, and I heard Joe whine, "Not you, Sugar!"

She assured him, "I'm just going to get some ice." She went to the water fountain, pried open the bottom panel, and pulled out a huge chunk of ice. Then she shoved it into MY hands. "What's this?"

Sugar had a cymbal and drum brush from the drummer's gear. "C'mon, Daphne, before it melts." She went into the ladies' lounge.

Well, what could I do but follow? I left Joe with the harem he'd always dreamed of, but now couldn't enjoy.

In the lounge, I dropped the ice in the sink and scolded, "Sugar, you're going to get yourself into a lot of trouble."

"You're right. Better keep a lookout."

All right, no one can accuse me of not being a good sport. I peeked through the curtains, watching the car. "If Bienstock catches you again... What's the matter with you, anyway?"

"I'm not very bright, I guess."

There was such sad matter-of-factness in her tone that it made me look around. "Oh, I wouldn't say THAT. Careless, maybe."

"No, just dumb. If I had any brains, I wouldn't be on this crummy train with this crummy girls' band. I used to sing with male bands, but I can't afford it any more."

I was puzzled. "Afford it?"

"Have you ever been with a male band?"

I did wide-eyed innocense. "ME?"

"That's what I'm running away from. I worked with six different ones in the last two years. Oh, brother! Rough? I'll say."

I nodded sympathy. "You can't trust those guys."

"I can't trust myself. The moment I'd start with a new band - bingo! You see, I have this thing about saxophone players."

Ah, geez. Didn't it figure? "Testify, my sister."

"You, too?" I nodded. " I'm really bad about tenor sax. I don't know what it is, but they just curdle me. All they have to do is play eight bars of 'Come to Me My Melancholy Baby' - and my spine turns to custard, and I get goose-pimply all over - and I come to them. Every time!"

"Josephine plays tenor sax."

"But she's a girl, thank goodness."

"Yeah."

Sugar kept chipping. "That's why I joined this band. Safety first. Anything to get away from those bums. You don't know what they're like. You fall for them and you love 'em - you think it's going to be the biggest thing since the Graf Zeppelin - and the next thing you know they're borrowing money from you and spending it on other dames and betting on the horses."

*This is your life.* "You don't say?"

Ice chips flew. "Then one morning you wake up and the saxophone is gone and the guy is gone, and all that's left behind is a pair of old socks and a tube of toothpaste, all squeezed out."

I was truly indignant for her. "Men!"

She kept on. "So you pull yourself together and you go on to the next job, and the next saxophone player, and it's the same thing all over again. See what I mean? - not very bright. I can tell you one thing - it's not going to happen to me again. Ever. I'm tired of getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop."

Olga burst in through the curtains. "Ice! What's keeping the ice? The natives are getting restless."

I handed her the cymbal full of ice. "How about a couple of drinks for us?"

She winked and scooted out. Sugar said thoughtfully, "You know I'm going to be twenty-five in June? That's a quarter of a century. Makes a girl think about the future. You know - like a husband? That's why I'm glad we're going to Florida."

Okay, this stumped me. "What's in Florida?"

Sugar grinned. "Millionaires. Flocks of them. They all go south for the winter. Like birds."

The light dawned. "Going to catch yourself a rich bird?"

Sugar shrugged. "Oh, I don't care how rich he is - as long as he has a yacht and his own private railroad car and his own toothpaste. Maybe you'll meet one too, Daphne."

Oh, what the hell. I could dream, couldn't I? "Yeah. With money like Rockefeller, and shoulders like Johnny Weismuller."

Sugar shook her head. "I want mine to wear glasses. Men who wear glasses are so much more gentle and sweet and helpless. Haven't you ever noticed? They get those weak eyes from reading - you know, all those long columns of tiny figures in the Wall Street Journal."

Olga came back with the drinks, and got more ice. "That sax, boy! She sure knows how to throw a party." She dashed off.

Sugar raised her paper cup. "Happy days!"

The poor kid. She'd been through a lot, and she deserved something nice. "I hope this time you wind up with the sweet end of the lollipop, Sugar." I toasted with her.

Part 9

Author's Notes: Penny?--means Penny for your thoughts. Florence (a man) Ziegfield and George White both presented elaborate stage reviews in the twenties, famous for their beautiful showgirls. Plus-fours are a type of trousers. Elevators weren't always--erm, self-serve. There used to be an operator, running the show by way of a lever on a circular mounting. How smooth your ride was depended on his skill.

Back in our upper berth, things were swinging. Dolores finally told the one-legged jockey joke. That rat Joe never COULD remember the whole joke, and the punch line has haunted me ever since then. If you know it, PLEASE contact me. Anyway, Dolores had him about to burst with giggles as she finally said, "...and the jockey said don't worry about ME, baby. I ride SIDESADDLE!"

He laughed and jerked so hard that the bosoms tore loose again. Look, there have to be flat chested women who use as much padding as we did. You'd think someone would have come up with a better suspension system. Joe had to clap his arms over his chest to keep everything from going farther south than Miami.

Plus the laughing had given him the hiccups. Some of the girls decided that the cure for that would be to put some ice on 'her' neck. Well, Joe jumped, and SWOOP! Ice down the neck. When one of the girls tried to fish it out, he squirmed like the dickens. Well, if she'd gotten her hands on those strap-on bosoms there would've been a lot of explaining to do. Buuuut... It gave the girls an idea.

There was a squeal of "Hey! She's ticklish!" And Joe IS ticklish. Joe was more or less attacked, tickled unmercifully. He thrashed and screamed in the tangle of laughing, tickling girls, close to panic. He was about to be discovered. This was an emergency. He pulled the emergency brake cord.

Bruh-ther.

The brakes locked, the train jerked to a halt, and everyone in the upper berth tumbled out into the aisle. It was a veritable cascade of pulchritude. In the ladies' room, Sugar was thrown into me, squealing, "What happened?"

"Search me." No, bad idea. I said hastily, "I mean, I'll go see." I peeked out. Girls were scrambling up and fleeing in every direction, diving behind curtains. Joe was scrambling up the ladder into his bunk. Just as everyone disappeared, Sweet Sue burst out of her bunk, glaring.

The car looked peaceful. Sue snarled, "What's going on here? BIENSTOCK!"

The manager tumbled sleepily out of his berth. "Are we in Florida?"

The conductor cam flying into the car, yelling, "All right! Who pulled the emergency brake? Who was it?"

Bienstock glared at the sedately closed curtains. "Come on girls. Who was it?"

I almost plotzed when Joe stuck his head out and said meekly, "I was it."

Sue scowled. "What's the big idea?"

"I'm sorry. I was having a nightmare." He hiccupped, holding a hand delicately over his mouth. "Something I ate. I'm not at all well." He held up the cocktail shaker. "See? Hot water bottle."

The conductor snorted in disgust. "Musicians! The last time we had some on the train, they started a wild, drunken brawl Imagine, twelve of them in one berth!" Joe clucked disapprovingly. The conductor jerked on the emergency brake a couple of times to signal the engineer to start the train again, and we started up again. The conductor left, and Sue and Bienstock went back to bed. Joe gazed out forlornly, then sighed and went back behind the curtains.

In the lounge, I said. "All clear, Sugar. You better go back to bed."

She sighed. "I might as well stay here, anyway. With the way Bienstock snores, I won't be able to sleep. He's so bad that we cut cards to see who sleeps over him, and I always lose."

Poor kid. "Would you like to switch berths with me?"

"Would you mind?"

"Not at all." I led her back to my berth. "I can fall asleep anywhere, any time, over anybody." I moved the suitcase under the bunk.

She said, "Thanks, honey."

I started away. "Good night, Sugar."

"Good night, Josephine."

What you have to understand to understand what happened next is the fact that Joe was LISTENING to this exchange, but he couldn't see WHO went WHERE. Sugar got in my lower bunk, and I went and got in her upper bunk, over Bienstock. She wasn't kidding about the snoring. Bandsaw. I put a pillow over my head.

Joe took a swig from the hot water bottle for courage. He took a peek down into the lower berth, saying softly, "Jerry, are you asleep?" Sugar was drifting off to sleep, and didn't hear, and all Joe could see was a dim outline. As far as he was concerned, I was in dreamland.

He snuck down, and snuck over to Sugar's old bunk, now MY bunk. He poked his head in and whispered sweetly, "Sugar. Sugar, baby." My eyes snapped open. Uh-HUH. I started to sit up, but he put a hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down. The light in that berth wasn't any better than it had been down the car. Guess who he thought I was?

He continued. "Sh. Don't get up. It's me, Josephine. We don't want to wake up Bienstock." He climbed in next to me, slipping under the covers, and addressed my back. I decided to wait and see just how far my Romeo would go, exactly how close to the edge of disaster he'd let his dick lead him. Over the precipice, it would seem.

"You that surprise I promised you before? I better break it to you gently. In the first place, I'm not a natural blonde. As a matter of fact, there are all sorts of things about me that are not natural. You see, the reason my friend and I are on this train with you girls is sort of complicated. You know the holes in Daphne's bass fiddle? That wasn't mice. What I'm trying to say is my name isn't really Josephine, it's Joseph. I mean, Joe. And you know WHY it's Joe? Because I'm a boy."

He pulled off his wig. The louse. Ready to risk BOTH of us to get into a blonde's pants. A spectacular blonde, I grant you. But still, shouldn't friendship count for SOMETHING?

I had enough. I started to sit up, but the horny toad pushed me back, saying smoothly, "Don't scream, please." Scream? No. Yell my head off, possibly. "Don't spoil it. It's too beautiful. Just think of it, you and I--same berth, opposite sexes, male and female, he and she, the moth and the flame..." Oh, Aunt Gertrude. Was this the sort of mush he USUALLY used?

He took my hand and pressed it against his heart (never stopping to remark on what large hands Sugar had for such a dainty woman). "Feel my heart--like a crazy drum." He started kissing my hand. The hair on the knuckles should have told him something. "I'm mad for you, Sugar." His breathing was heavy. "What are we going to do about it?"

That was the last orange that over-balanced the stack. I turned on him, grabbing his nightgown collar, and started shaking him. If he was a rat (and he was), then I was a terrier. He was surprised. "Sugar, what are you doing?" He reached up and turned on the berth light. I had my fist cocked back. "Male and female, the moth and the flame! I ought to slug you!"

Joe quickly grabbed his wig and slapped it back on. "You wouldn't hit a girl, would you?"

"No, and I wouldn't fuck one, either." I jerked off his wig, and climbed on top of him. Okay, angry makes me horny. I can't explain it. But it sure as hell makes making up easier. I pulled down my pajama pottoms and pulled up his night shirt. He was already hard, the dog. Tell me, why do we call an unfaithful man a dog? Dogs are otherwise noted for their loyalty, aren't they? Man's best friend, and all that. Well, I was ready to be best friends with what Joe had between his legs, all right.

"Jerry!" Joe hissed. "What are you doing?"

"You're horny? I'll take care of it... in a way that won't get us pitched off this train and possibly into the clutches of Spats Columbo." I was hard now, too, and I began to rub against him. Boy, it felt good. Joe hadn't been tot frisky lately. Well, not with ME, anyway. Despite what you might have heard about gay guys, and despite how quickly I'd taken to Joe, not all of us are promiscuous. I don't throw myself around a lot. There hadn't been anyone but Joe since we'd moved in together, and there wasn't nearly enough of him. I had a lot of--er, energy stored up. Translation: that upper berth was seeing more humping than the last camel rider in a long Arabian caravan.

"But Jerry!" Joe gasped. "I always top with you."

"Not tonight, Josephine," I growled. I took hold of his hips and slammed against him He arched up against me, groaning, and I kissed him to swallow the sound, then whispered, "Quiet! We don't know how much Bienstock can hear over his own noise." Joe was quiet except for a few whimpers and whines as we moved against each other. Despite that first objection, Joe had a good time. It certainly seemed that way from the way he grabbed my ass and hooked his legs around me.

At the end, as we both climaxed, he gasped, "Jerry, this isn't like you!"

"I'm not Jerry, I'm Daphne. Maybe Daphne is a dominatrix."

When we were done, Joe found a face cloth in Sugar's things and wiped us off. I indicated the spunk soaked cloth and whispered. "What the hell are we going to do with that? It's too risky to take it to the restroom to wash out." Joe looked around, then tucked it under the mattress. "Joe! That's disgusting, and it belongs to Sugar."

He shrugged, settling down. "So we'll buy her a new one in Florida. C'mere." Joe isn't much on snuggling after sex, but he didn't have much choice in the narrow bunk. I happen to love it, so I cuddled up to him.

He laughed softly, and I said, "Penny?"

"I was just wondering what the housekeeping staff is gonna think when they find that. They know this was a carload of girls."

I yawned. "They'll think Bienstock got him some. And considering the amount of sperm on that rag, they'll think he's a hell of a man. We've done wonders for his reputation. If he ever rides this particular rail again, he may get a few surprises. I drifted off to sleep peacefully. Joe wasn't going anywhere with my arm around him.

We arrived in Miami right on schedule the next day, and were loaded on a big bus for our trip to the resort. It was fun. We all ended up singing "Down Among the Sheltering Palms" as we pulled into the drive.

It was a huge, sprawling gingerbread sort of affair. It basked in the sun, fanned by towering palm trees, lulled by waves breaking on its exclusive beach frontage. Yep, wintertime, and the livin' was easy. Fish were jumpin' and the market was high.

As we pulled up to the front entrance, I peered out the window. A porch stretched across the front of the building. It was spanned by a long line of rocking chairs. Each one was occupied by what was obviously a millionaire. They all wore resort clothes: white flannel pants, striped flannel pants, knickers, Panama hats, yachting caps--and they were all reading the Wall Street Journal. Every one of 'em, papers up in front of their faces.

Yeesh. Grandpas on parade. The combined age must've been somewhere around a thousand, but I expect the combined bank balance was close to that many million, too. That could make an elderly gent look a lot younger, if you know what I mean.

As we started to disembark, the papers lowered as one. I'm telling you, Flo Ziegfield never got such precision out of his chorus line. They were all wearing sunglasses, and they all leaned forward, peering at the Society Syncopaters. Smiles broke out on every face. The rich can afford lovely false teeth, I decided.

I helped Sugar down while Joe got our instruments out of the pile that was unloaded off the back of the bus. He handed me my fiddle case, and gave Sugar her uke. I took it, gallantly. "I'll carry the instruments."

Sugar smiled her thanks. Joe shoved the saxophone case into my arms, also, and grabbed Sugar's arm. "Thanks, Daphne. Isn't she a sweetheart?" He led her away while I stared after him, stunned. Damn, the man is quick!

Well, I was pissed, but I was also stuck, because no one else was going to volunteer to help me with the load, so I followed them. My high heels were giving me hell, trying to balance with that load.

On the steps, the rich old dodos removed their sunglasses to get a better look at the girl musicians waltzing by. They started tipping their hats. I saw Joe and Sugar pause, studying them. Joe said, "Well, there they are. More millionaires than you can shake a stick at."

Sugar sounded disappointed. "I bet there's not a one of them under seventy-five. I hope some of them brought their grandsons along." They passed the last one in line, and he jauntily lifted his Panama to them. Joe turned up his nose and swept Sugar past him. He didn't seem to mind. He just made a sort of clicking noise. Then he turned to inspect the next girl in line...

Which happened to be me, struggling with bass, sax, and ukelele. I wasn't paying too much attention to the men on the porch, I was too busy trying not to trip or drop anything, hoping that I wouldn't get a run in my best pair of stockings. It isn't too surprising that I tripped on the top step, losing one of my shoes. Crap! NOW what was I going to do?

A smooth, cheerful voice said, "Just a moment, miss." One of the old duffers jumped up and picked up the shoe. "May I?"

Why not? I certainly couldn't get it on myself without looking like an utter fool. I did the fairytale bit, extending my bare foot. "Help yourself."

He knelt at my feet, and slipped the shoe on me gently. "I am Osgood Fielding the Third."

"I am Cinderella, the Second." I started to pull my foot away, but he had hold of my ankle. I took a closer look at him.

He was dressed as richly as any of the others: white plus-fours, argyle socks, a blazer, two toned shoes, a Panama, and a gleam in his eyes. Big, brown eyes, I noted. It meant nothing to me, of course. Just making note, giving a physical description.

He was younger than the other grandpas, maybe a son instead of a grandson. Still a good bit older than me, maybe by twenty years, in his late forties, early fifties. His face kind of reminded me of a handsome basset hound.

He still had hold of my ankle, and he was smiling up at me. "If there's one thing I admire, it's a girl with a shapely ankle."

"I'll let you know when I find one. Bye now." I pulled away.

He stood up, saying chivalrously. "Let me carry one of those instruments."

My mama didn't raise no fools. "Thank you!" I loaded them all into his arms. "Aren't you a sweetheart?" I cruised into the lobby, with Osgood Fielding the Third struggling after me.

"It certainly is delightful to have some young blood around here."

"Personally, I'm type O."

"You know, I've always been fascinated by show business. It's cost my family quite a bit of money."

"You invest in shows?"

"No. Showgirls. I've been married seven or eight times."

I stared at him. "You're not sure?"

"Mama is keeping score. Frankly, she's getting rather annoyed with me."

"I couldn't imagine why."

"My thoughts exactly. This year when George White's Scandals opened, she packed me off here. Right now she thinks I'm out on my yacht..." He gave a surprisingly deep chuckle. "Deep-sea fishing."

"Uh huh. Well, pull in your reel, Mr. Fielding." I figured I'd better head this off before it became a situation. I'd been teasing Bienstock, but I think this duffer meant business. "You're barking up the wrong fish."

We just missed the elevator, and had to wait for the next one. He leaned close to me and said, "If I promise not to be a naughty boy, how about dinner tonight?"

Whoa, he moved fast. Luckily I had a perfect excuse. "Sorry. I'll be on the bandstand."

"Oh, of course. Which of these instruments do you play?"

"Bull fiddle."

"Fascinating," he crooned. I had a feeling his reaction would have been the same if I'd said the
kazoo. "Do you use a bow, or do you just--pluck it?"

I looked at him sharply. Yes, that tone HAD been suggestive. "Most of the time I SLAP it."

His look was openly admiring. "You must be quite a girl."

"Wanna bet?" *Oh, man. Come on, elevator! This is getting out of hand.*

"My last wife was an acrobatic dancer. You know, a sort of contortionist. She could smoke a cigarette while holding it between her toes." He sighed. "Zowie!" Huh, that dreamy expression suggested that wasn't the only stunt he was remembering. "But Mama broke it up. She doesn't approve of girls who smoke."

The doors opened on an elevator, empty except for the operator, and I grabbed at the cases. "Good-bye, Mr. Fielding."

"Good-bye?"

"This is where I get off."

Double uh-oh. He got that gleam in his eyes again. "Oh, you don't get off that easily." Before I knew what he was up to, he herded me back into the elevator, following and dropping the case. He said to the boy with his hand on the control lever, "All right, driver. Once around the park. Slowly. And keep your eyes on the road."

"Look, Fielding..."

The doors started to close, and he pulled me into his arms. He was shorter than me, especially with the high heels, but he didn't seem to have any trouble. His mouth landed on mine squarely. I stiffened up in shock.

Did I say he was fast? It was an understatement. I'd been opening my mouth to tell him to get lost, and his tongue just sort of moved in, and seemed like it intended to stay there, considering the rummaging around it was doing. I was so surprised I didn't react immediately. It wasn't until he grabbed a double handful of my butt that I snapped to.

I jerked back, hard, and laid a palm where it would do the most good, half knocking him across the car. Then I grabbed the uniform of the little weasel operating the car and growled. "Get this back to the ground floor--NOW!"

We dropped so fast that it's a good thing we hadn't gotten over the second floor. When the doors slid open, I slapped Fielding again for good measure. "What kind of a girl do you think I am, Mr. Fielding?" Then I grabbed the cases and flounced out. "Please! It won't happen again." He was rubbing his cheek, gesturing at me to return to the elevator.

"No, thank you! I'll walk." I headed for the stairs.

He stood there, holding his cheek, and I heard him breathe softly, "Zowie!"

Part 10

Idiot me. In protecting my rather dubious virtue, I'd forgotten that we were being billited on the third floor. Those two flights of stairs might as well have been one of those huge stretches up the side of an Incan pyramid, what with my load. I was panting and swearing in a very unladylike manner as I neared the final landing.

I could hear the girls milling around. Bienstock said,"All right girls, here are your room assignments. Wait... Where are my glasses?"

He must not have been able to find them, because Sue started calling off assignments. "Olga and MaryLou in 412. MayLou, keep your kimono buttoned when you call up room service. Josephine and Daphne in 413. Dolores and Sugar in 414..."

"Me and Sugar?" I heard Dolores pipe.

"Were you expecting a one-legged jockey?"

I heard Sugar say, "I wish they'd put us in the same room."

Joe replied, "So do I, but we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

*grrrr. Oh, yeah? We'll see about THAT!* There were more murmurings, but I was too busy trying not to descend precipitously, if ya know what I mean. I finally made it up to the floor as everyone was disappearing into their respective rooms. I headed toward 413.

The door was ajar, and I started to nudge it open with my foot, but stopped when I heard Joe say, "I suppose you'll want a tip?"

A very young voice answered. "Forget it, doll. You work here, I work here, and believe you me--it's nice to have you with..." I swear, he made that same clicking noise that Osgood had on the porch. This boy was dangerous. "...the organization." His voice took on what I guess he assumed was a suave tone. "Listen doll, what time do you get off tonight?"

"Why?" Oh, no. I could tell by the sound of that one word that Joe was 'getting interested'. Lord, the man would mount anything that would hold still.

The voice of what I assumed was the bellhop continued smoothly. "Because I'm workin' the night shift, and I got a bottle of gin, and as soon as there's a lull..." There was that clicking sound again.

I shoved the door open with my foot, making it bang against the wall, and glared at Joe. His took one look at my scowl and drew himself up haughtily. "Aren't you a little young for that, sonny?" I'll say he was. He was seventeen, if he was a day.

He gave Joe a fresh grin. "Oh, you wanna see my--driver's license?" The kid could get as much suggestion into two words as Osgood could. I wondered if they were related.

Joe licked his lips. I cleared my throat. Joe sighed, and said, "Get lost, will you?"

The kid laughed, heading for the door. "That's the way I like 'em: big and sassy!" As he passed me, he ran an eye over me. I gave him a look that dripped frost. He winked, and called back to Joe. "Bring your friend." He snapped his bowtie on its elastic before he left.

I kicked the door shut. "Why, that dirty old man!" I threw the instruments down in disgust. "Well, maybe not so old, but definitely dirty. I got pinched in the elevator. Actually, it went beyond a pinch. It was full-fledged grope."

"Well, now you know how the other half lives."

"Hey, don't give me that! I'VE never made their lives difficult, have I?" I peered into the mirror, trying to see what it was that Fielding had seen. "And I'm not even pretty."

"They don't care. Just so long as you're wearing a skirt. It's like waving a red flag in front of a
bull."

"Yeah? Well, you should know. You've been on the other side of the semiphor often enough." I'd had enough. "Let's blow this place."

"Blow where?"

I looked at him. "You were the one saying that the minute we hit Florida, we were going to beat it. What gives?"

"How can we leave? We're broke."

Okay, now I was getting suspicious. "We can get a job with another band. A MALE band."

"Listen Jer, right now Spats Columbo and his chums are looking for us in every male band in the country. So you got pinched in the elevator, so what? Would you rather be picking lead out of your navel?"

"Oh, all right!" I whipped off my hat and wig and tossed them on the bed. If I did this long enough, I'd have to let my hair grow so I could ditch that thing and... Where had THAT idea come from? "How long can we keep this up?"

"What are you beefing about? We get room and board, we get paid every week, there's palm trees and flying fish..."

I snarled, "What are you giving me with the flying fish?" I shook a finger at him. "I know why you want to stick around. You're after Sugar. I watched the two of you on the buss, all lovey-dovey, whispering and giggling and borrowing each other's lipstick."

"Oh, please, Jerry! I'm just giving her a little sympathy. She was telling me about what rotten luck she has with men. Like f'rinstance... She's in room 414, right? Well did you know that's the very same number she stayed in with her last male band, in Cincinatti?"

"Fascinating. Your point is?"

"She was with a saxophone player..."

"I've heard about them."

He ignored my jibe. "She was crazy about him. Two in the morning, and he sent her out for knackwurst and potato salad, but they were out of potato salad." Joe said this like he was announcing that the plague center had run out of serum.

"Tragedy."

He nodded. "So she got coleslaw. So he threw it right in her face. So you see? She needs a little warmth."

"Warmth, fine. Heat, no."

"Please, we're like sisters."

"Yeah? Well, I'm your fairy godmother, and I'm keeping an eye on you."

There was a knock at the door, and we heard Bienstock call, "Are you decent?"

I grabbed my wig and jammed it back on, "Then called, "Well, I don't know about decent, but we have our clothes on."

He came in, peering at us nearsightedly. It almost wouldn't have made a difference if I hadn't put the wig back on. "Have you girls seen a brown suitcase with a white stripe and my initials? It has all my resort clothes in it."

Joe looked around casually. "No, we haven't."

He scratched his head. "I can't understand it. First my glasses disappear, now one of my suitcases."

Sugar came up behind him. "Where's my ukelel?"

He threw up his hands. "Now a ukelele! There must be a sneak thief around here." He went out, shaking his head. Well, some people are just fated to go through life confused.

I handed over the case. "Here you go, Sugar."

"Thanks. A bunch of us girls are going for a swim. Want to come along?"

That sounded refreshing. "You betcha. But I don't have a suit."

"You don't need one. I don't have one, either." Joe perked up immediately. He drooped only a little when she continued, "We'll rent some at the bath house." She bounced. "I can't wait! I'm sure it's going to be just like you said, Josephine. I'm going to forget about saxophone players and get a millionaire, a young one.

The suspicion was reaching paranoia levels. "And what makes you so sure of that you'll make a prediction, Josephine?"

Joe smiled demurely. "Feminine intuition. No thanks, Sugar. I'd rather stay in and soak in a hot tub."

I shrugged. "Let her soak, Sugar. I'll go."

Joe arched a pencilled eyebrow at me. "Don't get burned, Daphne."

Sugar giggled. "Oh, I have some suntan lotion. I'll rub it on Daphne, and she can rub it on me. We'll rub it on each other. Bye."

Joe's tongue was hanging out when we left. I was thinking that I bet he was sorry now that he wasn't coming for a swim. I found out later that he had a lot more planned than a long, hot soak.

So we went down to the beach. Now, this really WAS a class operation. Private dressing rooms, and a large selection of bathing suits to choose from. Luckily there was a thick knit one, with a skirt. You know how wet cloth OUTLINES things, and I had things I didn't want outlined. I had to be a little careful with the wig and the rubber cap, but it worked out. I made a very credible girl. A flat chested one, but hey. This was '29, flat was fashionable.

Oh, it was glorious! Especially after most of my life in Chicago. Sun, sand, salt water... The girls dashed into the waves and we all froliced like porpoises. Bliss!

At one point I was ducking myself, and was presented with an underwater view of Sugar's postierior. All right, I wasn't really interested, but the opportunity was too good to pass up, and I figured what the heck? See what all the fuss is about. So I...

She was squealing and slapping the water when I popped up. "Daphne! What are you doing?"

"Just a little trick I learned in the elevator." *And I bet Osgood got more out of that manuever than I did. That gave me as much of a thrill as squeezing a tomato. Oh, well. I am what I am.* A big wave was coming. "Oh, here comes a BIG one!" I grabbed her tight, and it swept us both off our feet, giggling madly. She really was a pretty nice girl.

After that tumble, we went back on the beach, where some of the other girls... I just noticed that I said 'other girls' instead of just 'girls'. Hmmm.... Anyway, they started tossing a beach ball around.

Sugar put on a little beach robe and tossed me a towel so I could dry off. I managed to get off the cap and leave the wig in place, and started drying off. The beach was fairly full. I noticed one of the millionaires (an actually young one for once) strolling along. Very dapper, in white flannels, a blazer with a crest, a silk scarf, a yachting cap and *KACHING* glasses. He was carrying, of course, a Wall Street Journal. Hm. Maybe THAT was Sugar's chance. I might point him out to her later.

Sugar said, "You know, Daphne, I had no idea you were such a big girl."

"You should have seen me before I went on my diet." I finished drying and folded the towel.

"No, I mean your shoulders, and your arms."

"That's from carrying around the bull fiddle."

"But there's one thing that I envy you for. You're so flat-chested. Clothes hand so much better on you than they do on me."

*Sigh* Women are NEVER satisfied with their bodies, are they? I mean, she had a set of hangers the WORLD admired.

"LOOK OUT, DAPHNE!" I looked up just in time to catch the beach ball Dolores threw rather than get smacked by it.

"Come on, Sugar, let's play."` We skipped off hand in hand to join the other girls. We slipped into the circle they'd formed, and soon were tossing the beachball about with wild abandon. It was a lot of fun. I hadn't done something this innocently childish for years. Guys just don't have the same leeway to be frivolous as girls do.

I noticed young Mr. Gotrocks was sitting on a low beach chair nearby, probably watching the show around the edge of his Journal. I noticed the little kid playing with the sandpail near him take off running, but didn't think much about it. Later I learned that Joe (rat extraordinair) had scared theh poor kid off to take possession of his pail of seashells. How the heck he had determined that they would be an effective seduction tool, I'll never know.

We were tossing the ball, chanting "I love coffee, I love tea. How many boys are stuck on me? One, two, three..." You know the game, you go till someone misses. Well, this time a throw went wild over Sugar's head. She turned and trotted after it. Right toward Gotrocks. *Oo.* I thought. *There's your chance, Sugar. Go for it.*

She didn't have to go for it. HE went for it. His foot stuck out just a few more inches as she went past, and BOOM! Down she went in the sand.

A voice with an upper-crusty sort of accent (but it couldn't QUITE decide if it was English Aristocrat, Boston Brahmin, or Back Bay) said, "Oh, I'm terribly sorry!"

There was something familiar about that voice. I thought I detectected just a hint of Chicago in the rest of the mish-mosh. As Gotrocks lowered his paper to look at the sprawled Sugar, I took a good, hard look.

My head jerked back in surprise. What the...? I looked at the fancy resort clothes, the financial paper, the glasses. Came the dawn.

I hissed to myself, "JOE--sephine!"

Part 11

That's right, Joe. White flannels, yachting cap, Wall Street Journal, GLASSES, and all. I saw his little scheme in an instant. He was as easy to read as the funny pages on Sunday. He planned to fool Sugar into thinking he was a millionaire. He KNEW she was planning on hooking up with one.

Sugar was sitting up, a little dazed. Sweet kid. The first words out of her mouth were, "It was my fault."

Joe helped her up. I was surprised that he restrained himself from brushing sand off her caboose. "You're not hurt, are you? I wish you'd make sure. Usually when people find out who I am they get themselves a wheelchair, a neck brace, a shyster lawyer, and sue me for a quarter of a million dollars."

Sugar said agreeably, "Well, don't worry, I won't sue you, no matter who you are." She paused, then said curiously, "Who are you?"

Joe looked affronted. "Well, really!"

It was time to put an end to this. I called, "Hey, Sugar! Come on." It didn't work. Joe gave her a little good-bye wave and sat, burying himself in the Journal again. Sugar hesitated, then threw the ball back to us. I caught it, but I quickly pitched it to Dolores and stepped out of the circle. THIS was one tete-a-tete I wanted to keep an eye, and an ear, on.

Sugar sat beside him and said, "Haven't I seen you somewhere before? Your face is familiar. Are you staying at the hotel?"

"Not at all. Possibly you saw me in a newspaper or magazine. Vanity Fair?"

"That must be it."

He waved at her to move. Oh, yeah, like he'd OBJECT to her taking up his field of vision! "Would you mind moving just a little? You're blocking my view. They run up a red-and-white flag on the yacht when it's time for cocktails."

If I'd known Joe was so good at bait, I'd have taken him fishing a long time ago. Sugar snapped. "You have a YACHT?" she squeaked. She looked out to sea. There were about a dozen yachts floating serenely a little way out. "Which one is yours, the big one?"

Joe huffed. "Certainly not! With all the unrest in the world I don't think anybody should have a yacht that sleeps more than twelve."

Looking very superior, Sugar said, "I quite agree." Then, bless her tryin'-to-be-devious-and-failing-miserably little heart, "Who runs up the flag--your wife?"

"No, my flag steward."

And who mixes the cocktails--your wife?"

"No, my cocktail steward. Look, if you're interested in whether or not I'm married..."

"I'm not interested at all!" And do you know? Her nose didn't grow at ALL!

"Well, I'm not."

"That's very interesting." Joe pretended to go back to his paper, and Sugar said conversationally, "How's the stock market?"

He said casually, "Oh, up, up,up."

Sugar had a dreamy look on her face. "I'll bet just while we're talking, you made a hundred thousand dollars."

"Could be. Do you play the market?"

"No, the ukelele. And I sing, too."

"For your own amusement?"

"A group of us is appearing at the hotel. Sweet Sue and Her Society Syncopaters."

"You're society girls?"

Sugar sensed that there might be a, say, class problem looming, and covered pretty neatly. "Oh, yes, quite. You know: Vassar, Bryn Mawr. We're only doing this for a lark."

"Syncopaters. Does that mean you play that fast music--jazz?"

Sugar beamed, a real jazz baby. "Yeah! Real hot."

"Oh. Well, I guess some like it hot, but personally I prefer classical music."

Backpedal. "So do I. As a matter of fact, I spent three years at the Sheboygan Conservatory of Music." Why the--she stole our fib!

"Good school. And your family doesn't object to your career?"

"They do indeed. Daddy threatened to cut me off without a cent, but I don't care. It was such a bore: coming-out parties, cotillions..."

"Inaguguration balls..."

"...opening of the opera..."

"...riding to the hounds...

*Snort. Tossing of the bullshit,* I thought.

"And always the same Four Hundred!" Sugar finished.

Joe let himself look interested now. "You know, it's amazing we never ran into each other before. I'm sure I would have remembered anybody as attractive as you."

Sugar sighed. "You're very kind. I'll bet you're also very gentle--and helpless." Joe looked puzzled. "I have this theory about men with glasses."

"Oh? What theory?"

Sugar smiled demurely. "Maybe I'll tell you when I know you a little better. What are you doing tonight? You could come to the hotel and hear us play."

"I'd like to, but it may be rather difficult. I only come ashore twice a day, when the tide goes out." He indicated the pail of sea shells the poor kid he'd scared off had left. "It's for the shells. It's my hobby."

Sugar blinked. Collecting cars, she could understand. Or houses. Even diamonds. But a millionaire collecting SEA SHELLS? "You collect..."

"Sea shells, yes. So did my father and my grandfather, we've all had this passion for shells. That's why we named the oil company after it."

"Shell Oil?" Her eyes got the size of saucers.

Joe shushed her. "Please! No names. Just call me Junior."

Well, I'd had enough of this nonsense. The ball game was breaking up, so I stalked over to them, saying, "Come on, Sugar. Time to change for dinner."

She waved me away. "Run along, Daphne. I'll catch up."

I stepped closer, glaring at Joe. "You--you--"

He looked at me blankly. "What is it, young lady? What are you staring at?"

"YOU!" Okay, so I'm not real articulate when I'm POed.

He gave Sugar a world-weary look. "This happens to me all the time in public."

Sugar burbled to me. "I recognized him, too--his picture was in Vanity Fair." To Joe she said, "This is my friend, Daphne. She's a Vassar girl."

That stumped me. "I'm a what?"

"Or was it Bryn Mawr?" Oh, great. First Joe reinvents my life to suit his purposes, now Sugar.

Joe was staring at me, hard. "I heard a very sad story about a girl who went to Bryn Mawr. She squealed on her roommate, and they found her strangled with her own brassiere."

I glared back. "Yes, you have to be very careful about picking roommates."

Sugar got up. "Well, I must dash. You will come see us tonight, won't you?"

"If it's at all possible."

I smiled sweetly. "Oh, please do come. Don't disappoint us. It'll be such fun. And bring your yacht. "

We walked off. I snorted as we walked toward the hotel. "Well, I'll be! How about that guy?"

"Now look, Daphne, hands off! I saw him first."

"Sugar, dear, let me give you some advice. If I were a girl..." I paused. "and I AM, I'd watch my step."

She shrugged. "If I'd been watching my step, I never would have met him. Wait till I tell Josephine!"

Inspiration was creeping up. "Yeah, Josephine."

"Will she be surprised! I can't wait to see her face."

Inspiration pounced. "Neither can I. Come on--let's go up to her room and tell her--right now!" I grabbed her hand and took off at a run. She protested that we didn't have to hurry so, but I didn't slacken my pace. I hauled her up to 413 at full speed. Hee-hee. *Let's see Joe get out of THIS one!*

The room was empty when I pulled a panting Sugar inside. She looked around and said, "I guess she's not here. I'll come back later."

"No, no, Sugar--wait. I have a feeling she's going to show up any minute."

Sugar sat, saying, "Believe it or not, Josephine predicted the whole thing."

"Ye-ah. This is one for Ripley."

"Do you suppose she went out shopping?"

"That's it. Something tells me she's going to walk through that door in a whole new outfit-a COMPLETE change of image!"

Right about then Joe/Josephine's voice drifted out of the bathroom, singing 'Running Wild'. Well, that dropped a brick wall on ME. I followed Sugar into the bathroom.

There was Joe, wig firmly in place, sitting in a tub of bubbles. He looked up blandly and cooed, "Oh. I didn't hear you come in." I spotted a window behind him. Well, that solved the mystery of how he got in, but how did he manage the quick change?

Sugar was bouncing, and when Sugar bounced--she BOUNCED. "The most wonderful thing happened!"

Joe looked interested. "They repealed prohibition?"

"I met one of them. Shell Oil, Junior. He's got millions--he's got glasses--and he's got a yacht!"

I chimed in. "He's not only got a yacht--he HAS to have a bicycle."

Joe gave me a warning look as Sugar continued. "He's young and handsome and a bachelor--and he's a real gentleman, not one of those grabbers."

"Mm. Better go after him, if you don't want him to get away."

*Joe, spelled D-O-G.*

"Oh, I'm not letting him get away. He collects shells," she continued.

"You know," I growled. "For the old shell game?"

"And you're going to meet him tonight, because he promised to come hear us play--maybe."

Time to turn up the gas. "What do you mean, MAYBE? I saw the way he looked at you. He'll be there for sure. What do you think, JOSEPHINE? What does it say in your crystal ball?" Oo, if looks could kill, Spats Colombo would have had nothing to worry about from me.

Dolores came by, wanting Sugar to let her into their room, so Sugar excused herself, leaving me alone with Joe. The tension was thicker than a flapper's rouge. Finally Joe said, "Wise guy, huh? Trying to louse me up."

I put my hands on my hips. "And what were you trying to do to poor Sugar with that phony millionaire act? I've seen you pull some low tricks on dames..." I paused. "And other people, but this is the trickiest and the lowest and the meanest..."

I trailed off as Joe stood up. Usually Joe standing up out of a tub is one of my favorite sights in the world. But this time the mystery of the quick change was solved: he hadn't. He was still in the flannels and blazer and scarf and two-tone shoes, clutching the yachting cap. Dripping wet, he looked positively demonic.

He advanced on me slowly, and I said bravely. "I'm not scared of you! I may be small, but I'm wiry." He kept stalking, I kept backing up. "When I'm aroused, I'm a tiger!" That got him to pause and smile nostalgically, but it didn't last. "Don't look at me like that, Joe. I didn't mean any harm. I'll press your suit myself." The phone rang, and I said brightly. "You better answer the phone."

Joe jammed the wet cap down on my head and went to answer the phone. He growled, "Hello?" then remembered himself and got the bass out of his voice. "Hello? Yes, this is 413. Ship-to-shore? All right, I'll take it."

Ship-to-shore? What the heck could that be about? We didn't know anyone offshore.

"Who? The naughty boy from the elevator?" Joe looked at me. I cringed. "Oh, Osgood. No, this is her roommate." I made frantic motions for him to tell Fielding I wasn't there. Preferably to tell him that I'd taken a vow of chastity and joined a convent.

"Daphne can't talk right now. Is it urgent? Oh, it is to YOU. Yes, I can take a message."

Seeing that Joe had it in hand, I went into the bathroom to wash my face. I was going to have to do a complete make-up job before dinner. I heard Joe murmuring in the other room. It sure did take him a long time to say good-bye. As I came back in, Joe was saying, "That's good thinking. She's a push-over for him."

"I'm a push-over for whom? What is it?"

He shushed me. "Yes, Mr. Fielding-you'll pick her up after the show in your motorboat..." Uh-oh. "What's that you said? Oh, zowie! I'll give her the message."

He hung up, and I said, "What message? What motorboat? What gives?"

Joe rubbed his hands together: never a good sign for yours truly. "You got it made, kid. Fielding wants you to have a little cold pheasant and champagne with him on his yacht."

I drew myself up with dignity. "Oh, he DOES!"

"Just the three of you--you, him, and Rudy Vallee. He's got records."

I hesitated. I LOVE Rudy Vallee. Then my good sense clobbered me. "Fat chance! You call him right back and tell him I'm not going."

"Of course you're not. I'm going."

This stumped me. "You're going to be on the boat with that dirty old man?"

"No. I'm going to be on the boat with Sugar."

My mouth dropped open. "And where's he going to be?"

"He's going to be ashore with you."

The plot was now clear. I shook my head. "Oh, no! Not tonight, Josephine!"

Part 12

Additional notes: The 'Rudoph Valentino in a bed sheet' remark refers to his role in The Shiek. He was one of the movie's first sex symbols. 'Herbie' is Herbert Hoover, president in 1929. 'The berries' means pretty much the same thing as 'the cat's pajamas' or 'the bee's knees': overwhelmingly excellent.

So there I was, on the bandstand, waiting out the last minutes to my date with Osgood Feilding the Third. Yeah, that's right. He talked me into it. Don't ask me HOW. It may have had something to do with that book on hypnotism he was reading earlier.

I might have enjoyed the gig if I didn't have that hanging over my head. Heaven knows it was a classier place than we were used to playing. It was good sized. There were at least two hundred ladies and gents in evening gowns and white dinner jackets (Yes, all the gents were in dinner jackets, Joe and I were the only ones in evening gowns. Unless someone was keeping some REAL interesting secrets) foxtrotting around the floor or sitting at the tables. A mirrored ball turned overhead, casting flickering lights charmingly on the throng below.

We were up on the band dias, playing out little hearts out. We were all wearing matching evening gowns and long earings. Personally I would have preferred bobs--those dangly ones made my neck look so long. Sugar was up in front beside Sweet Sue, plucking her ukelele and and singing "I Wanna Be Loved by You" in the most approved jazz baby style, complete with boop-boop-a-doops.

She was doing a fine job, but her mind wasn't completely on her work. She was busily scanning the crowd, looking for her bespectacled Prince Charming. There was no sign of him, naturally, because he was sitting right in front of me, blowing sax and wearing a knock-off of a Paris original.

I scanned the room with Sugar, but with more dread than anticipation. And there he was, not too far off, at a table by himself. Osgood Fielding the Third, complete with white mess jacket, cap, and amorous gleam in his eye. He waved, and I lifted my nose, turning my head away.

Joe said, "Your boyfriend is wavig at you."

"You can both go take a flying jump!"

Joe's voice was warning. "Remember, he's your date for tonight. So smile." I managed a feeble smile. "Come on, you can do better than that," he urged. "Give him teeth, the whole personality."

I fixed a smile on my face that would not have been out of place on one of Spats Colombo's former enemies after the stiff handlers got through with him. Through gritted teeth I said, "Why do I let you talk me into these things? Why?"

We both knew the answer to that, but Joe said, "Because we're palls--buddies--the two musketeers."

"Don't give me the musketeers! You know damn good and well it's your musket that got me into this. How'm I going to keep the guy ashore?"

"Tell 'im you get seasick on a yacht. Play miniature golf with him."

"Oh no. I'm not getting caught in a miniature sandtrap with that guy. And I shudder to think what
would happen if I had to go into the rough to retrieve a ball."

The cheeky young bellhop that had been flirting with Joe earlier came up to the bandstand, carrying a huge wicker basket of flowers. He grinned at Joe. "Which of you dolls is Daphne?"

Joe jerked his head toward me. "Bull fiddle."

He handed the basket to me and nodded toward Osgood. "It's from Satchell Mouth at table Seven." He broke off one of the flowers and handed it to Joe. "This is from me to you, doll."

Joe sniffed. "Beat it, Buster."

The kid had more self-confidence than Rudolph Valention when he's wearing a bedsheet. "Never mind leaving your door open--I got a passkey."

He winked and moved off. Jerry scowled. "That's it. We're sleeping with a chair under the door knob from now on."

He picked up the basket, and I said, "Hey. What are you doing with my flowers?" I mean, I didn't
particularly WANT them, mind you. It wasn't like I wanted to give Fielding any encouragement, but they WERE mine.

"I'm just borrowing them. You'll get them back tomorrow." He handed me the single flower. I watched as he fished a small envelope out of his cleavage and slipped it into the basket.

Sugar finished her number and came back to sit next to Joe. As Sue led the orchestra into her closing, signature number, Sugar sighed, "I guess he's not going to show up. It's almost one. You suppose he forgot?"

Joe shrugged. "Well, you know how those millionaires are." He pointed at the flowers. "These came for you."

"For me?" She picked up the envelope and removed the card, reading it. Her face lit up like a Christmas tree. "It's Shell Oil!"

I gave a mock gasp. "No!"

"Yes! He wants me to have supper with him on his yacht. He's going to pick me up at the pier."

"No!"

"Yes!"

Joe glared at me. "You heard her--yes."

Sugar almost squealed. "Oh, Josephine! Just imagine, me, Sugar Kowalcsyk, from Sandusky, Ohio, on a millionaire's yacht. If my mother could only see me now!"

I straightened my neckline and looked at a beaming Osgood. "I'm glad my mother will never find out." He caught my look and, so help me, blew kisses.

Sue gave her closing spiel to the audience. "That's it for tonight, folks. This is Sweet Sue, saying good night, and rminding all you daddies out there--every one of my girls is a virtuoso--and I intend to keep it that way!"

As she finished speaking, Sugar picked up her ukelel and MY flowers, and tiptoed out. Joe, the rat, waved after her, wishing her good luck.

As soon as Sue cut the music Joe frantically began packing up his sax. Then he leaped off the bandstand and sprinted to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Quite an accomplishment for someone in a formal.

I spared a moment to wonder how he planned to get changed and get down to the pier before Sugar, but then I was distracted. Osgood was coming up to the bandstand to 'claim' me. His approach was watched with a great deal of interest by the other girls.

"Daphne," Dolores whispered. "Damn, girl! Maybe yours isn't as young as Sugar's but he looks like a real sugardaddy. You go, girl."

Osgood swept a bow to me and offered his arm. "Shall we?"

"I... uh... I need to take my fiddle to my room."

Oh that gleam in his eye became a beacon. "I'll be happy to help you."

WHAT?! Osgood--and me--in a hotel room? I turned to Dolores. "Dolores, sweety, be a dear and take my bass up for me?"

She frowned. "Hey, I'm all for helping out true love, but that thing is heavy."

I shoved it at her. "Then get Bienstock to do it." I stepped down off the bandstand. "Ready to go."

"Excellent!" He offered his arm again. I sighed. Well, there wasn't any way around it. I put my hand on his arm. He took it and tucked it securely in the crook of his elbow, then started to lead me out of the club. I'd never been escorted like this before. He was behaving himself so far, being a perfect gentleman. But still there was something... intimate in that gesture. I was surprised to find myself relaxing a little.

As we exited the hotel I said, "Mr. Fielding..."

"Please, call me Osgood."

"Perhaps later. Mr. Fielding..."

"May I call you Daphne?"

The way he said the name made it sound like 'Helen of Troy'. "Um... I suppose so." He beamed. We walked a few steps farther. "Osgood..."

"Yes, Daphne?"

"Osgood, I can't go out on your yacht with you?"

He didn't stop walking, but his face fell. "But you promised. I've been so looking forward to our date."

"I'm not calling off the date, I'm just calling off the cruise. We have to stay landlocked."

"But it's such a waste--a full moon," He wiggled his eyebrows. "An empty yacht."

"I'll throw up," I said shortly.

He sighed, then perked up. "Well, why don't we go dancing, then? I know a little roadhouse down the coast..."

At that moment something whizzed past us so fast that my skirt ruffled. I caught a glimpse of a blazer, a cap, and spectacles. My mouth dropped open. "Well, I'll be--!"

"What is it, my sweet?" Osgood asked.

"He really DOES have a bicycle!"

"Who?"

"Uhh... the president. I hear that Herbie just WHIZZES all over Washington."

"Oh." He seemed puzzled, but perfectly willing to be charmed by my knowledge of political/athletic trivia. "About that roadhous..."

"Tell you what, let's walk out the that pier and back, then we'll go." He hesitated. I batted my eyelashes at him and smiled. "Like you said, it would be awful to waste this moon." Osgood positively GLOWED. I felt a little rotten about myself. He was turning out to be a good egg, and I was flim-flamming him almost as badly as Joe was Sugar.

Osgood was still talking as we strolled. "You'll like the roadhouse. They have a Cuban band that's the berries. We can blindfold the orchestra and tango till dawn."

And he was a romantic little devil, too. "You know what, Osgood? You're dynamite."

He winked. "You're a pretty hot little number yourself."

We came close to the pier just in time to see Joe, on his bicycle, swoop under it while Sugar ran up on top and started looking around for her date. Osgood was busy looking at my face in the moonlight, which was why he didn't see Joe jump into the motorboat marked CALDONIA, jerk off the dangling earings he'd almost forgotten, and stand up to wave to Sugar, calling "Ahoy, there!"

She hurried down to him. "Been waiting long?"

"It's not how long you wait, it's who you're waiting for." Oo, I wanted to SMACK him, spouting off that gallant gibberish while he was busy being such a rat. When Sugar thanked him for the flowers, the SOB tutted and said he had intended to fly down orchids from his greenhouse, but Long Island was fogged in! As if my Osgood's... I mean Fielding's flowers weren't GOOD enough.

We were almost to the pier, and it was time to turn around before Osgood could notice what was going on aboard his motorboat, though I was tempted to just let him find out. But, to tell you the truth, I was beginning to look forward to that roadhouse and Cuban band. It had been a long time since I'd gone dancing.

I waited just long enough to see Joe make an absolute fool out of himself trying to run the motor boat. The most nauticle experience he had was a couple of trips out to boats docked in the Great Lakes for secret poker parties. First he claimed it was out of gas, and Sugar found that ironic, what with him being Shell Oil, Junior.

Then he DID get it started, and couldn't get it in drive. If he was going anywhere, it was going to be in reverse. But even that didn't stop him. Talk about surmounting obstacles, Joe could talk his way over Mount Everest, given half a chance. He claimed the motorboat was an experimental model, and would she mind going backwards, though it might take a little time? Sugar replied grandly, "It's not how long it takes, it's who's taking you."

I just shook my head as they backed off into the night, headed for the New Caldonia. "Okay, Osgood, I've had enough fresh air. Let's go get decadent."

He had been keeping my left hand tucked in his right elbow as I walked beside him. Now he took it in his left hand and slid his right arm around my waist, pulling me close against his side. Surprised, I looked up at him.

Did I say he looked like a basset hound? I meant a grand-champion, blue ribbon winning basset hound. He smiled down at me and purred, "My dear, I thought you'd never ask."

Part 13

He had a convertible, wouldn't you know it? A sporty little job with barely enough room to fit both of us, dashingly yellow. We sat so close that our shoulders kept rubbing all the way out to that roadhouse he'd mentioned. We'd have been even closer, but when he tried to put an arm around my shoulders I'd slapped it down and told him to keep both hands on the wheel. He'd chuckled, like I'd just said the CUTEST thing. I was beginning to think that if I kneed him in the crotch he'd just gasp and tell me I was beautiful when I was angry.

The road house was sporty, too. Not as classy as the hotel had been, but this was the type of place that the upper crust came when they wanted to feel dangerous and daring. It was heaven and earth above some of the dives I'd worked. They really DID have a Cuban band, and it was all right.

The maitre de greeted Osgood effusively. "Mr. Fielding! So good to see you again! And as always, such a charming companion."

We were seated at a good table, and I arched one penciled eyebrow at Osgood. "They seem to know you quite well here, Osgood. You and your 'charming companions'."

He took my hand, patting it. "I'll admit that I've been a bit of a dog, but those other girls didn't mean anything to me, really they didn't. They were just passing amusements."

I pulled my hand away. "And I suppose you met me and figured the circus had come to town yet again."

"Aw, Daphne, don't be like that! You're different from all the other girls."

"You have no idea how right you are."

The waiter brought over the menus, and I took mine eagerly. As you may recall, I'm a bit of a sucker for food. I'd been so nervous about this rendevous that I hadn't eaten dinner, and I was starving. Instead of stained cardboard, like most places I frequented, these menus were in fancy leather folders, and there certainly wasn't a blue plate special of meatloaf and cabbage listed. It started out with Oysters Rockefeller and moved through pate and Chateau Briand to Crepe Suzettes.

"Osgood? My menu doesn't have any prices on it."

He looked indignant. "I should hope not! You're not to worry about the price, Daphne. Just order anything your little heart desires."

Really? Joe pitched a fit if I wanted extra crackers with my soup, which was a little hard to understand, since I was usually the one footing the bill. I sighed. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe I should just have a salad."

"What? You may certainly have a salad... also. But you have to EAT, Daphne. If you don't eat properly, you'll fall away and lose those lovely curves."

I looked down at myself in surprise. Wouldn't he be shocked if he knew I could lose those curves by untying a few laces? "Really, Osgood, I should watch my diet. I'll blow up like a hippopotamus." I put a hand on my side. "It all goes to my hips and behind, you know."

His eyes sparkled. "It would only mean more of a good thing."

I was blushing, and I hid my face behind the menu. What a flatterer! Why, he could almost outdo Joe in sweet talk, and I had a feeling that HIS was a darn sight more sincere. I indicated what I thought looked tempting, and he ordered for both of us, At the waiter went toward the kitchen, another approached with a silver ice bucket. He presented it with a flourish. "The nought seven, sir, as you requested. Shall I open it?"

"No need. But put another one of those on ice, just in case." He took the bottle and screwed the corkscrew into the top, then pulled it free with a muted pop. Pouring some into two glasses, he offered one to me.

I hesitated, spreading my fingers over my bosom. "Do you promise not to get me tipsy and take advantage of me?" *Holy Moley, I'm flirting with the old guy!*

"I'd love to see you tipsy. I bet you get all giggly. But," his voice became more serious, "You're quite safe with me, Daphne. I respect you."

I accepted the champagne, and raised the glass. "What shall we toast?"

He lifted his own glass. "To us."

"Now, Osgood..."

"I said I respected you, and you were safe. I didn't say I wasn't going to try to woo you."

I bit my lip, touching my glass to his. "That's very sweet of you, Osgood. But really, it wouldn't work."

He smiled. "You just have to give me a chance. I'm very persistent."

Dinner was marvelous. I stuffed myself silly. I stopped in the middle of my second crepe, realizing that Osgood was just sitting there with his chin in his hand, watching me. "I warned you, didn't I?"

"I love a girl with healthy appetites."

"Yes, well, the food here is quite good."

His eyebrows wiggled. "I wasn't talking about food."

I found myself giggling. It had to be the champagne. We were on the second bottle. "Osgood, you ARE wicked."

Again the eyebrows. That was a cute trick. The band was playing a tango. "Let's dance."

*What?* "Oh, no, no. I couldn't, really. Besides, that's a tango. You might try to dip."

"All right, then," he said agreeably. He pulled his chair next to mine. "I'm perfectly content to just sit here," I felt his hand on my knee under the table. "with you."

I almost dropped my fork. When was the last time a hand on my knee had affected me like that? His hand moved farther up, and he started drawing circles on my thigh. My eyes half closed.

"My, Daphne, such muscular legs!" He gave a little squeeze.

Boy, that felt good. But if he reached much farther he was liable to run into evidence that all was not as he assumed. I grabbed his hand. "I changed my mind. Let's tango!" I tucked the single flower from Osgood's gift basket that I'd been left by Joe into my cleavage, and... Stop laughing, I did SO have cleavage. Shallow, granted, but it was there, and I was proud of it! Shaving my chest was a sacrifice I willingly made to be able to wear low necklines.

There weren't many couples on the floor, but they were all the tuxedo-and-gown crowd. We started to dance. I have to tell ya, that Osgood was quite a mover for an old guy. In fact, when he pulled me into his arms and I got a full length feel of his body, the adjective old began to seem less and less appropriate. He was shorter than me, but he was a wiry devil. And strong? My. Just swept me RIGHT around that dance floor.

The only awkward moment was that I DID tend to try to lead at first. Well, old habits are hard to break. He found it amusing, though, and told me it was too soon in the relationship for me to start leading him around. Then he flirted at me (he had the LONGEST eyelashes) and said who was he kidding? I was leading him around by the nose from the moment we met.

One number ended, and another began, and we stayed on the dance floor. I tell you, I was starting to feel like Irene Castle. I've always been a little gawky, but Osgood made me feel graceful.

Somehow or other the flower ended up between my teeth. Don't ask me how, the champagne and the sheer giddiness of the evening was getting to me by then. But I had the stem clamped between incisors in the most approved Spanish manner. And he dipped me.

Who-o-o-a, brother! The man could DIP! My spine arched like I was trying to do a back-bend, and I clutched onto him to keep from falling. I think he liked that. Anyway, he had one leg forward to brace for balance, and that leg had somehow slipped between my thighs, and it, er, made contact.

ZING!

I straightened up quickly before he could realize what he had landed against. When a man does that while he's dancing with a girl he's expecting cozy softness, NOT hot hardness, which was exactly what he was about to find.

I couldn't believe this! I was getting aroused, dancing with Osgood! I danced even more vigorously, determined to work off the excess energy. He was enthralled by what I think he saw as my fiery nature, because he danced just as energetically. The crowd had thinned, and what few were left stopped dancing to watch us.

But my plan wasn't working. The excitement wasn't draining away, it was increasing. I couldn't help it. I... I... I dipped Osgood. Don't ask me what happened at the bottom of that dip, but when we came up, HE had my flower clenched in his teeth.

The evening became a whirl. The crowd gradually melted away till there were only one or two at tables where the staff hadn't yet put up the chairs, and we were the only ones dancing. I looked up to find that Osgood had made good on his promise. The Cuban dance band was blindfolded.

I was flushed, I was giddy, I felt nervous and excited, and only part of that was because I desperately needed to visit the toilet. All that champagne. Finally I said, "Osgood, we have to take a breather. I need to go to the powder room and, er, make myself beautiful."

He kissed my hand. "I believe it is impossible for you to be any more beautiful, my dear, but you may try." He went back to the table, and I giggled as I tripped toward the facilities. They were discreetly located around a screen from the main room. Behind that screen, I hesitated. It was so deserted, and I'd seen the men's room attendant leave his post a few minutes before. I still wasn't comfortable with using a women's room. I decided to risk it. I went into the men's side.

I was prepared to act a little drunk and do the 'Oh, my! Wrong room!' bit if there was anyone there, but it was deserted. Now, in all the movies you've seen of a nightclub powder room or men's room, they'd have you think that they were nothing but glorified lounges, with mirrors and sinks. Well, in real life they have toilets, and I intended to use this place for the reason the architect put it there.

I went over to the urinals, hoisted my skirt, dropped the panties (things just seem more complicated for women. Thank heavens I didn't wear a girdle.) and let fly. Blessed, blessed relief. The sound effects were a bit like Niagra Falls.

And I still say that man must have been wearing rubber soled sneakers instead of dress shoes, or I would have heard him come in. I didn't. I'd closed my eyes in bliss, and the first thing I heard was, "Son of a bitch!"

My eyes snapped open so quick you could almost hear the click. There was a very large, very drunk man in evening dress standing beside me, staring at my most visible evidence that I should not be wearing high heels.

What does one say in a situation like that? Being a smart ass, and startled, I snapped, "You act like you've never seen one before."

He scratched his head. "The equipment is familiar enough, but the setting is startling. It's kinda like
seeing a pickle on top of a wedding cake."

I finished, pulled up and lowered everything I had to, and said, "Just consider me as a price saver. They got the bride and the groom in one ornament." Then I hurried out, grateful that he hadn't yelled, or fainted.

I was relieved too soon. He followed me back to the table. I saw him approaching. Osgood had pulled out my chair for me, and I said, "Osgood, I want to go. Now."

"But Daphne..."

"NOW, Osgood."

Damn, it was too late! He was right beside me. Osgood regarded him with a frown, and I shrank back a little. He was drunker than I'd thought, to the point of weaving. He poked a finger at me. "What are you?

Osgood drew himself up (and would have had to draw for another few minutes before his head came up past the guy's shoulder), put a crick in his neck staring the guy in the face, and said hotly, "She's a lady!"

The guy laughed. Oh, that wasn't a good idea. I could see steam starting to come out of Osgood's ears. "Now Osgood, he's just drunk. Ignore him. Let's go."

"That ain't no lady!" the guy chuckled. "Here, I'll show ya." He grabbed for where my bosoms were supposed to be. I screamed and fell back, crossing my arms protectively. The last thing I needed was for this yahoo to tear one of my chests loose.

I believe I've likened Osgood to a basset hound a couple of times? I was mistaken. Try pit bull.

He FLEW at that man! Of course it was along the lines of a pit bull attacking a bull elephant, what with the size difference, but the SPIRIT was there. Osgood punched him, right in the kisser. A few years later there would be a movie out called King Kong. Remember the fighter planes attacking Kong on the top of the Empire State building? It was something like that. But since Osgood didn't have a machine gun, the guy just sort of swatted him down.

Osgood hit the floor, and I saw red. How dare that big galoot hit my escort! And he was moving toward Osgood with a nasty smile on his face that said he intended to do more. Well, he didn't get the chance. That last empty champagne bottle was still sitting in the ice bucket, and I christened him like a Navy destroyer. He sank.

I shoved the bottle back into the bucket just as Osgood sat up, rubbing his jaw. I hurried over to him. "Osgood! My hero!" If he hadn't still been a little loopy he might have wondered how a dainty little thing like me managed to haul him to his feet, but he was still a little dazed.

He looked around. "Where is he? I'll thrash him."

"You already did." I pointed to where he was laid out, colder than a pickled herring. "You were
magnificent!"

He glowed. "I was?"

"You were." And, dammit, he HAD been. I've never had anyone defend my honor before, and he was ready to take on Goliath. "But Osgood, I just saw the management heading for the phone, so we'd better scram out of here."

"Yes. Come, Daphne. I would never have brought you here if I'd known what sort of mashers they allowed in."

We hurried out to his car (he opened the door for me), and sped off into the night, listening as we went for sirens. I had been exaggerating a little. I'm sure that a road house saw more violence than that on a regular basis, but I wasn't hanging around for that goon to explain to Osgood just what he'd meant. I'd come to really like the little fella, and I didn't want him disappointed.

"Osgood, where are you going? This isn't the way back to the resort, is it?" We were flying down a narrow road, heading farther out into the country.

"Mm? I think it turns back somewhere farther along. Isn't it a lovely night, Daphne?"

"Yes." It was. Osgood had the top down, and the breeze that whipped the curls on my wig was cool and fresh. "But we ought to get back to the hotel."

"Soon. There's a very pretty place just up here I want to show you." He'd turned down another, even narrower lane.

I was getting suspicious. "Osgood..."

We came out of the trees, and he pulled onto the grass, parking on a small rise. "Here we are." A pretty little lake, surrounded by trees, stretched out before up. The sky opened up over it, full of stars, with a big, fat, golden moon right in the middle of it. It looked like a postcard. Except on postcards they don't have different cars parked around, with steamed up windows.

I looked at him sternly. "Osgood. You brought me to a lovers' lane, didn't you?"

"No, Daphne. This is a lookout point." He cut the engine, then turned toward me with that gleam in his eyes again. "Look out."

"Why, you..." I couldn't really say anything else because his tongue was in my mouth.

After a minute I really couldn't think of anything to say. That little devil could KISS! My toes were curling in my high heels. He pulled back and smiled at me. "I'm not trying to take advantage of you, Daphne. If you want to stop, you just tell me and..."

"Shut up, Osgood." I grabbed his bow tie and jerked him back, and showed him that I knew how to kiss, too. Pretty soon we would have steamed up our windows, if we had any windows to steam up.

Osgood was kissing my neck, down to where my shallow (but it was THERE, damn it!) started. He panted, "Daphne, I want to make love to you."

"Oh, Osgood, I CAN'T!"

He sat up, giving me a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, dear. Is it... that time?" I looked at my watch. "It's about..." The light dawned. "Oh. No, Osgood. My moon is still in it's new phase."

He sighed sadly. "It's just as well. I didn't bring any... you know." His eyes were big and brown.

"That's the story of my life. I finally meet a wonderful, beautiful, understanding girl, and I miss my chance."

I tapped my chin. "Not necessarily, Osgood." I cleared my throat. "That man back there said I wasn't a lady..."

Osgood scowled. "The fool!"

"Osgood, I'm about to do something that may make you agree with him. I hope not." I scooted close to him and reached into his lap.

"Daphne!"

"Please don't say anything, Osgood. I need all my nerve to do this." It was true. I'd never done it in an open car, with a millionaire before. But he had just been so sweet and considerate, I HAD to do something for him. Besides, those dips had gotten me kind of hot.

Millionaires' flies unbutton just like anyone else's. And when I reached inside it was kind of like a treasure hunt. Only I didn't have to look very far, but what I found was a surprisingly big treasure. Osgood might not be the biggest apple on the tree, but he damn sure didn't have to be ashamed of his stem. And he was happy to see me, too.

When I touched him he gasped, "Daphne, darling! I... I can hardly believe this is happening. It's like a dream come true."

"Then close your eyes, Osgood, and make a wish."

He closed his eyes. "Star light, star bright. First star I see tonight. Wish I may, wish I might..."

I leaned down and licked him. He sighed deeply. "Never mind, star."

You know, he even tasted good. I wonder if it was all that pheasant and caviar? Anyway, I was never too full for this sort of midnight snack. I never did less than my best for any lover I was with, but... Well, I wanted it to be SPECIAL for Osgood. The only other person in my life who ever wanted to take care of me and believed in me like this was my mother, and I wasn't sexually attracted to her (no matter WHAT those goofy head doctors might think). I was determined to give Osgood a good time.

I used every trick I knew, and I know more tricks than Harry Houdini. I stroked and tickled and squeezed. I licked and nibbled, grazed with my teeth, and finally took his entire length down my throat. He was whimpering by the time I did that. The whimpers grew into appreciative whines as I bobbed up and down on his cock, sucking first gently, then hard. I reached into his pants and caressed his balls as I worked, rolling them carefully. I felt them drawing up tight, and he panted, "Daphne, you'd better stop. I'm going to... oh, dear."

Well, he was going to think I was a slut by the time this was over, so I might as well go all the way. Instead of pulling off I took all of him again, and swallowed. Osgood yelped. His hips bucked strongly, strongly enough to make me wonder what it would be like to have him pushing that big staff into another part of me. Then I felt the hot burst of liquid, and I gulped, wringing even more interesting noises out of him.

When the pulsing had stopped, and he was beginning to soften, I finally pulled off and sat back up. Not looking at him, I held out my hand. "Can I have your handkerchief, Osgood? I messed up my lipstick, and I want to repair..."

He pulled me into his arms again and kissed me, pushing his tongue into my mouth again. Well, that surprised me. Most men would hesitate at tasting sperm, even their own, but Osgood wasn't shy about it at all. I pulled back after a minute, murmuring. "I mean it, Osgood. I'm a mess."

He handed me his handkerchief, saying, "You could never be less than beautiful, Daphne."

"That's the afterglow talking, big fella." I said, wiping my mouth. I took out my compact and a lipstick and began to apply a fresh coat. "You wouldn't say that if you ever saw me in the morning, without my make-up."

"I'd love to see you like that."

"Hmph." I blotted my lipstick with his handkerchief. Well, he hadn't expected to get it back clean. "Silver tongued devil."

While I'd been doing that, he had put himself away. Now he said, "I have something for you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long, flat box, handing it to me.

"Oh, a present?" I opened it up. The strand glittered in the moonlight like ice. Well, it WAS ice. Diamonds. It was a diamond tennis bracelet. I stared at it, then snapped the box shut and pushed it back at him, saying stiffly, "You don't have to give me that, Osgood. I don't sell my favors."

He looked horrified. "Daphne! That's not what I meant at all."

I turned away. "I know I've been... impetuous. But there's no reason to insult me."

Daphne, no! It isn't like that. Sweetheart,"

He tried to put his arms around me, but I pushed him away. "I should have known better. Mother told me, 'Once you give in, that's it. They'll think you're a tramp. You'll have no respect.'"

"Oh, dear! I've made a mess of things. I should have given that to you back at the club, but things got so mixed up. Daphne, that isn't a payment, or a bribe. I... I was hoping it could be an engagement present."

I froze. I turned back to Osgood, and I knew my mouth was hanging open. "Osgood," I whispered. "What are you saying?"

"I know this is sudden, but if it's right, it doesn't take long. I love you, Daphne. I want to marry you."

He looked down at his hands a little sadly. "I know I haven't got much to offer you, aside from money. And I know that doesn't mean as much to you as it does to some girls. I know I'm a lot older than you, Daphne, but you make me feel young. I was hoping that you could maybe find it in your heart to love me, just a little..."

"You know, Osgood. There's really only one thing wrong with you."

"What's that?"

"Sometimes you talk too much." I slipped the bracelet on my wrist. "Yes, I'll marry you."

His grin shone brighter than the moon as he leaned in to kiss me again, breathing, "Zowie!"

Part 14

Author's Notes: I've heard the Milk Fund mentioned in several old movies. To the best of my knowledge most large cities had a large, prestigeous charity dedicated to getting milk to underpriviledged kids.

Warning: Okay, there's a bit of het kissing here, but nothing goopy, and it IS part of the plot.

I'm not sure how we got back to the hotel. I think maybe we floated. That's what it felt like, anyway. He couldn't come up to my floor, of course. Propriety, don't you know. Sweet Sue and Bienstock would have yelled the walls down, so we said goodnight in the lobby. For several minutes, With a lot of wet kissing and a little groping. We should have charged the night clerk admission.

"Oh, I have one more present for you," Osgood said as I prepared to leave.

"Really, Osgood, it's too much! You've already given me so much."

"Oh, these are nothing, really. Just for sentimental reasons." He pulled a couple of maracas out of his jacket pocket and handed them to me.

"Osgood, you doll! I LOVE them!" I kissed him on the cheek, then gave the maracas and experimental rattle. "Now everytime I shake these, I'll remember tonight."

His hand gripped my bottom. "Everytime you shake THIS, I'll remember."

"You devil!" I slapped him playefully on the shoulder, and found myself on the receiving end of another few minutes of oral exploration.

I finally broke it up and wandered upstairs alone, going to my room. Joe wasn't back yet, but I was too euphoric to worry about that. I flopped back on my bed, fully dressed, and lay there, shaking my maracas and singing Cuban songs. I knew that I was blissed to the point of stupidity, but I really didn't care. Someone found me attractive enough and charming enough and WONDERFUL enough to want to marry me!

Sometime about dawn Joe climbed up onto the balcony and let himself in. He said exhuberantly, "Hi, Jerry! Everything under control?"

I kept shaking the maracas, and smiled at him smugly. "Have I got things to tell you! I'm engaged."

Joe blinked. I don't think it ever occurred to him that I'd find anyone, much less get married, particularly since I'd never shown any interest in girls since he'd known me. It was all I could do to keep from giggling. "Uh... congratulations. Who's the lucky girl?"

I grinned at him. "I am."

Now his jaw dropped. "What?"

I was bubbling over, just like Sugar had been, telling us about her millionaire date. "Osgood proposed to me. We're planning a June wedding. He wanted to elope, but I'm holding out for a big church wedding. I know his mother would prefer that. AND I'm going to wear white. I don't care WHAT the manners books say. I may not be technically a virgin..." My voice was pious, "but my heart is pure."

Joe did a fair imitiation of a guppy, mouth flapping. "What are you talking about? You can't marry Osgood."

"Oh, now. look, I know you think he's too old for me, but that isn't an issue, really." My smile became nostalgic and a little lascivious. "Believe me."

"Jer, you can't be serious."

"I don't see why not. He marry's girls all the time. Why not me? I could make him happy."

"But you're NOT a girl."

I sat up, tossing down my maracas and crossing my arms huffily. "Details!"

"You're a guy. Why would a guy want to marry a guy?"

"Oh, I don't know," I said snidely. "Security? In case you haven't noticed in the last three years, Joe, I'M not interested in girls."

Joe pushed me back down. "Jerry, you'd better lie down, you're not doing well. You gotta know this is IMPOSSIBLE. Insane."

I popped back up, angry now. "Look, stop treating me like a child. I'm not stupid. I know there's a... a problem."

"I'll say."

"His mother--we need her approval. But I'm not worried, because I don't smoke."

"Jerry, what about the OTHER problem?"

"What other problem?"

"Like what you do on your honeymoon?"

"We've talked about that. He wants to go to the Riviera, but I'm more traditional, and I lean toward Niagra Falls..."

"JERRY! You know what I mean."

I deflated. I hadn't been wanting to think about that, I was so happy. "Yeah, Joe. I know."

"How can you expect to get away with this? He'll have to find out eventually."

I finally had to admit this to myself. I sighed heavily. "Oh, I guess I don't expect it to last." Damn, and I'd been so happy. Why couldn't Joe have let me hang onto the dream a little longer? "I'll tell him the truth when the time comes."

"When?"

It would have to be soon, but I was so irritated with Joe for bursting my bubble that I felt nasty enough to tease him some more. "Right after the ceremony." The jaw dropped some more. "Then we can get a quick annulment. He'll make a nice settlement on me." I gave him a wolfish smile and rubbed it in. "I'll have those alimony checks coming in every month."

It's a measure of Joe that he actually gave that some thought before he shook his head. "Listen to me--there are laws, conventions. It's just not being done."

"And I suppose pretending to be a millionaire to sucker a naive girl is?" He had the guff to look indignant. "This may be my only chance to marry a millionaire."

"Look, take my advice--forget the whole thing. Just keep telling yourself you're a boy!"

"Oh, fine! You encourage me to act like a flirt and keep Osgood interested, and now..."

"Jerry!"

I scowled. "I'm a boy. I'm a boy. I wish I was dead. I'm a boy."

He sat next to me. "Don't you want to hear how it went with me and Sugar?"

"Oh, certainly! I just love tales of intrigue and betrayal."

The sarcasm went over his head like a pop fly, and he started to tell me what had happened last night.

~~~~

Joe managed to BACK all the way to the New Cladonia. On the bridge Sugar looked around, impressed, and said, "From the beach it looks small, but once you're on it it's more like a cruiser. Or a destroyer."

Joe was casual. "Oh, it's just regulation size. Mother keeps hers in Southampton, and father took his to Venezuala. He's laying a pipeline there."

Sugar tried to look wise. "My dad is more interested in railroads. Baltimore and Ohio." She peered around. "Which is the port and which is the starboard?"

As if. Jow wouldn't know port and starboard from left and right. But he's good at putting up a front. He said, "Well, that depends on whether you're going or coming. Normall the aft is on the other side of the stern." He pointed. "That's the bridge, so we can get from one side of the boat to the other..." He faltered, coming to the end of his nautical terminology, then said brightly. "How about a glass of champagne?"

Wise man. Offer Sugar booze and she was automatically distracted. "Love it! Which way?"

Uh-oh, Joe. He had no idea, of course, and you'd be surprised how easy it is to get lost on a yacht. "Let's see..." He looked around. "Where do you suppose the steward set it up?" Ah, yes. Patent Joe--blame someone else. The first door he opened led to some stairs going down. "Our hurricane cellar," he explained, closing it. The second door revealed a storage closet filled with mops and buckets. "Another nice thing about a yacht--lots of closet space."

It was Sugar who found the place, peeking through a porthole. "Look, in here."

And of course Joe knew it all along. "Of course! On Thursdays they always serve me in the small salon."

Listening to him describe it made me wish I had gone. Mahogany paneling, trophy case, a stuffed marlin on the wall, a sinfully luxurious couch, and an elegantly set dinner table for two. I have to admit, though, that his description didn't do it justice. When I saw it, I...

Never mind that right now. We're talking about Sugar and Joe--the rat.

Sugar was impressed. "It's exquisite, like a floating mansion."

Joe sounded bored. "Yes, it's all right for a bachelor."

Sugar admired the fish. "What a beautiful fish."

"Caught him off Cape Haterass. He's a member of the herring family."

"A herring?" Sugar blinked. "Isn't it amazing how they get those huge things into those little glass jars."

Joe blinked back at her, then said slowly. "They shrink when they're marinated." Joe poured champagne, gave Sugar a glass, and lifted his own in a toast. "Down the hatch, as we say at sea."

"Bon voyage!"

Joe noticed Sugar looking at the trophies and HAD to show off. "Those are for skeet shooting, dog breeding, water polo. Terribly dangerous sport, water polo. I had two ponies drown under me."

Sugar peered around. "Where's your shell collection?"

He hadn't anticipated that. "Uh... yes. Well, where could they have put it?" He looked under the couch. "I'm just so lost on Thursdays. It's the crew's day off, you know."

Sugar gasped. "You mean we're alone on the boat?" He nodded. She gave him a coy look. "You know, I've never been completely alone with a man before--in the middle of the night--in the middle of the ocean."

"Oh, it's perfectly safe. We're well anchored, the ship is ship shape, and the Coast Guard promised to call if there were any ice bergs around."

"It's not that. Certain men would try to take advantage of the situation." She looked at him hopefully.

So, what does he do? What's his big plan? He plays hard to get. "You're flattering me. My dear, I'm harmless. I have this--thing--about girls. The sort of leave me cold."

She was trying to understand. "You mean like frigid?" I had no idea the girl was so Freudean.

"It's more like a mental block. They do nothing for me."

"Have you tried?"

"I'm trying all the time." He put his arms around her and gave her a kiss that would not have been out of place between me and my mother. "See? Nothing."

"Nothing at all? That makes me feel awful."

"Oh, it's not your fault. Sometimes things just go wrong."

"You can't fall in love?"

"Not anymore." He put a sad, faraway look in his eyes. "But I'd rather not talk about it." He lifted the glass dome off the food. "Cold pheasant?"

"What happened?"

"Oh, I don't want to bore you..." She started to turn away. "But if you insist. It was my freshman year at Princeton - there was this girl - her name was Nellie - her father was vice-president of Hupmobile - she wore glasses, too. That summer we spent our vacation at the Grand Canyon - we were standing on the highest ledge, watching the sunset - suddenly we had an impulse to kiss - I took off my glasses - I took a step toward her - she took a step toward me -"

Sugar gasped in horror. "Oh, no!"

He nodded. "Yes. Eight hours later they brought her up by mule - I gave her three transfusions - we had the same blood type - Type O - it was too late. Ever since then..." he put his hand over his heart. "numb. No feeling. Like my heart was shot full of novocaine. All the money in the world, and what good is it?" He offered the serving plate. "Mint sauce or cranberries?"

"How can you think of food at a time like this? Is it that hopeless?"

"My family has done everything they could. They hired beautiful French upstairs maids, got a tutor to read me all the books that were banned in Boston, even imported a whole troupe of Balinese dancers with bells on their ankles and long fingernails. It was a complete waste of money."

Sugar said hopefully. "Have you ever tried American girls?"

She kissed him. He shook his head. "Thanks just the same."

She sighed. "Maybe you should see a doctor."

"I spent six months in Vienna with Dr. Freud, flat on my back." As if to demonstrate, he stretched out on the couch. Oo, that devil. He was really setting it up. "Then there were the Mayo brothers. Injections, hypnosis, mineral baths. If I wasn't such a coward, I'd kill myself."

"Don't talk like that!" I'm sure the poor kid was genuinely horrified.

Joe sighed. "If I could find a girl who could just make me FEEL something I'd marry her..." he snapped his fingers. "like that!"

Sugar perked up at the word 'marriage'. "Look, I'm not Dr. Freud, or a Mayo brother, or a French upstairs girl, or a hootchie-cootchie dancer... unless you count that time at Coney Island... but could I take another crack at it?"

"Oh, all right. If you insist." She kissed him again, a little more insistantly. "Nothing. Terribly
sorry."

Sugar dimmed the lights, turned on the radio, and gave him more champagne. I have to wonder if she and Joe learned seduction from the same correspondence course. "You're not giving yourself a chance. Don't fight it. Relax." Yes, they definitely studied the same text.

She kissed him again. He shook his head. "It's like taking someone tone deaf to a concert. It's like smoking without inhaling..."

"So inhale!" This time she laid a real LIPLOCK on him. They kissed... and kissed... and kissed. Look at your watch. And kissed. They came up for air. "Well?"

"I'm not quite sure. Try it again." So she did. He looked thoughtful. "I got a funny sensation in my toes, like somebody was barbecuing them over a low flame."

"Let's throw another log on the fire."

Another kiss. "I think you're on the right track. My glasses are beginning to steam up. I never knew it could be like this. Thank you. They told me I was kaputt., finished, washed up. Where did you learn to kiss like that?"

She primped her hair. "Oh, you know. Junior League, charity bazaars. I used to sell kisses for the Mild Fund."

She kissed him again. "Tomorrow remind me to send a check to the Milk Fund." This time HE kissed HER.

And here I draw the curtain. Yes, he told me what happened. But, being a lady, there are some things I won't discuss. Heterosexual sex is one of them.

They returned to shore, backwards, near dawn. I think they actually passed Osgood as he walked to the pier, but the poor dear was too happily distracted to notice that his motorboat had just been returned. At the hotel Joe gave Sugar a final kiss, saying he might as well make what he owed the Milk Fund round up to an even million. She started up, then came back and kissed him again, saying she'd forgotten to give him his receipt.

*sniff* I'm sorry. Young love... even when it's one sided it's just so PRECIOUS1 I never know whether to cry or barf.

Then as Sugar went inside, Joe started to climb up to our balcony, which brought him into our room and our meeting.

~~~~~

He finished telling me about his evening with Sugar, then said, "Don't you see, Jer? It wouldn't work out with Osgood." He sounded pious. "You can't build a relationship on deception."

I stared at him, open mouthed, then sighed. It wouldn't do any good to point certain facts about his own behavior out to him. Joe, being Joe, would never get it. "I guess not. But what am I going to do about my engagement present?" I'd put the bracelet back in it's box. Now I showed it to Joe. "He gave me this bracelet."

Joe got his glasses and used one of the lenses as a magnifier to look at the jewels. "Hey, these are real diamonds!"

I huffed. "Naturally. You think my fiance is a bum? Now I guess I'll have to give it back."

Joe looked thoughtful. "Wait a minute. Let's not be hasty. After all, we don't want to hurt poor Osgood's feelings."

There was a nock on the door, and Josephine called out, "Just a minute." We both made sure our wigs were straight, and Joe dived under the covers, hiding his yachting clothes.

Just in time. Sugar breezed in, in a negligee. "It's me. I thought I heard voices, and I just had to talk to somebody. I can't sleep."

"I know what you need," I said. I got the hot water bottle from the dresser. "A good slug of bourbon."

She waved it away. "Oh, no. I'm off that stuff for good." Now I KNEW there was trouble.

Joe said, "Did you have a nice time?"

She rolled her eyes. "Nice? It was suicidally beautiful."

I glared at Joe. "Did he get fresh?"

She shrugged. "Of course not. As a matter of fact, it was just the opposite. You see, he needs help. And boy, was it elegant. Candlelight, mint sauce and cranberries."

Joe batted his eyes. "I wish I was there."

I growled, "Close your eyes, and I bet you can picture it just as clearly as if you were."

Sugar sighed. "I'm going to see him again tonight, and every night. I think he's going to propose, as soon as he gets up his nerve."

I wanted to hit Joe, and he could tell. "That's some nerve!"

Joe said quickly, "Daphne got a proposal tonight."

Sugar beamed at me. "Really?"

I nodded, proud. "From a rich millionaire."

"That's wonderful!" She turned sympathetic eyes on Joe. "Poor Josephine."

"Me?" That got him. He doesn't like pity. Well, unless he can use it to get something.

Sugar continued. "Daphne has a beau, I have a beau. If only we could find somebody for you."

At that moment the door opened and that fresh kid bellhop strolled in with a gin bottle in one hand and the passkey in the other. "Here I am, doll!"

And as the sun rose in the East, Joe slowly sank under the covers, his face almost as red as the rising sun.

Part Fifteen

Do you know, that twerp suggested an orgy? Ambitious little thing.

So I was engaged. To a man who thought I was a woman. Things were just peachy.

A little later Joe and I were dressed in our floatiest, summery frocks and on our way down to the lobby. In the elevator I examined my bracelet again. "I feel like such a tramp--taking jewelry from a man under false pretenses."

Joe shrugged. "Get it while you're young. Your bosum isn't gonna be firm forever."

"It will as long as the foam rubber lasts."

"Oh, yeah. I forget sometimes."

"Tell me about it. It's just going to break his heart when he finds out I can't marry him."

The elevator let us off in the lobby, and Joe said, "You'd better fix your lips. You want to look good for Osgood."

Well, that was true. He had such a high opinion of me, and a girl gets inspired by that sort of admiration. So I took out a lipstick and mirror and started my touch up.

There was something a little different in the reflection, so I glanced over at it. Huh. There seemed to be some sort of convention. The lobby was busier than ever, lots of the guests wearing suits instead of resort wear. The banner over the check in desk said WELCOME DELEGATES 10TH ANNUAL CONVENTION FRIENDS OF ITALIAN OPERA. Oh, a CULTURAL crowd. Well, we probably wouldn't see much of them in the ballroom, what with the hot stuff we played.

The odd thing was that they seemed to have some sort of little check in station set up, masked of from the lobby by a screen. I was at just the perfect angle to see behind it. There was a table with a couple of big wire baskets on it, and the two men behind the table seemed to be greeting the five men who'd just arrived.

It was a funny sort of greeting, though. The greeter was... Well, I wouldn't have objected to that sort of welcome, if the guy was cute. He almost looked like he was getting groped. Then the greetee did the same thing to HIM. I'm telling you, it warmed my heart. That was until he pulled out a gun and dropped it in the already overflowing basket.

The official shook a gun out of the bottom of one leg of a man's knickers, and bullets out of the other. Then he pulled a sub machinegun out of the guy's golf bag, and I heard the golfer protesting that it was his mashie.

Now, all of this was bad enough, mind you. What was worse was the dapper gent who stepped out from behind the screen and perused the lobby. He was wearing a neat, conservative suit. But the spats on his shoes made him not only natty, but terrifying. Spats Colombo.

Deer in the headlights, rabbit staring at a snake, person who woke up with an ugly date sleeping on their arm. You know, FROZEN. I couldn't move. Joe was busy adjusting his girdle as discreetly as possible, and didn't notice right away.

A big, Irish looking fellow who'd been reading a newspaper got up and greeted Spats with a smile. Spats did NOT look pleased to see him. The guy looked vaguely familiar, and I finally realized where I'd seen him before. In the speak easy right before the raid, ventilating his cigar with the pin of a police badge.

He said, "Well, a Spats Colombo, if I ever saw one."

Spats was smooth, I'll give him that. "Hello, copper. What brings you down to Florida?"

"I heard you opera-lovers were having a little rally, so I thought I better be around in case anybody decides to sing. Say, Maestro, where were you at three o'clock on Valentine's Day?"

"Me? I was at Rigoletto."

"What's his first name? Where does he live?"

Spats sneered. "That's an opera, you ignoramus."

Mulligan wasn't phased. "Where did they play it, in a garage on Clark Street?"

"Clark Street? Never heard of it."

Ever hear of the Deluxe French Cleaners on Wabash Avenue? The day after the shooting you sent in a pair of spats with blood on them."

"I cut myself shaving."

"You shave with your spats on?"

"I sleep with my spats on. I do EVERYTHING with my spats on." He smirked. "Ask my girlfriend."

"Quit kidding. You ventilated Toothpick Charlie, and we know it."

"You and who else?"

"Me and those two witnesses whom your lawyers have been looking for all over Chicago." Uh-oh. I knew it. "One of these days we'll dig up those guys."

"That's what you'll have to do--dig them up." They started toward the elevator.

Joe was still talking. "So what? Sugar's going to be disappointed when she finds out I'm not a millionaire. That's life. Ya can't make an omelette without breaking an egg. Why yap? You got a bracelet, you got a yacht, you got Osgood, and I got Sugar. We're cooking with gas."

"Cooking an omlette with gas. Well, Josephine, the omelette is about to hit the fan." I held my mirror so he could see Spats Colombo approaching.

Joe grabbed my arm. "C'mon, Daphne." We started back toward the elevators. And we would have gotten up before they arrived if that fresh bellhop hadn't practically run us down with that wheelchair bound duffer he was taking out for a stroll. We got in and told the elevator operator, "Going up!"

But Spats said, "Hold it!" and the greedy little lift operator, conscious of possible tips, had the nerve to HOLD IT.

They got on. As the doors started to close, Spats eyed us. "I don't mean to be forward, but ain't I had the pleasure of meeting you two broads before?"

We exchanged looks. I spoke up. "Oh, no. You must be thinking of two other broads."

One of the goons, who was looking FAR too interested, said, "You ever been in Chicago?"

I turned up my nose. "We wouldn't be caught dead in Chicago." Oh, I tell you, MEN! Their eyes just CRAWLED all over us.

We reached the third floor, the one they wanted, and another goon said, with a leer. "What floor are you on?"

Joe shook a finger at him. "Never you mind!"

Unfortunately Joe was holding our room key. The goon looked at it and read the number on it. "413. We'll be in touch."

As they exited I snapped, "Don't call us, we'll call you." I REALLY didn't like that last look Spats threw at us as the doors closed.

Up in our room, without another word, we hauled out the suitcases and started packing. But... Well, you know me. I can never keep quiet for long.

"I tell you Joe, they're on to us. They're going to stand us up against a wall and rat-a-tat-tat, and the police are going to find two dead dames, and they're going to take us to the ladies' morgue, and I am going to just DIE of shame.

I started to put my orchid corsage in my case, and Joe jerked it out and tossed it in the wastebasket. "Not that, you idiot."

I got huffy. What did HE care what I packed. "But they're from Osgood. He wanted me to wear them tonight. My first corsage from him." I sighed and started to pack my maracas. "I'll never find another man who'll be so good to me."

Joe had pulled out that yachting cap, and was turning it over in his hands, staring at it thoughtfully. I continued, "I suppose if we get out of this hotel alive we'll have to sell the bracelet to get a stake." I sighed. It wasn't so much the idea of losing the bracelet, but the fact that OSGOOD had given it to me. But this was a desperate situation. "We can grab a boat to South America and hole up in one of those banana republics." I put the bracelet back in its little jewelry box. "If we eat nothing but bananas we can live there for fifty, maybe even a hundred years. That is IF we get out of this hotel alive."

Joe had picked up the phone. "give me room 414."

I gaped. "What do you think you're doing? Who has time for a telephone call?"

"I can't just walk out on Sugar without saying goodbye."

I put my hands on my hips. "Well, I like that! Since when can't you? Usually you leave 'em with nothing but a kick in the teeth and your bills."

He looked pios. "That was when I was a saxophone player. Now I'm a millionaire."

I threw up my hands. "Nuttier than my Mom's Christmas fruitcake. Drop her a postcard. Any minute those gorillas may be up here to *cough cough* get acquainted."

He wasn't listening. He was busy using a Southern accent to pretend to be a ship-to-shore operator.

Part 16

I watched Joe suspiciously. Fake clothes, fake glasses, fake accent... Now what?

"Hallo, this is tha ship to shore opahraytah. I have a yach-to-hotel cawl fah Miss Sugah Kane."

From the receiver, I heard the faint, but distinctly Bronx bray of Delores. "Sugar, it's for you. From the YACHT."

I moved in closer. I was very interested in this call, despite the possibility that a Chicago mobster might be up here at any moment expecting to do a spot of molesting, and might turn it into a bit of bumping off when he found out who we were. I could hear the teeny, breathy voice. "Hello?"

The Moneybags voice was back. "Hello, my dearest darling. So good to hear your voice again."

I moaned. "Please, Joe, my stomach! You know what too much sugar does to me." I went into the bathroom to check for toiletries and... Well, I'm sensible. I ALWAY answer nature BEFORE she calls when I'm going on a trip. I halfway listened.

"Well, darling, I'm glad you slept well, but to tell you the truth, I didn't get a wink. Never closed my eyes. Oh, a dream? Tell me about it. Ah, the yacht breaks away and we sail off, with me as the captain and you as the crew. Very romantic."

"They'd both be dead in two days. They're sailors like... like I'm a skirt chaser." I flipped my skirt back down, smoothing it. *Well, maybe if there was a REALLY good sale at Saks.*

"And what were your chores, my lovely bosun. No, dear, bosun. Bosom is an entirely different thing. Yes, I do think it applies as well. You looked out for icebergs... yes, very dangerous. Sorted my seashells, mixed my cocktails, and wiped steam off my glasses. That sounds lovely. And when you woke up, you wanted to swim right back to me. How sweet. Now, about our date for tonight... I'm afraid I can't make it."

I cracked to door to the bathroom and put my ear to it. Yes, I know that eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves, but I wasn't listening for gossip about ME, okay? Joe was continuing. "No, not tomorrow night, either. I'm afraid that something has come up and I have to sail right away. I'm going to... uh... to... South America."

*Yeah, good choice, Joe. There's no way she can swim after you there.*

"You see, I just got a cable from Dad. He wants to consolidate our oil interests in Venezuela, and a merger has been proposed. In fact, I have to propose to make the merger. My dear, what I'm trying to say is that the president of the other company has this daughter..."

I couldn't help it. "DOG!"

"No, actually our tax advisors say she's so-so. You understand it isn't really what I want, but a man in my position has a responsibility to all the little people, the investors who've put up their life savings. Yes, I knew you'd understand."

*Sure. Screw you sounds pretty much the same in any language.*

I could hear Joe moving around in the bedroom. He must be pacing. Good. I hope he was properly miserable. "I just wish I could do something for you. Yes, those stock tips WILL pay off if you invest. Did you get my flowers?" Now what? Had he scratched up enough dough to actually do something decent for the poor kid? "You know--the orchids from my greenhouse. The fog finally lifted over Long Island, and they flew them in this morning. They should have been delivered by now."

I thought I heard the door to the hall open. Was he checking to make sure Spats's boys weren't on their way up? Somehow that seemed to practical for Joe when he was busy beating a retreat from one of his part time paramours.

"That's just a little going away present. I want you to know that I'm very grateful for what you've done for me."

I figured it was time for him to cut the malarky, so I grabbed the last of our toiletries and an armload of hotel towels (nicely embroidered SEMINOLE-RITZ. I'm a sentimentalist. I wanted a souvenier.) Joe said, "Oh, the navigator came in. We're ready to cast off."

I dumped the towels in my suitcase and presented my middle finger. "Navigate this."

"It's so hard to get good help these days? What?" He looked a little ashamed. "Thank you, Sugar. Yes, but I think mother will want the Philharmonic to play at our wedding, but thank you. Goodbye, my darling." He hung up and stared moodily at the phone.

I shut my suitcase with a bang. "I don't know about the captain, but the navigator setting a course for parts unknown and getting his tail out of here."

Joe sighed. "Yeah, let's shove off."

We began to gather up instruments and cases. I picked up my bracelet case, snapping it shut, and started to tuck it in my bosom. I froze, and opened it again. Empty. I stared at Joe accusingly. "What happened to my bracelet?"

He tried to look innocent, and was about as successful as Clara Bow. "What do you mean, your bracelet? It's our bracelet."

"Some how I think that 'it is' should be 'it was', and since WHEN?"

"Don't worry. We did the right thing with it."

I glared. "What did 'we' do? Joe, you're not pulling one of your old tricks?"

"No tricks, no mirrors, nothing up my sleeve. It's on the level this time."

"Like that tower in Pisa?"

Right about then the door open, and Sugar wandered in. Wandered is the right word. She seemed kinda aimless--stunned. She went to the dresser and started digging in the drawers. "Where's that bourbon?" Joe quickly stepped in front of the suitcases, and hid them.

Well, I knew what was wrong, but I couldn't very well TELL her I'd heard her 'millionaire' dumping her. "What's wrong, Sugar?"

"I don't know. Suddenly I have a terrrible thirst." Joe pulled the hot water bottle out of the suitcase behind him and offered it. When she reached for it I spotted MY diamond bracelet on HER wrist. I pointed. "How did you get that bracelet?"

"You like it?" She held it up, admiring the flash as she swigged from the rubber neck of the hot water bottle.

I glowered at Joe. "I always did."

"Junior gave it to me. It must have thirty stones."

"Thirty-four."

"He's going to South America to marry some other girl. That's what they call high finance."

"That's what I call a louse. If I were you, Sugar, I'd throw that bracelet right back in his face." Well, it COULD work.

"He was the first nice guy I ever met in my life--and the only one who ever gave me anything," she said sadly. Behind her back I made 'shame-shame motions at Joe. Okay, I could live without the bracelet. She deserved SOME compensation for her runin with Hurrican Josephine.

Joe said quietly, "You'll forget him, Sugar."

"How can I? No matter where I go, there'll always be a Shell station on the corner." She swigged from the hot water bottle again, hiccupped, and said "I'll bring this back when it's empty," then left.

Even though I'd decided Sugar deserved the diamonds, I still had to rake Joe over the coals a little more. "You crazy? The place is crawling with gangsters, gangrene is setting in, and you're making like Diamond Jim Brady. How are we going to get out of here? How are we going to eat?"

Joe sounded grim. "We'll walk. And if we have to, we'll starve."

"There you go again with the 'we'. I'm getting kind of tired of this, Joe. When we get somewhere safe, I think it's time to re-evaluate this relationship--partnership--friendship--whatever the hell it is." I grabbed my case and headed for the door.

He grabbed my arm. "Not that way." He pointed toward the window. "We don't want to run into Spats and his chums."

"Great. You're always getting me to crawl out windows, Joe. Somehow that doesn't seem like a firm base for a relationship." He went onto the balcony, and I started to hand out instruments and cases, sniffing, "Osgood alwasy takes me through the FRONT door."

Jerry slid down the pole first to the balcony below us, and I handed down the gear, then climbed down to join him. Idle curiosity can get you killed. Things might have turned out a lot different if I hadn't taken a minute to peer through the venetian blinds into the room, just to see who was there.

I ended up looking right into the eyes of one of Spats Colombo's goons. Two of the others were playing cards, and a third was buttoning up the spats of the man himself. The goon who was looking out the window said "Look, it's those two broads from the elevator."

Spats looked up as the second goon gave us a lascivious grin and a wave. "Hey! Join us."

Oh, yeah, right. And why don't I just take off all my clothes and run naked through the exercise yard of a Turkish prison? Joe and I exchanged looks and dived for the pole leading down, knocking our hats and wigs cockeyed. As we slid down I said, "They'll have a clear shot! We better hide instead of running!" Consequently we plastered ourselves up against the wall and tried not to breathe. I, for once, was grateful that I was flat chested: the less that stuck out, the better.

Above us we heard, "What's the matter with those dames?"

Then Spats's voice. "Maybe those dames ain't dames." I heard him dragging something in off the balcony. "Same faces, same insturments. Look at this. See the holes in this bull fiddle? There's your Valentine card."

"Those two musicians from the garage!"

Our goose was so cooked you could have fed it to Tiny Tim on Christmas. "They wouldn't be caught dead in Chicago, so we'll finish the job here. Come on."

There was the thunder of footsteps, and the door slammed. Joe and I looked at each other again. "They'll be in the lobby," I said. "Come on. Time to invade enemy territory." We climbed back up and went into the now empty room. "Okay, what do we do now?"

"First thing we got to do is get out of these clothes."

"Sex, sex, sex! Is that all you can think of?"

"Jerry! Out of these and into something less conspicuous."

"Oh. Sorry."

Joe opened the hall door cautiously and peered out. Spats and the boys were nowhere to be seen, but the elevator was just opening, and we both cringed back. However, it was the fresh kid bellboy, wheeling that old guy in a wheelchair, blanket and all. He drove past us and entered a room.

I looked at Joe. He looked at me. We nodded. Slipping out of Spats Colombo's room, we sneaked across into the other room.

Part 17

We caught up with them just as Shortstuff was turning to back into the room and drag the wheelchair and Pops in after him. He stopped when we skidded to a halt in front of them and smirked. "Well, hello, dolls! Gimme a minute to get Pops squared away and we can see about maybe doing a little horizontal Charleston." Persistant? My dear, you have NO idea.

Joe smiled sweetly. "You know, they say that many hands make light work." He bent over and pinched one wrinkled cheek. "Would you like me to give you a hand, Pops?"

The old goat winked at him. "Depends on where ya want to put it, cutie."

I looked at Shortstuff. "Is he your grandfather, or something? I think I see a family resemblence."

"Great minds think alike, doll," he leered as he dragged the wheelchair back into the room. He whispered to the old duffer, "Ya see? That ten spot you slipped me ain’t going to waste. I TOLD you I’d introduce you to some hot dames."

In the room Joe pushed the bellhop aside and took over the chair. We were in a suite, and he pushed it toward the bedroom, saying, "C’mon. I’ll show you a time I PROMISE that you will never forget."

"Hey!" protested the kid. "What about me?"

I grabbed his collar. "Yeah. What about you?"

He frowned. "I thought I saw you going around with one of those millionaires."

"I was, but you have something I need."

Now he grinned. "I get it. So, the old guy wasn’t man enough for you, huh?" I shrugged, running my hands over his shoulders. It was going to be a tight fit. "Well, doll, do you think that you’re WOMAN enough for me?"

"Now THAT’S an interesting question. Tell me..." I purred, "have you ever fantasized about a woman overpowering you and molesting you?" His mouth dropped open. "Mm, well, I can sort of provide half of the experience, anyway."

I might have been wearing high heels and panties, but I still had a good right cross, and the kid wasn’t expecting it. I hit him on the button, and he went beddy-by. I’ve had a lot of experience at getting clothes off a man, though usually they're conscious (if they’re dead drunk, I don’t bother. I’ve never been interested in necrophilia.)

When he was out I quickly stripped him. Oh, not entirely. I left him his undies. I’d gotten used to the panties, so I kept them. I hated to sacrifice my stockings (real silk, you know), but I had to tie the bellhop up somehow. I used one of my falsies to gag him. If he realized, he’d probably get a kick out of it, I think.

I’d just managed to wiggle into the uniform (wishing that I HAD used a girdle) when Joe came out of the bedroom, pushing the wheelchair. He was dressed in the old guy’s suit, with his hat on his head. "I’ll have to whack a chunk off that racoon coat on the coat rack for a fake beard."

"You were careful tieing up the old guy, weren’t you?"

"I didn’t bother."

"Joe, look, I’m as tenderhearted as the next guy, but..."

"Relax, he won’t be doing anything but snoring for the next few hours."

"You didn’t pop him on the noggin?"

"Nope."

"Well, how can you be sure he’ll..." Joe had pulled a handkerchief and was wiping off what was left of some very smeared lipstick. "Oh." I smiled. "You old softie."

He shrugged. "He’s a nice old coot. Stuff yourself into that uniform and let’s blow."

A few minutes later we emerged from the elevator into the lobby. Joe was doddering in the wheelchair, Panama hat pulled low, dark glasses on his nose, and chin covered by racoon. We moved into the lobby with grave dignity...

to find that Spats and his henchment were posted at strategic points around the lobby. There wasn't much choice--every possible exit was covered. It would have been too conspicuous to change directions, so I kept going--right past Spats.

He glanced at us casually as we started past. Then he cocked his head, frowning, as if he heard something odd. I listened, and heard an odd clacking sound. I looked down at about the same time as Spats did. You remember I told you that the uniform was a tight fit? Well, Shortstuff had teeny, tiny, itty, bitty feet. I'm not exactly Sasquatch, but I'm no Cinderella, either. I hadn't been thinking too clearly when we lammed out of the upstairs room. All I'd been thinking was that I couldn't go barefoot, so there I was... wearing high heels.

Spats made a gesture to the two goons covering the front door, and they started to close in on us. I smoothly spun the chair around and started trundling it toward the rear of the lobby. The other henchment took up the chase.

I managed to get us down a corridor. Joe hopped out. As the goons started down the hall I ran that wheelchair at them like it was a twelve pound ball and they were ten pins. I don't like to brag, but I'm a pretty good bowler, and I made a good hit. I managed to knock down three of the five, but I didn't try for a spair. Joe and I ducked into an open door at our end of the hall.

We shut the door and hung on to it. There was the pounding of footsteps, and someone tried the door from the other side, but we held the door knob frozen. Someone yelled, "It's locked. They musta went that way." and they pounded off around a bend in the hall that had been just past the door.

We turned, and were confronted by the biggest damn cake I'd ever seen. I'm telling you, that baby could've done for a dozen weddings, a church social, five PTA meetings, and high tea with the royal court. It stood almost chest high. Two guys wearing convention tags were decorating it under the watchful eye of the guy who'd been doing most of the frisking in the lobby the other day. One of the guy's was just finishing an inscription that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SPATS. I was surprised. A birthday party for Spats? I'd kinda thought that he'd been hatched.

As they all looked up at us, we scooted across the room and out the other door. Once there we paused, panting and trying to get our bearings. It was some sort of banquet room. There was a huge U shaped table, covered with flowers, and having about thirty place settings. There was a half grapefruit on each plate. The cheapskates. You'd have thought that they'd have at least sprung for fruit cup. The banner on the wall behind the head table welcomed the Friends of Italian Opera. Culture lovers.

We headed for the main entrance, but it started to swing open as we approached it. I heard voices. We turned toward the second door, but that was opening, too. Well, there was nowhere else to go. We went under the banquet table.

Ya know, I've had a fantasy or two involving some guy under a draped table, and all the interesting things he could get up to. Believe me, at that moment I had no desire to indulge in any of those interesting activities. We managed to dodge under the tablecloth just as all the mugs that had been shaken down in the lobby the previous day trooped in. They were all in tuxedos or white dinner jackets, which just goes to prove that a baboon in a tux or dinner jacket is still a baboon.

They babbled... excuse me, chatted amiably as they took their places at the tables. Feet and legs started to appear all over the place. Suddenly a pair of legs appeared right in front of us, and we jerked back so quick that we almost backed out the other side of the table. The feet attached to those legs were encased in the most BEAUTIFUL spats. Ick. Spats Colombo. And those two pairs of legs appearing on either side had to be his goons.

The identity was confirmed when we heard Spats say, "What happened?"

"Me and Tiny, we had them cornered, but we lost 'em in the shuffle."

"What? Well, where were YOU guys?"

A different voice answered, "Us? We was with you at Rigoletto's."

"Why, you stupid..." China rattled, and there was a squish--the sound of a grapefruit half being screwed into someone's face. Spats saw entirely too many movies.

The first henchmen said, "It's all right, boss. We'll get 'em after the banquet. They can't be too far away." Under the table, Joe and I exchanged panicky looks.

There was a burst of applause, and I heard calls of "Bonapart! Little Bonapart!

Eep! As if things weren't enough, we now had the head crime boss of America in the room. I remembered what Little Bonapart looked like--short, bald, vicious, and he wore a hearing aid. I don't know why they were having a banquet with him--he was enough to put anyone off their food.

I noticed that Spats and his boys were pointedly NOT clapping. On the other side I heard someone stage whisper, "Boney's still kinda sad about what happened to old Toothpick Charlie. Ya know, he got his last toothpick an' had it gold plated." Spats' shoes shifted angrily.

Everybody who'd stood up sat back down, except Bonapart, who remained standing. He said, "Thank you, fellow opera-lovers. It's been ten years since I elected myself president of this organization. If I say so myself, you made the right choice. Let's look at the record. We have fought off the crackpots who want to repeal Prohibition and destroy the American home by bringing the corner saloon into it by allowing cheap--I mean casual drinking. We have helped end endangerment to public health by stamping out those fly-by-night jokers who used to brew gin in their own bathtubs, a very unsanitary practice."

*Oh, I don't know. A little Bon Ami, a good rinse...*

"We have made a real contribution to national prosperity. We help the auto industry by buying all those trucks, the glass industry by using all those bottles, and the steel industry by using all those...all those... uh. Hey, corkscrews are made out of steel, right?" There was a murmur of assent. "All those corkscrews." His voice boomed out with self satisfied confidence. "What's good for the country is good for us. In the last fiscal year our income was a hundred and twelve million dollars, before taxes..." I scooped my jaw up off the floor. "...only we ain't paying no taxes." Applause. Hell, I was tempted to clap myself.

"Of course, like in every business, we've had our little misunderstandings. Let us now rise and observe one minute of silence in memory of seven of our members from Chicago-North Side Chapter-who are unable to be with us tonight on account of being croaked in a most heinous manner."

All the delegates shuffled to their feet--except Spats and his boys. I heard Bonapart say sharply, "You too, Spats. Up!" They stood up, but you could tell by the way they moved that they were about as enthusiastic as someone volunteering for unaenesthetized root canal surgery.

After a minute, everyone sat back down except Bonapart. Boy, that old coot must've had iron feet. He said, "Now, fellow delegates, there comes a time in the life of every business executive when he starts to think about retirement." There were protesting cries, but Bonapart continued. "In looking around for somebody to fill my shoes, I've been considering several candidates. For instance, there is a certain party from Chicago--South Side chapter." Spats shuffled. "Now some people say he's gotten a little too big for his spats, but I say he's a man who'll go far. Some people say he's already gone TOO far, but I say you can't keep a good man down. Of course, he still has a lot to learn. That big noise he made on St. Valentine's Day--that wasn't very good for public relations." The voice got ominous. "And letting those two witnesses get away, that was careless." I swallowed hard, and tried to curl up in a ball, as tiny as possible.

Spats said, "Don't worry about those two guys, they're as good as dead. I almost caught up with them today."

I heard a squeal of feedback. Bonapart had turned up his hearing aid. "You mean you let them get away TWICE? Tsk tsk. Some people would say that was real sloppy, but I say to err is human, to forgive, divine. And you, Spats... The boys told me you was having a birthday." His voice was jovial. Reminded me kinda of a jolly rattlesnake. "So we baked you a little cake?"

Spats sounded irritated and puzzled. "My birthday? It ain't for another four months."

"So we're a little early. So what's a few months between friends? All right, boys, all together."
They started singing.

"For he's a jolly good fellow..." What? No 'Happy Birthday'? "For he's a jolly good fellow! For he's a jolly good fellow, that nobody can deny!"

The lights went out. I heard the door we'd come in swing open, and there was a soft glow from that direction. Candles, I thought. They were starting on the second chorus. "For he's a jolly good fellow. For he's a jolly good fellow..."

I was thinking. Huge cake, convention, miss-timed birthday celebration, pissed off mobsters, sub-machine guns... I clutched Joe's arm.

"For he's a jolly good fellow! That nobody can deny..."

I'd never heard the top of a hollow cake flip off, but somehow it was impossible to mistake. Then there was the unmistakable chatter of a tommygun, and the legs of Spats and his boys started jerking and jumping like someone trying to do the Charleston to music that was strictly percussion.

I heard Spats gasp, "Big joke!" Then he came sliding out of his chair, under the table.

Joe gasped, "Let's get out of here!" I didn't make any objection when he grabbed my arm and hauled me out from under the table. The goons were all watching the guy with the tommy gun climb the rest of the way out of the cake, and were just distracted enough for us to make it to the pantry door. Only Bonapart, the rat, was paying attention, and he yelled, "Get those two guys!"

As we lammed it out the pantry door, with delegates starting to follow us, the big Irish cop came in the other side and spotted what was left of Spats and his boys. "What happened to them?"

Little Bonapart said mildly. "There was something in that cake that didn't agree with them."

As I ran, I heard Mulligan grunt, "My compliments to the chef, and no one leaves this room till I get the recipe."

We hot footed it into the back corridor and up the back stairs. Don't ask me how we managed to lose them in the upstairs hallways. All I know is that I get sick just THINKING about hedge mazes and funhouses. We must've stopped back by the old coot's room at some point, because the next thing I knew we were coming out of the elevator into the lobby, wearing our wigs and clutching girls' coats around us.

We minced daintily toward the front door, then veered off when a couple of delegates came toward us. Another couple came down the stairs, and they conferred. "They slipped right through our hands."

"Don't worry. We got our guys watching the railroad station, the airport, the roads... They can't get away."

We were hiding behind a potted palm. I whispered to Joe, "Did you hear that?"

He countered, "Yeah, but they're not watching yachts. Come on. You're going to call Osgood."

He was steering me toward a row of telephone booths near the entrance to the ballroom. I was protesting. "But Joe! I don't want to get Osgood mixed up in this. He's such a sweet, decent guy."

"So? We're sweet, decent guys." I stared at him. "Okay, so you're a sweet, decent guy. He wouldn't want you to get rubbed out, would he?"

"Well, no, I suppose not. Even if he knew who I was, he's so nice that..." A goon walked past, and we held our breaths till he was gone. I sighed. "I hate to deceive him, but okay. What do I tell him?"

"Tell him you're going to elope with him."

"Elope? But there are laws--conventions."

Joe jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the mobster teeming lobby. "I got your convention right here. There's also a ladies' morgue."

He shoved me into the booth, and I groped in my bellhop uniform pants for a nickle. It would be just my luck if the little lecher didn't have one, but he did. As I plucked it out, Joe heard singing coming from the ballroom. I recognized it. It was Sugar, singing 'Am I Blue?'. She sounded both definitely blue, and not a little drunk. Joe drifted over and stared into the room at her.

I didn't pay too much attention, because right about then I got Osgood on the line. He said cheerily, "Hello, this is Osgood Fielding the third, also known as the luckiest man in the world."

I felt like I was going to cry. I managed to make my voice chipper. "Hello, is this the naughty boy?"

"Daphne!" Oh, I can't tell you the emotion he put into that one word. One little tear DID escape from my eye, but I ruthlessly chased it down and wiped it away. "Darling, thank you for calling me. I was just thinking of you." His voice lowered suggestively. "Naughty thoughts, I'm afraid."

"You're incorrigible, bless you. Osgood, you know how we were talking about a June wedding?"

"Yes. Mother is thrilled. She's always wanted to hold a ceremony in our rose garden. She's talking about importing some swans for the ornamental pond."

"I've changed my mind. I want to elope."

"What? Elope? But Daphne, you said you had your heart set on at least six attendants in seafoam green chiffon. They'd make such a lovely backdrop for you."

"Well, you know what a madcap, free spirited thing I am, Osgood. I want to run away with you to a justice of the peace. Your mother can throw us a big party later if she wants."

"Well... You're sure you..."

I lowered my voice to a growl. "Osgood, I do NOT want to wait four months to be with you! I want you NOW!"

There was a moment of silecne, then a soft, reverential, "Zowie! Daphne, you're a tigress."

"Roar. Meet me on the pier as soon as you can, Tarzan." I made a juicy kissing sound, and was about to hang up, then paused. I said, quietly, "I love you, Osgood." Then I hung up.

As I stepped out of the booth, I saw Joe start down the little flight of steps into the ballroom, an intent look on his face. I followed, and witnessed him walking up to Sugar, who was singing her little Polish heart out, grab her, and kiss her.

Sugar gasped, "Josephine!"

Sweet Sue dropped her baton and screamed, "BIENSTOCK!" as all the muscicians in the band stopped playing on various screeching notes.

From my position I could see Bienstock at the registration desk, peering toward us myoptically. Two of the delegates came up behind us and peered past me into the ballroom. One of them pointed and said loudly, "Hey! That's no dame!" They started to rush over. Things began to happen very, very... Have you ever watched one of the Keystone Kops comedies? That fast.

On the bandstand I watched in amazement as Joe tenderly brushed a tear off Sugar's cheek. Well, I'll be... Did he actually CARE for her? In his normal voice he said, "None of that, Sugar. No man is worth it." Joe saw the approaching goons. He kissed Sugar again, jumped off the bandstand, and began pushing through the crowd back to me.

Over the crowd I saw Sugar touch her mouth and say, "JOSEPHINE?" Then suddenly understanding dawned in her eyes. After all, she'd taught SOMEONE to kiss just like that. I saw her stare at the bracelet on her wrist.

As Joe raced up to me I said, "It's all fixed. Osgood is meeting us on the pier."

"We're not on the pier yet." He grabbed my hand and we took off, goons in hot pursuit, back toward the back corridore. We made it into the banquet room, only to find a couple of ambulance attendants draping a sheet over a figure lying on a wheeled stretcher. They turned away to begin packing up various instruments, and Joe and I looked at each other, then sneaked toward the stretcher.

Ugh. The feet sticking out from under the sheet wore spats. Well, since Spats was responsible for us being in this jam, we saw no reason why he shouldn't get us out of it. It was a tight fit, but we both managed to squeeze under the sheet.

When they started to wheel it out, we duck walked along, hidden by the hanging sheet. Out in the lobby, we passed by a group of shoes that were too shiny and too pointy to belong to anyone except gangsters, and we heard someone mumble, "Take your hats off! Show some respect." Well, I DIDN'T respect him, and I wasn't ABOUT to tip my wig.

The shoes continued back, and we waddled forward. When we got near the entrance we slipped out and hared it. I didn't think anyone saw us, but neither of us were about to dwaddle and look.

We ran all the way to the pier--not an easy feat in high heels, but I was motivated. When we scrambled down the to the dock, Osgood was waiting for us. Waiting for me. That sweet basset hound face lit up like he'd just been given all his birthday and Christmas presents for his entire life at once. Boy, did I feel like a heel.

As we panted up to him I pointed at Joe. "This is my friend, Josephine. She's going to be my bridesmaid."

Osgood tipped his cap, like the gentleman he was. "Pleased to meet you."

"Don't be. She's a slut." I grabbed his arm. "Come on." I dragged him down the stairs to the motor boat.

Osgood grinned and winked at Joe. "She's such an EAGER little thing!"

As we climbed into the front seat, I heard honking. I looked up. "Osgood, do geese migrate down here for the winter?"

"I don't think that's geese, lambchop. It sounds like a horn to me."

Just as he said that a bicycle came flying down the boardwalk, bumped down the stairs, and whooshed along the pier. Three guesses as to the rider. I'll give you three hints--blonde hair, not too much occupying the space under it, and she bounced like nobodies business when she came down those stairs.

Joe had climbed into the back seat. He froze as we all heard the shout, "Wait! Wait for Sugar!"

As she hurried toward us, Osgood looked at me and said, "Another bridesmaid?"

"Uh... flower girl."

Osgood started the motor as Sugar flew down the steps and started to climb into the back seat. Joe squawked, "Sugar, what do you think you're doing?"

She replied cheerily, "I told you--I'm not too bright."

Agreeing completely, I shrugged and slapped Osgood on the shoulder. "Let's go." He roared off.

Om the backseat Joe removed his coat and wig. "You don't want me, Sugar. I'ma a liar..." I nodded. "and a phony." I nodded again.

When he paused I contributed, "And a saxophone player. One of those no-goodniks you've been running away from, Sugar." I could see how things were going, but I didn't want the kid to say she hadn't been adequitely warned.

She shrugged. "I know." She smacked her forehead. "Every time!"

I half turned. "Sugar, listen to him. Do yourself a favor. Go back to where the millionaires are. Get the sweet end of the lollipop, not the cole slaw in the face and the old socks and the squeezed out tube of toothpaste."

Joe glared at me, but sighed and looked back at Sugar. "Yeah, what Jer said."

"That's it, pour it on!" Sugar wrapped her arms around his neck. "Talk me out of it." As she said this, she threw him back on the seat, falling on top of him.

I went eyes front. I had no desire to witness heterosexual congress. A person has to have some boundaries.

Osgood was steering us toward the yacht, staring straight ahead. *sigh* He was so cute in his skipper's hat. He said, "I called Mama, and you don't have to worry about her being upset. She was so happy she cried. She wants you to have her own honeymoon negligee. It's white lace. You'll be beautiful in it--but you're ALWAYS beautiful."

I steeled myself. "Osgood--I can't wear your mother's negligee. She and I--we're not built the same."

"We can have it altered."

I tried to be firm. "Oh, no you don't! Look, Osgood--you're a great guy, and I'm going to level with you. We can't get married at all."

He didn't sound upset. "Why not?"

Actually, I was a little hurt that he didn't sound upset. "Well, to begin with, I'm not a natural blonde."

Osgood shrugged tolerantly. "It doesn't matter. How many times these days do the drapes match the rug?"

I gaped at him. "Did they teach you that at prep school?" He chuckled. All right--I smoke. I smoke all the time."

"I don't care."

Uh oh. Time to break out the big guns. "I have a terrible past. For three years now I've been living with a saxophone player." I wiggled my eyebrows. "Cohabiting."

He gave me a warm look that made my insides melt. "I forgive you."

And he did. I could tell. He believed what I told him, and it really didn't matter. And I was trying to GET RID of this man? I made my voice tragic. "I can never have children."

"We'll adopt some."

I was at the end of my rope. Wasn't there ANYTHING that would make this sweet man reject me? Well, when all else fails, try honesty. "But you don't understand WHY I can never have children." I ripped off my wig and said in my normal voice, "I'm a man." I waited. I wasn't sure what to expect--screams, curses, possibly a collision with the yacht, followed by my being forced to walk the plank.

What happened was that Osgood looked over at me. He smiled, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and there was not a speck of surprise or confusion in is eyes as he said softly, "Well, nobody's perfect."

*****

You remember how earlier in the story I told you that my name now is different from what it was then, and declined to explain? Well, now you know why. I'm Mrs. Osgood Fielding the third, affectionately known to our social set as Daffy (short for Daphney, natch). I have a reputation for being a bit madcap, given my tendency to play the bullfiddle at our soirees.

We waited a month to get married (thought there WAS a bit of honeymooning on that yacht while we sailed back to Long Island. Osgood's mother (a dear, DEAR woman, but BIG BONED, so I eventually DID wear her wedding dress) threw us the lovliest wedding and reception in their rose garden. The society pages wrote me up as a Chicago heiress. Don't ask me HOW Osgood managed that.

Joe was best man, and Sugar was my maid of honor. Sugar was already two weeks pregnant, though we didn't know it at the time. She and Joe had done a civil ceremony as soon as we arrived in New York, turning down Osgood's offer of a double wedding. I was just as happy. I loved Sugar and Joe, but every girl wants to be the star of her own wedding.

Sweet Sue and her Society Syncopaters did a very creditable Wedding March, and hotted up the reception. Mama Fielding did a mean Turkey Trot with Fievel, who had arrived in style--flown in on a plane that Osgood chartered. When he learned that Fievel had given me my first dress, Osgood said he had to meet the man and give him a big thank you.

Sugar and Joe moved back to Chicago, and Osgood and I see them twice a year--once when we travel out to visit them, and every summer when they come stay with us in Florida. Joe went to work on the railroad with Sugar's father--and all her large Polish male relations. All this happened three years ago. They have five kids. Excuse me? Two sets of twins, that's how. Sugar put on about five pounds a kid. She's as sweet as ever--there's just more jello on the springs. The last time I saw Joe he had kind of a trapped look in his eyes, but I doubt he'll do anything about it. Sugar is happy, and she has lots of big, protective relatives who want her to stay that way.

As for me--what can I say? I found the pot of gold, rolled a strike, batted a thousand, struck the jackpot, landed in the jam pot, hit bingo. My ship came in, and Osgood was standing on the deck. *sigh*

We have an interview next week to see about starting adoption proceedings. I don't care what we get, as long as it's healthy, but Osgood says he wants a little girl, just like me, that he can spoil. He's such a sweetie. Yes, it looks like I finally got the sweet end of the lollipop.

And all this talk about lollipops has given me ideas. I think I'll go find Osgood.

The End