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Scripts (new!) |
A
Night at the (Horse) Opera by
P.N. Elrod Originally
published in Celebrity Vampires, DAW Books,
Edited by Martin H. Greenberg 1995
This
story takes place sometime Chicago, 1936 The
smell of buttered popcorn was a little distracting until I
settled in my seat and stopped pretending to breathe. I wasn’t
able to drink soda pop anymore,
and even the darkness wasn’t really dark for me, but a
movie
was still a movie, and it was rare that I didn’t drop in on
one of Chicago’s shadow palaces two or three times a week take
in the latest show. This
particular one wasn’t especially new; The
Plainsman had
been out for a while, but I’d somehow missed it until now, a sad lapse
for a Gary Cooper fan. Of course, I also liked Jean
Arthur, who was mighty eye-catching done up in Hollywood cowgirl
style. I lost track of the dialog at one point, speculating
how my girlfriend, Bobbi, might look in a
similar outfit of made of buckskins. Probably very good, I thought;
then things started happening in the plot I couldn’t
follow because of my internal wandering. “What’s
going on?” I whispered to the man next to me. Not
taking his eyes from the screen, he obligingly leaned
over and filled me in, speaking low and with a decided New York
accent. I’d lived there for a long time before moving to Chicago
and was mildly curious to find out why he’d left, but further
questions could wait until after the feature. De
Mille’s epic danced over the screen with enough thrills
and drama to keep the most jaded Western lover satisfied,
myself included. If it was still playing here tomorrow, which Bobbi’s
night off, I’d ask her to see it. She wouldn’t need much
persuading; she liked Gary Cooper, too.
The
movie rolled to its end, and the lights came up.
Other
people rose to leave, uniformed ushers appeared to clean up the
trash, and
the rest of us remained seated to wait for the next feature to start.
Bobbi’s last show at the night club where she sang wouldn’t be over for another couple of hours, so I was in no hurry to
leave. The same apparently
went for my seat mate, who
pulled a crumpled sack of peanuts from somewhere
and began shelling and eating them in a leisurely manner. “Thanks,”
I said. His
bright eyes clouded slightly as he tried to recall why I
was thanking him, then comprehension dawned. “Don’t mention
it.” “New
York?” I asked. “Ninety-third
Streeter,” he promptly replied. He had a sloping nose, wide at the
base, a wide, expressive mouth, receding
hair, and enough mischief packed into his mug for a
dozen Christmas elves. He looked as though he ought to be
somebody, and I had a sudden nagging feeling that I knew
him. “You from there, too?” he asked. “Not
since last August. You ever hang out at a place called
Rosie’s? Across from the Dispatch?” He
shook his head solemnly. “Thought
I might have seen you there.” “You
probably saw me here, is what I’m thinking.” He tossed
a peanut high and caught it in his mouth with the easy
skill of long practice. “Want one?” He shook the bag, open
end toward me. “No,
but thanks anyway.” Maybe I’d seen him here before
and just hadn’t noticed him among the hundreds of other
movie watchers. “Been away from New York long?” “Long
enough. California’s my home now, least when we’re
not on the road.” “Salesman?”
But that didn’t seem quite right for him. Another
peanut flew high and dropped in. He chewed it slowly
while his eyes, his whole expression, turned steady and
serious. “Yeah. I’m a salesman, all right. I sell money.” “You
what?” “I
sell money. You never heard of the business?” “No
. . .” I’d
either stumbled across a counterfeiter or a lunatic.
Now might be a good idea to make a graceful exit, but
the guy put away his bag of peanuts, smiling at my expression. “I
know what you must be thinking, but it’s no scam. I really
do sell money. It’s perfectly legal.” Okay.
He’d hooked me. I had to hear the punch line.
“What is it? Like coin collecting or something?” “Nah,
this stuff.” He pulled out his wallet and fished for a
five dollar bill, holding it out to me. “Take a look. It’s real,
right?” As
far as I could tell it looked just like any other used bill. “Right . . .” “Okay,
I’ll sell you this five for four-fifty.” I
shook my head. “Ah. No, thanks.” “It’s
not a fiddle,” he earnestly assured me. “Think of the
profit.” “What
do you get out of it?” “A
sale.” “Maybe
not this time, but thanks all the same.” “You
sure? It’s a great bargain you’re passing up.” At this
point he looked too innocent to be believed. He read that
I wasn’t going to fall for whatever gag he had in mind, gave
a good-natured shrug, and put away the bill and wallet.
He hauled out the peanuts again. The
nagging set in again with a vengeance. “I
know
you
from somewhere.” “Go
to the movies a lot?” he asked. “All
the time.” “You
really don’t know?” “Not
unless you tell me.” He
chuckled, his whole face going into it. “Wait
a second . . .” He
did, dropping his chin a bit and letting his mobile mouth
hang slack in an exaggerated pause. And
that’s when the
dawn started to break for me. Figuratively.
Again. “Oh, jeez,
you’re—” A
hand clamped down heavily on his shoulder from behind and made him
jump. He instantly gave up his miming game
and looked around in mild irritation to the source of the
interruption. I looked, too, and forgot all about the conversation.
The man looming over us was big even by Chicago standards, and he wasn’t alone. He had two very large
friends waiting in the aisle. The three of them looked as though
they could take on the Wrigley Building and win. Their
hundred-dollar suits were not well-tailored enough to hide
the ominous bulges under their left arms. The
man’s hand flexed and lifted, and my seat mate rose like a puppet. “Oh,
hell,” he said, irritation suddenly replaced by fear. The
smell of it fairly jumped off him. “You
don’t know the half of it yet,” the man told him. “Wait
a minute . . ” I began, not thinking. “Aren’t you Guns Thompson?”
I’d heard he was working as muscle for a West Side mob
these days. One
of his goons sidled into the row behind me and dropped a meaty hand
on my shoulder. “Or
maybe not. I could be mistaken.” “Shhh!”
someone down the row advised us severely. “Out
of here,” said Thompson, and the five of us were abruptly marching
toward the lobby just as the next show began.
The noisy barrage of a newsreel theme song was enough
to drown out any protests we might have voiced at this treatment. I
could have made an issue of things, but I’d
heard that Thompson was a rough customer and wouldn’t
put it past him to open up with his heater right then
and there. No, it was a much better idea to go along and
put a few walls between the other theater patrons and whatever
caliber of bullets he and his cronies were packing that
night. We
threaded past ushers with flashlights guiding latecomers in; no one
noticed us, or if they did, they were going to mind
their own business and watch the movie. We were urged
through the open doors and spilled into the lush lobby.
The popcorn smell hit me all over again with a brief wave
of nausea, but I had other things to think about as they
hustled us past the bank of doors leading outside. I’d been expecting a quick exit and maybe a car trip to somewhere
unpleasant, but Thompson instead headed for the men’s room. We
trooped in as though we had business there. A couple of
guys were washing up, and some instinct told them to hurry
the job and leave. The last one out didn’t hang around
long enough to dry his hands before he bolted. Couldn’t
blame him. The brightly lighted background of patterned
tile did nothing to improve Thompson’s looks. Despite
their flashy clothes, he and his friends were as out of place
as a trio of gorillas at a Sunday School picnic. It showed
in their hard, impassive faces and the way they moved like
intelligent bulldozers. “You’ve
got the wrong man,” protested my seat mate. “You’re
after Chico, aren’t you?” “Not
anymore,” sniggered one of the goons. He went to stand
by the door, jamming his foot against the base to keep out unwelcome
interruptions. “But
I’m his brother Harpo, I’m telling you. You’ve got the
wrong man!” Thompson
stared, eyes all narrow so you couldn’t read them. “It’s
true,” I put in, trying to be helpful. “This is Harpo
Marx.” “Oh,
yeah, then how come he’s talking?” demanded Thompson. “Yeah,”
said the goon at the door, suddenly giggling. “An’ if you’re
Harpo, where’s your harp?” “Back
in my hotel room,” came Harpo’s logical answer, but his voice was thin and nervous. He still clutched his
forgotten bag of peanuts in one tight fist. They rattled a bit
against the paper because he was trembling. “Everyone
knows that Harpo’s a dummy.” “I
am not—that’s just a character I play!” “Stop
wasting time,” Thompson growled and pulled out a
forty-five that looked like it could drop King Kong in one
shot. He
wasn’t pointing it at anyone just yet, so I thought I’d try
once more. “C’mon, Guns, give the man another look and
you’ll see he’s not the one you want.” He
looked again but couldn’t see any difference. Then he
looked my way seriously for the first time, and that’s when he
started pointing the gun. I must
have the kind of face that sets off alarms for his type.
“Where do you get off knowing me?” “Hey,
everyone in town knows Guns Thompson.” All you
had to do was walk into a post office and study the portraits
left there by an FBI that hadn’t gotten around to collecting him
yet, but I wasn’t going to mention that. He’d gotten
his nickname during the Prohibition gang wars for his
talent at handling a Thompson machine gun. It was about his
only asset, since he and his friends apparently didn’t
have enough brains among them to fill a whiskey jigger. “Who
the hell are you, anyway?” “My
name’s Fleming and I’m nobody special, honest.” “Fleming?”
Thompson’s face screwed up in an effort to think. “Where do I
know him from, Higgs?” he asked the guy
by the door. Higgs
shook his head. “Rinky?”
This directed to the thug guarding Harpo. Rinky
shrugged. Since
my arrival in this town I’d been reluctantly bumping
heads with its criminal element, so it wasn’t too surprising
that Thompson had heard of me from somewhere. Most of the
time I do whatever’s needed to cover my tracks and keeping my head
down; on this occasion, I was
fervently thanking God for Thompson’s poor
memory. He growled and dismissed me as annoying but unimportant,
turning his attention and his gun on Harpo. “Okay,
Marx, you ran up a bill with Big Joey, and it’s past
due. I can take it out of your pocket or your hide.” “This
is a pretty public place for that kind of business,” I
said. I wasn’t crazy about putting myself forward but figured
I had a better chance of surviving it than Harpo. Higgs
giggled again. “Big Joey owns
this
joint, bo. Make noise
if you want. Ain’t no one gonna come in to see why.” Which
made for a pretty disgusting situation, I thought, as the three of
them laughed at my reaction. I checked on how
Harpo was doing, but he wasn’t doing much of anything.
He was frozen, staring hard at something behind me, his mouth sagging, and in no wise was it comical mugging. The back of my
neck began to prickle as I
realized what he was looking at. Hells bells, why couldn’t
these jerks have taken us for a ride, instead? “Marx?”
Thompson said, moving a step closer and raising
his gun an inch. Harpo
continued to stare until Rinky gave him a shake, then
he looked vaguely at Thompson. “Stop
playing the dope. Pay up, and we’ll let you go back to the
movie.” “H-how
much?” “Five
grand.” The
mention of such an enormous sum got Harpo’s attention as
nothing else could, given his circumstances. He gulped. “My
God, how long was he playing?” “Who?” “Chico.” “You’re
Chico, you
dope!” “Sorry,
I forgot.” Thompson
tapped him lightly on the side of the head with the barrel of his
gun, just enough to jar him. “Pay up, or
get busted up. I don’t want no more shit from you, sheenie.” Harpo
had been drained of color up to this point; now he
flushed a deep red. There was a lot going on all over his
face, subtle stuff, but strong; anger, resentment, and outrage
were now mixed in with his fear. I’d seen hilarious exaggerations
of them on the screen, but he’d been acting then,
working hard to make people laugh. I’d been one of them.
This took only a second, maybe less than a second, and
then he exploded. It was unwise and almost too fast to follow.
Harpo’s fist came up, connected, and Thompson staggered away, clutching a suddenly broken, bloody nose. The
bloodsmell hit me all over like it always did, but I didn’t
have time to spare for it. Rinky instantly surged forward to slam
Harpo back into one of the stall doors. They were designed
to open out; this one’s hinges gave way and it crashed
inward, stopping abruptly when its edge struck the toilet
inside. Off balance, his bag of peanuts scattering, Harpo
fell against it and dropped, but he was still mad and scrapping.
From the floor he kicked at Rinky’s ankles, but Rinky
danced out of the way, reaching for his gun. Before
he could haul it out, I was on him. I grabbed handfuls
of Rinky’s coat and maybe some skin under it because he
yelped loud enough. One solid pull and turn, and
he was flying across the length of the room.
He crashed
into the tiled wall,
dropped hard, and didn’t get up. Then
something roared out, a horrendous explosion, stunning
in the confined space. The sound was as solid as a
bowling ball, and it struck me high up, square in the back. I
saw a burst of blood leap from the middle of my chest, and
then the floor flew up too fast to dodge. I
couldn’t tell if the silence that followed was a result of their
shock at what had happened or my inability to hear anything.
My ears felt stuffed and when the stuffiness wore off,
it was replaced by a hot, unpleasant ringing. Negligible—it was nothing compared to the reaction my body was having to the slug
that had just torn through it. Couldn’t
move. The pain was searingly familiar, which did
not make it any easier to bear. My initial, involuntary reaction
to getting shot is to vanish. Once incorporeal. I would be free of
the pain, floating in a unique pocket of existence that’s always
given me healing and comfort. Great
stuff, but the drawback is that it always scares the hell out of
anyone who sees me doing it. The situation had gotten nasty enough;
I wasn’t about to add to it by giving away my real nature to these
creeps, so I grimly hung onto solidity, gritting my teeth as flesh,
bone, muscle, and finally outraged nerves began painfully knit themselves
back together into a shaken whole again. “Oh,
my God.” whispered Harpo somewhere behind me. He was apparently
staring at my corpse. I wasn’t moving and, if necessary, I can lie
very, very still indeed. It was a necessity now, if only to allow
myself a moment to get over the worst of the shock. That moment came and thankfully went, but I stayed where I was, straining to listen, trying to figure out
some way of helping Harpo without getting him killed. Someone
shifted, his shoes crushing and crunching the peanuts scattered on
the floor. It was Higgs, coming over to check on Rinky. “He’s
out cold, Guns,” he reported. “Throw
some water on him.” Thompson
snarled nasally. I
hoped his nose hurt worse than my bullet wound.
It would last him longer. Higgs
complied, running water in one of the sinks. He cupped his hands
together to carry it over to his friend. I
could see only just that much from the corner of one eye,
having fallen at an inconvenient angle. Higgs never bothered to
glance at me. I was just another mess on the floor to be ignored,
like the peanuts. Someone
was having a hard time breathing, probably Harpo. I heard a series
of little sick gasps, then a sudden
scrabble of movement.
The next thing I heard was him throwing up in one of the stalls. Thompson
thought it was funny, “The little sheenie shit can’t take it,
Higgs.” Higgs
grunted amused agreement and made a second trip
for water. “That
puke stinks. Flush it, Marx.” After
a moment, the toilet was flushed. Rinky
began to show signs of reviving. He groaned, swatted at the latest
faceful of water, and was hauled to his feet by Higgs. “Rinky,
go wait in the car,” Thompson ordered. Rinky
made an unsteady exit. Just as he got to the door, someone must have
poked his head in. “Hey!
What’s going on h—” “Never
you mind, bo,” said Higgs. He’d been following Rinky and now
kept going, keeping up a patter of tough talk to convince the
newcomer to butt out. It must have worked; no one else came through
to investigate things, leaving Thompson alone with Harpo . . .and
me. “Come
outta there, sheenie.” Footsteps
dragged reluctantly over the floor as Harpo emerged from the stall. “You
see what happens when I get pissed? Well, I’m startin’ to get
pissed with you. You come up with the money, or you end up just like
him.” “Okay.”
Harpo’s voice had dropped lower than a whisper, as though he had
no air left in him to use. “So
fork over.” “But
I—” Harpo broke off. “Don’t
tell me you don’t have it. You movie people always carry a
wad with you.” Okay,
he’d be concentrating on Harpo now, as good a time as any for me
to make a move, even better with Higgs and Rinky out of the way. I
stopped being me for an instant, slipping into that non-place
where I had no body, no weight, no sight, only mind and will. I
sensed the hardness of the floor and, as I drifted over it toward
them, could determine just how close they were to each other. Very
close. Thompson had Harpo backed up against the stall doors and I
could guess he had his gun square in the poor guy’s face. “C’mon,
move it.” If
Harpo came up short of cash—and it was very likely he
would—Thompson was just crazy enough to scrag him as casually as
he’d scragged me. There was no way I could be subtle about this. I
had to hurry and break things up now and figure out how to cover my
tracks later. Thompson,
at least, never knew what hit him. I materialized with my hands
already reaching for him, one to push his gun out of the way and the
other flowing smoothly into a solid sock to his jaw. He reeled back,
eyes rolling up, and careened off a urinal before making friends
with the peanuts on the floor. I
turned to check on Harpo. He wasn’t moving much. If he hadn’t
been braced against the stall dividers, his legs might have given
out. His eyes were wider than they’d ever been in the movies as
his gaze traveled from me to Thompson and back to me again, finally
resting on the hole in my shirt and its surrounding bloodstain.
It was a mess and it was real.
No movie fakery here. A
hundred questions raced over his face, but not one of them could get
out. He was just too damned scared. It’s
not as though I hadn’t seen his reaction before on others, but
like getting shot the familiarity never made it any less painful. I
backed away and said something stupid to him about taking it easy
and that everything was all right. I could hear his heart pounding
fit to bust and felt a stab of worry about the ashy color of his
skin. “You
okay?” I asked, hoping he’d respond. He
stared. I
repeated my question. He
gulped, grimacing perhaps, on the vomit taste left in
his mouth. “I’m .
. . fine,” he squeaked. “You
sure? You don’t look so hot.” His
mouth twitched. “Dead. I saw. You.” I
gently put a little more distance between us. “Yeah, I know. I’m
sorry.” Now
he seemed to twitch all over. “Sorry?” “I
didn’t mean to scare you. I really didn’t. I don’t want to
now.” I’d backed off as far as I could. He could run
out the door if he wanted. I wouldn’t stop him. I certainly
wasn’t going to try hypnotizing him into forgetting his fear or
into accepting me or anything like that. It’s a really shitty,
dangerous thing to mess around inside people’s minds in that way.
These nights I never did it unless at the time it seemed more shitty
and dangerous not to; this wasn’t one of those times.
Besides, who’d believe him? “Is
this some kind of a trick?” He was looking pretty damned
hollow and lost. “No
trick. Houdini I ain’t. Nothing up my sleeve but arm.” I
couldn’t lie to him, even when the temptation was there to explain
it all away as an illusion. “Then
how?” It
got real quiet as I considered just how to answer. Even a short
lecture on Romanian folklore and how it differs from actuality would
take a while to get through, and I couldn’t stand here and deliver
it in a men’s room with peanuts and Guns Thompson all over the
floor. I
said, “You ever see that Bela Lugosi movie that came out a couple
of years back?” Maybe
Harpo had seen it or not, but he suddenly understood. “It’s
sort of like that for me . . . only I’m . . . a much nicer
person.” I spread my hands, giving a little shrug, probably
looking at little hollow and lost myself. “No
kiddin’?” “No
kiddin. Except for a
couple quirks” —I touched where the wound had been— “I’m
the same as you. I like
movies and hate bullies.” Harpo
stared for a time, then his gaze
switched over to
the bank of mirrors on the wall over the sinks. They’d given him
his first clue, after all. A few minutes ago the surprise had been
enough to take his attention right off of Thompson’s immediate
threat. From where I
was standing, I could see his reflection. It peered hard at the spot
where I should
have been, but nothing was there, of course. After a time, it looked
down to where Thompson lay. Then
Harpo straightened himself a little to look directly at me. “Yeah,
you’re right. You are
a nicer person
than some people I could name.” Life’s
damn tough, and every now and then it allows you to work yourself
into having an impossible hope for something you want more than
anything else. It flashes up so fast and so hard that you can see
and know exactly what
it will be like for you to have that hope fulfilled. For a second or
two it’s absolutely real, and it’s the best feeling in the world
while it lasts, until the bright instant passes and you have to face
the black disappointment. But
this time the disappointment didn’t come. Harpo Marx spared me
that, giving me what I’d hoped for, wanted, needed. Acceptance.
Just like that. No fanfare, no questions. God
bless him. “Thanks,”
I whispered. “Does
that hurt?’ he asked, cautiously pointing to my chest. I
shook my head, to full to talk just yet. He
pointed at Thompson. “What
are you going to do with him?’ I
coughed to clear my clogged throat. “Damned if I know. Got any
ideas?” His
face had begun to take on more normal lines as the tension melted
off, and now I saw a ghost of his character’s elfin mischief flit
past. He walked over to Thompson and studied him, then stepped to
one of the sinks, turning on the tap. Cupping his hands like Higgs
before him, he slopped water onto Thompson, who jerked and jumped
and rumbled an obscene protest. Harpo
stooped and solicitously helped Thompson to his feet. Thompson was
just awake enough to see and vaguely understand what was happening.
He was just getting to the point of snarling at his benefactor, but
Harpo cut him off by landing as neat and as forceful a gut punch as
had ever been my privilege to see. He all but buried his arm up to
the elbow in Thompson’s middle, and the man immediately folded.
His breath whooshed out and was slow to return. Harpo
stood over him, watching and waiting. After a minute, Thompson,
being fairly tough, recovered
enough to straighten again. The second he was up, though, Harpo let
him have it once more. Thompson grunted and dropped to his knees. It
took a while before he was able to breathe regularly, and it took
even longer for
him to find his feet. Harpo
helped him. Thompson
should have known better. This
time Harpo’s gut punch was followed up by a hard, crisp uppercut
with just enough force behind it to finish the job. No gasping for
air for Thompson. He simply dropped. Next Christmas was about ten
months away. Maybe by then he’d wake up. Harpo
shook his hand, blowing on it, then returned to the sink to let the
cold water run over his bruised knuckles. I.
He was grinning. “I
shouldn’t have done that. Any more and I couldn’t play the harp
for our show. We’re touring, you know, trying out some acts
we’re going to use in a new movie.” he explained, referring to
his brothers. “Where’d
you learn to sock like that?” I asked. “Benny
Leonard.” he answered, dropping the name of the lightweight
champion of the world in a most unaffected manner. “We did a tour
with him once, used to take turns sparring with him. Great guy.”
He cut the water and toweled off. “Wish he could have been here to
see this. He’d a been proud of me.” I
picked up Thompson’s .45 which had fallen when I’d
hit him. It probably wouldn’t hurt to call up a homicide
cop I knew and ask if he was interested in an easy collar.
Lieutenant Blair didn’t like or trust me much, but he wasn’t
above accepting a favor when it was offered. Putting the gun in my
overcoat pocket to give to him later, I buttoned the front together
to hide the bullet hole in my bloodied shirt. I’d have to remember
to keep my back to the walls to hide the matching entry hole there. The
first cold tickle of hunger plucked at my belly and throat. It
wasn’t really critical yet, but I’d have to make time tonight to
stop at the Stockyards to feed, to replace what had been lost. Some
of it still smeared the floor. Frowning. I went to a stall, ripped
away a length of toilet paper and swabbed my blood from the tiles,
tossing the waste and flushing it away. Harpo
watched without comment, his face solemn. “I
know you’ve been through a lot,” I said, “but would you mind
doing me a favor?” “Anything
you want, buddy.” I
got out my notebook and scribbled a name and number on a page and
gave it to him. “Could you call this guy for me? Tell
him Jack Fleming is babysitting Guns Thompson here and for him to
come over right away.” He
looked dubious. “This a cop?” “Yeah,
but you can leave your name out of it if you want.” That made him
happy. “But
what about his friends?” Higgs
and Rinky. The ones in
the car outside. “They’ll
clear out the moment a patrol car pulls up.
They’re dumb, but not that dumb.” “I
owe you.” “Let’s
call it even if I can have an autograph.” Harpo
shook his head and laughed in a big way. “I’ll go you one
better. How ’bout I take you back to where
I’m staying so
I can introduce you to my brothers?” This
was almost as much of a shock as catching that bullet, only without
the pain. “Really? You mean it?” “Yeah.
I’d like them to meet the guy who saved my life.” I
sagged a little. You won’t tell ’em how, will you?” He
pulled in his lower lip, considering. “No, I don’t think that
would be a good idea. We’ll talk around it somehow.” “That’d
be great, then. Just great.”
I was suddenly grinning. He
grinned back. “Grouch’ll be there and he might know where Chico
is. I think,” he added darkly. “I need to talk with Chico. When
we were kids we were always being mistaken for one another, like
twins. I never imagined anything like this would happen because of
it, though.” “Maybe
you should wear the wig and raincoat—at least while you’re still
in Chicago.” He
nodded. “There’s an
idea. I’ll go make
that call for you, okay?
Will the cops will take long?” “I’ll
make sure they don’t.” I promised. He started to go. “Wait a
sec.” He
paused at the door. “That
stuff you were giving me about selling money—is that part of your
stage show?” His
eyes twinkled—they really did.
“Nah, that’s just a gag Chico and I do for the hell
of it. People try to figure out the catch, only there isn’t
one. It drives ’em crazy.” “Was
I crazy enough for you?” He
flashed another broad grin. “Brother, you were a pip!” I
looked at the gently closing door and decided that I’d been given
the privilege of a lifetime. The Marxes worked their butts off to
give people like me a good laugh and the chance had fallen my way to
give one back in return. And
it felt pretty damned good.
Copyright 2007 P.N. Elrod The stories posted are not released from copyright, under creative commons or any other licensing procedure. They are not for reproduction elsewhere, with the exception of small excerpts for the purpose of linking or commentary and other purposes covered under fair use. THANK YOU for respecting this! -- P.N. Elrod |
