THE PRINTS AND THE POPPER ~ ~ Lucky Epic*sode 13 ~ "LUCKY FOR YOU?" ~ By Absolutely*Kate and Harry B. Sanderford of Harbinger*33

  The *SUSPENSE*

s i z z l e s

PRESENTING

OUR

  * MURDER*MYSTERY *

* MATINEE *

 

 "THE PRINTS

 AND THE POPPER" 

FROM WHERE WE LEFT OFF

 IN OUR LAST CLIFFHANGER

*AT THE BIJOU*

CATCHING UP ON CLIFFHANGERS?

CLICK EPIC*SODES BELOW:

    

Epic'sode 12 ~ Midnight Cowboy

Epic'sode 11 ~ The Shadow Knows

Epic'sode 10 ~ The Pissing Match

 Epic'sode 9 ~ Chain, Chain, Chain 
Epic'sode 8 ~ Too Cool!

Epic'sode 7 ~ Meet Virginia
Epic'sode 6 ~ I See the Light

Epic'sode 5 ~ Lucky Shot
Epic'sode 4 ~ Hi Jinks

Epic'sode 3 ~ Groping Against Grope
Epic'sode 2 ~ The Clot Thickens
  
and the original mystery of it all ~  Epic'sode 1 ~

 THE PRINTS AND THE POPPER

 

 

    ~ ~ Lucky  
EPIC*SODE 13 ~ ~

"LUCKY FOR YOU?"

~ By Absolutely*Kate 

and 
Harry B. Sanderford

In a sure-fingered digital maneuver of surreptitousity, the ever-on-alert Sergeant Dan Stine tapped the app on his iPhone to record within the safe realms of his lower left pocket. InterNoir's hotshot Caracas and investigative ace Payne were on  a refrain decibels above the rat-a-tat-tat of their prior repartee reign. Now this could be something he could use . . . past the stingy ante-out of Commandant Phillips with local crime-scene clues. Dan was a driven man for pulling no punches while playing by the rules . . . and going after what he was after. He was nobody's fool.

Stine's smug smile at his own deft action, not being quite as surreptitious, did brook a notice, a notice now cross currenting from The Phantom on telepath to Ms Carrie all alone at her table . . . well except for her beer. She perked right up, leaned right in to the conversation and naturally, signaled the barkeep for another Coors, of course.

Stine and clever Clevenger heard it all. Sparks of  Paul. Plenty of Penny grillin' on the spitfire:

She:  "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."

He, smile simmering around his sipping:  "But how will you tell if you can trust my intel?"

She, ignoring the ploy of his play:  "Facts check themselves out. They're like library cards that way. I'll find you out and fine you if what you tell me is overdue as clue."

He:  "Fair enough Ms Payne. Looking forward to the Penny of your thoughts on the exchange."

She . . . harrumphed.

He . . . quirked.

She . . . waited . . .

He . . . smirked. "Ladies first, you know. It's the lay of the land."

She:  "Well the land deal was just part of it -- "

He:  "Boss Gabardine you mean?"

She:  "Precisely. Persistently. Purposefully. But what in particular would You say was his more powerful claim to corruption's fame?"

He:  "Boxing me into a corner eh?" He smiled, warmer than he'd first expected he'd let show, lit a Gauloise with a handy pack of Lucky Shot bar matches the even more alert barkeep Anthony V had slid his way. Now there's an affable bartender tendering a shelf-full of secrets, he reminded himself to delve into. He fingered the pack, leaned back, didn't let on what the quick scrawl inside said to fire up more than just a nicotine fix. "You're asking me On the record or Off?" He blew a little smoke screen 'round the halo of her hair. He liked how it just hung there.

She, waving his wafting away:  "Off  -- I'd prefer you didn't hold back."

He:  "We're still talking bad crimes, not good times . . . yet, righto doll?"

She . . . huffed.

He . . . puffed.

She:  "C'mon Caracas, you magnificent misogynist. Give it up."

He, smile surging all the warmer:  "No holding out on you Payne. You're some indirect direct dame. S'alright. I like you all the same. You've got gruff to your grilling. Heat to your -- "

She:  "Drop the dance Spy-Guy. Spill."

He:  "Here I was going to say what you gave heat was rather a thrill. You wound me Penelope. To the quick."

She:  "Your quick has seen 'em all Paul. Save the line for a cheap thriller on a dark night when your luck's running out the door you came in out of the relentless rain from."

He:  "Hmm, I see why your editors like you so well. You flair when you flare."

She:  "Caracas!"

He:  "Alright then. Most likely we've perused the same reports. Gabardine and his Gotham gang had been up to their nefarious neck-collars in the rackets for thirty some years before any threatening tampering from the outside."

She:  "Other gangs? Crimestoppers? Press of the press?"

He:  "All and more." He paused, watch his own smoke almost question mark his next remark. "And the call from on high."

She:  "I'd heard the rumours of that call's connection. You unequivocably confirming?"

He:  "Let's just say between two potential . . . uh . . . you know . . . " Looks were exchanged. More than mere smoke screens swirled. "Let's say you never heard nothing from me I didn't deny."

She, sorting that out somehow, but swallowing all the same, moved on in her thirst for black and whiting truth:  "All the rackets?"

He:  "All the rackets. Bookies, booze, vending machines in front lobbies to better haze backroom corporate come-ons, lucrative speculations on the Exchange, creative tax evasion, and even fixing international odds in their favour. You recall hearing of the brouhaha at the US Open in Forest Hills back in '77?"

She:  "Oh, all the rackets -- so I'd heard. Even tennis rackets for the best net results. Something about Jimmy Connors and the move to Flushing Meadows?"

He:  "You've got resources. Source the deed indeed. Who owns Flushing Meadows?"

She:  "I get your lob. I see your backhand coming. But the overhead smash? What got to Gabardine to change how he used to work so smoothly behind the scenes?"

He, with a surge to a stare that just held the proud Payne there:  "Cliche as it may be ~ Cherchez la femme." A pause in his heated consternation, "Wait. But you knew that. You just played me."

She, out of her barstool like a made-shot in the dark, a 10-spot on the counter, a little Revlon lingering now on his brow. "It's always a dame."

He, quick-clearing his head, yet feeling what lips could feel like ... potentially:  "You pun well. You going now?"

She:  "You make it too easy."

He, heedless of the self-control that always held his game in check, watched fascinated as his hand twirled a single strand of her hair, right there, where she kept her #2 Ticonderoga.  "Doll, I never make anything easy."

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

“Harry, thank Christian Dior! How on earth did you ever find me?” Jeanette excitedly exhaled.

“You just wait until my uncle hears about this Harry,” Sappy whined sitting up now and holding his ear.

“Who the hell do you think sent me Eugene? You had one simple thing to do. If you had a brain in that punching bag on your shoulders you’d know to steer clear of your uncle right now.”

“Wait, Eugene? Harry, you two know each other?” Jeanette’s jubilation was taking a turn she was becoming all too familiar with.

“I’m sorry, Jeanette meet Eugene. Eugene is just leaving,” Harry said hauling the man to his feet. Harry whispered in the ear the man was not holding. The man struggled to pull away like a boy who doesn’t like being told what to do. Harry clamped a hand on Eugene’s throat and finished what he had to say. Releasing him, Harry said loud enough for Jeanette to hear, “Leave the keys to the Charger in the ignition. Catch a bus or hitchhike, I don’t care but get some real gone between you and the boss,” and then he shoved the shaking, bleeding and stinking man in the direction of the door.

“Just a damn minute here Harry, that man’s not going anywhere. I’m calling the police!” Jeanette said fishing for her iPhone.

“Go!” Harry ordered and Eugene actually ran down the hall.

“I’m sorry Jeanette. I really am, but I’m going to need for you to give me that phone,” Harry said pulling the 45 from his waistband.

“What the hell are you into here Harry? Who is that boy’s uncle?”

“You already know Jeanette,” Harry said with a sad smile. “He’s The Boss’s sister’s boy, 215 pounds of total fuckup. Eugene Gabardine.”

* C * L * I * F * F * H * A * N * G * E * R * !

* AT THE BIJOU * 

Enjoyably return to next Sunday's Matinee

for the next gut-gripping epic'sode!

" The Prints and The Popper "

THE PRINTS AND THE POPPER ~ ~ Epic*sode 12 ~ "MIDNIGHT COWBOY" ~ By Absolutely*Kate and Harry B. Sanderford of Harbinger*33

  The *TERROR*

t e a s e s

PRESENTING

OUR

  * MURDER*MYSTERY *

* MATINEE *

 

 "THE PRINTS

 AND THE POPPER" 

FROM WHERE WE LEFT OFF

 IN OUR LAST CLIFFHANGER

*AT THE BIJOU*

CATCHING UP ON CLIFFHANGERS?

CLICK EPIC*SODES BELOW:

    

Epic'sode 11 ~ The Shadow Knows

Epic'sode 10 ~ The Pissing Match

 Epic'sode 9 ~ Chain, Chain, Chain 
Epic'sode 8 ~ Too Cool!

Epic'sode 7 ~ Meet Virginia
Epic'sode 6 ~ I See the Light

Epic'sode 5 ~ Lucky Shot
Epic'sode 4 ~ Hi Jinks

Epic'sode 3 ~ Groping Against Grope
Epic'sode 2 ~ The Clot Thickens
  
and the original mystery of it all ~  Epic'sode 1 ~

 THE PRINTS AND THE POPPER

 

 

 

~ ~ EPIC*SODE 12 ~ ~

"MIDNIGHT COWBOY"

 ~ or ~

"DELVE TWELVE"

~ or ~

"Keep the Change

from the Dozen, Cousin"

~ Har and I had a plethora of Epic'sode titles;

Care to help us out?  ~

~ By Absolutely*Kate 

and 
Harry B. Sanderford

"There is an elegant art to detection my new friend." Caracas smiled complacently at the amber in a glass which had the sense to have a bartender who maintained it at more than half-full. 

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Observation. Reflection." His tumbler swirled. His trained demeanor wouldn't dare. "On occasion, Refraction -- seeing how what once enlightened can be lit in entirely different perspicacious perceptions."

"So that's what you've been doing all this time -- Detecting, refracting? Here I thought you were just drinkin' and swallowing up the local atmosphere. Top you off?"

Go at it, Caracas nodded, simultaneously intent on all The Lucky was pouring out this evening --  the detective discourse with the eager-eyed lad to his right, the press pondering front and center, the Lieutenant and the shadowy lady near the front of where the back room took over, and the twitch of the suave barkeep each time he opened a conversational pundit upon . . . detecting. Palpable at best, there were tensions under talents. He'd bet his bottom euro and the villa in the south of France, if only he still had it. That's why this case mattered. Coffer-filling manner to means. On both sides of the coin. This Anthony of the Lucky Shot local saloon had tasted out-of-luck and spit it out once or thrice. He could tell. Types always told. This one? Too quiet for his own bold. What was he in on? And could he be trusted as a fast foil?

Though a dozen conjectures appeared humid and hazy in Hazelton from a day's worth of liquidation duty, an InterNoir gent must do what an InterNoir gent must do. Someone had to. He'd been called in on the crime when it was still in the making. Best way to see a spin before it had a dangle to tangle, a pot to spit in, a skein to unravel --

"You're Paul Caracas, orbiting InterNoir star, correct? I have questions. My readers appreciate succint answers."

Though he'd seen her purposeful stride, and the solemnity in her eye of a woman who got what she came looking for, Caracas liked what he was looking for all the more from private eye to public view.

"Ahhh, Penelope Payne I presume. Reporter of rabid rep. The minute you walked in the joint I could tell you were a dame of distinction -- "

"Yeah, yeah - a real big spender of quality time. Listen artful dodger. You have a who to who-done-it?

"Could be."

"Already?"

"Could be."

"You sharing?"

"Could."

"How?"

"You know."

"You mean?"

"I should."

"But you won't?"

"Must finish the job I've been started on Miss. But then -- "

"Yeah, yeah. I've heard it all - true bliss?"

Caracas smiled way back in his eyes where the low growl on out-of-town nights preferred to prowl. Payne's not a pushover. This held sport. He rather favoured sport.

"Let us count the ways . . . "

Her eyes flickered but her retendree never blinked.

"Don't swerve. Who pulled the plug on Sparky? Where's the beloved BIJOU film reviewer Jeanette? Why was Chester seen in town when Sparky Denton was known to be his replacement because he was up on misdemeanors out of town? You know how to make the room move when you meet a lady worth the tango?"

Paul Caracas didn't flinch. Not even with that billiards babe Carrie-something-or-other gesturing a frantic thumb in the air configuration and mouthing, well, never mind.

   "One - The prone projectionist was a clear cut case
      of poison popcorn made to preoccupy
      the premiere crime scene. 

   Two - Smoke and mirrors make better illusions
    come to play.

   Three - Some say it packs the house. 

   Four - A packed house leaves an open door. 

   Five - An out-of-town job
    needs and out-of-town perp. 

   Six - Misdemeanors are never what they seem.

   Seven - Never met a tango needing turned down. We've got five more numbers to even the odds on a dozen by midnight. You got a nickel Penny? Stoke the nickelodeon. Play Misty for me."

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Leon finished his drink and made a bottoms up gesture for Eddie to pick up the pace with his beer, “We have to stop and pick up a Happy Meal on our way, better get moving.” 

“You’re going to see Fat-Cop!” Stine accused. “What did you find?”

Alan Burger’s nickname started out Fat-Al, a play on the word fatal due to his propensity in the early days of his career to shoot rather than chase a suspect. His natural laziness coupled with a proclivity for the food that shared his name, numbered his days as a beat cop. Before he hung it up to ride a desk full time, a suspect who did survive to see the interrogation room asked of Al and his partner, “What is this, good-cop fat-cop?” It stuck.

“So, now you want to share information?” Leon grinned. 

Stine knew there was no point in reading Leon the rulebook, “Cheeseburger, curly fries and a rootbeer’s the goin’ rate. If he talked you into a shake you’re getting old my friend.”

Leon paid his bill and bought another round for Stine, “Looks like your InterNoir date’s getting chummy with the press Dan. Be careful.”

“Copy that Podnah.” 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Sappy’s cowering whimper ended with the short report of Jeanette’s derringer pistol. Click…Click. “Godammit!” Jeanette broke Virginia open to stare in disbelief at the two empty chambers staring back. Sappy uncoiled from his fetal position still reeking of urine and cowardice and never once thought of counting his blessings.  He swept a leg catching Jeanette off guard and sent her sprawling. He leapt upon her and seized her by the throat. 

Jeanette hammered with her fists and bicycled her legs but she hadn’t drawn a good breath. She was leaving and she knew it. She hated going at the hands of such a pussy. She did not close her eyes, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She couldn’t talk but if looks could kill, she meant to stare this son of a bitch straight into hell . . . and then, over Sappy’s shoulder she saw an angel. Oh crap, what’s next trumpets? she thought. Before she finished her thought the angel clobbered Sappy with an enormous nickel-plated pistol and sent the bastard tumbling. The angel went on to kick and stomp the living shit out of the once again cowering sap and with each gasp of sweet oxygen her angel came more fully into focus. “Harry!”

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Mary Lou came with their order and placing the tray on the table read back the receipt, “Okay, that’s 8 mini cheeseburgers and an order of 9 chicken nuggets to split. Comes to 10 dollars and 11 cents.” 

Sugar was between paychecks and down to laundry quarters, most of which she had spent on combs from that damn irresistible vending machine in the men’s room. Zelda dug around in her pocketbook and came up with a five and eight ones. She smoothed the wrinkly pile keeping one dollar for her lotto ticket and slid the pile to Mary Lou saying, “Sorry Doll, all I have right now is 12 bucks, but you keep the change from the dozen cousin!”

Legs stretched out, sitting sideways in the Dairy Queen booth, Zelda spun the little bullet on the table between her and Sugar. 

“You know, technically that is evidence,” Sugar pointed out dipping a nugget. 

* C * L * I * F * F * H * A * N * G * E * R * !

* AT THE BIJOU * 

Enjoyably return to next Sunday's Matinee

for the next gut-gripping epic'sode!

" The Prints and The Popper "

THE PRINTS AND THE POPPER ~ ~ Epic*sode 11 ~ ~ "THE SHADOW KNOWS" ~ By Absolutely*Kate and Harry B. Sanderford of Harbinger*33

  The *INTRIGUE*

w h i s p e r  s

PRESENTING

OUR

  * MURDER*MYSTERY *

* MATINEE *

 

 "THE PRINTS

 AND THE POPPER" 

FROM WHERE WE LEFT OFF

 IN OUR LAST CLIFFHANGER

*AT THE BIJOU*

CATCHING UP ON CLIFFHANGERS?

CLICK EPIC*SODES BELOW:

    

Epic'sode 10 ~ The Pissing Match

 Epic'sode 9 ~ Chain, Chain, Chain 
Epic'sode 8 ~ Too Cool!

Epic'sode 7 ~ Meet Virginia
Epic'sode 6 ~ I See the Light

Epic'sode 5 ~ Lucky Shot
Epic'sode 4 ~ Hi Jinks

Epic'sode 3 ~ Groping Against Grope
Epic'sode 2 ~ The Clot Thickens
  
and the original mystery of it all ~  Epic'sode 1 ~

 THE PRINTS AND THE POPPER

 

 

 

~ ~ EPIC*SODE 11 ~ ~

" THE SHADOW KNOWS"

~ By Absolutely*Kate 

and 
Harry B. Sanderford

Now reputations may flare up and reputations may die down and reputations even get run away from time to time, but instincts ~ well those reflex mechanisms will never die young. The Cheezum family fortune was not based as all present and accounted history states upon the coal, iron and steel industries foundrying along our great country. No, many hits happened along the way to easy Cheezum Street. Many hits indeed. It's true ~ Boss Gabardine was familiar with the family fabric of Boss Tweed. The lines between them ran straight as  zigzag seams it seems. Tough texture, both familes. The rough stuff of nightmares. Not dreams. 

Let's listen in at The Lucky, the Lucky Shot, where contemplative action is chugging possibilities and suspicions this stirred-up night in usually halcyon Hazelton. Penelope Payne, crack investigative reporter has noted being noted by the InterNoir hotshot she notably recalled as notorious in circumspect circles. Her theories now past conjectures, need a recounting to a trusted mind. For almost an hour Carrie Clevenger (accompanied by three robust cups of the Lucky's truest brew) has been drinking Penelope's thinking in ~ past tales of rum-runners and backdoor secret-knock-knowers supplying what Lucky Luciano needed when the need be rum, gin or guns. And instincts ~ there was a huge spiel spilled about how history repeats itself with instincts.

"They called her Fast Frannie back then, little Jeanette. They did, Carrie. She was a tomboy and a fun girl. She could bat her eyelashes as well as she could out towards the centerfield fence. She was an avid and astute learner. I've been through all her school records, city affadavits where community service was her very generous upfront thing, and for a month as hot as July down South -- "

"Was it July?" With a glint to her eye, Carrie couldn't help interrupting her pal Payne when that super-serious dame was tapping her folder of sources and showing off her reporter's notebook of notes, quotes and the multitudious observances she wrote. She wrote to get to the bottom of what was up. Investigative reporters of a normal sort admired her style, her wile. For Penelope Payne was NO normal sort. Carrie was one of the few she let in, an aimiable cohort, a partner in oncoming crime that the bylines never saw coming.

Sigh, "Yes Carrie ~ it was July. You pleased with your reading between the lines when they're presented right on top of themselves to you? Now, may I continue?"

Smirk, "Carry on."

Consulting her notes to test the lead-in for the Cheezum glory story to run on the missing Jeanette of BIJOU fame, the definitive journalism dame, Penny Payne painted brush stroke hues to her news. Notorious word scenes had a certain shimmer to bring new light around the bend to reader' senses and sensibilites, "Yes, Jeanette was the quintessential quick study. From handlebar stunts on Schwinns to what her brother Davie's Daisy BB gun could hole up on fence posts or neighborhood bullies' backsides. When needed, she'd ace play the girl-card in delicate Southern style, 'Ah do declarah Ah'm sooo vaahry saahrry! Why ah didn't know what this little wiggly thing would do if Ah squeezed it just right -- ' " 

Even with Carrie's rapt attention sturdily propped on her elbows at their table, her jaw still dropped plenty, "You're talking about the bro's BB gun right?!?"

Penny practically shook the #2 Eberhard from behind her ear with the chuckle that led to the guffaw that pushed aside her careful notes that answered her trusted friend's wide open eyes. Following a drunken day's escapades, Carrie was certainly wakening sharply to the story of the night. Penny swig-sipped her scotch and pushed the pottery mug Anthony had thrice ceremoniously plopped on their table just a little closer to the baffled dame. "Of course stooge. Where was your mind at?"

On cue, the Phantom jangled another nickel in, in the Lucky's nickelodeon. It actually cost a quarter to play the juke box, but spirited as he was, an adept-ability at getting his nickel's worth out of slinging slugs was a constant source of pride.The Lads from Liverpool serenaded the ambiance of the late lingering crowd. "Happiness is a warm gun -- "

Coffee snorted right across Penelope's copious notepad and colour-coded files. Carrie was laughing too hard to even apologize and the fellows at the bar turned stare to glare when the ruckus at Table Four regaled those Lucky folk still swaying on the dance floor. Both girls picked up the lyrics and belted out, "Bang bang -- shoot shoot."

Lieutenant Phillips heard "shoot shoot" and left his shadows to dance themselves against the wall.

Sergeant Stine caught his supposed superior's murky movement just in time to cease and desist the affirmative nods of his heated conversation with InterNoir's top gun Paul Caracas. 

Proprietor Anthony V crossed his arms, leaned his caliber against his favourite sign of the times and nodded to the music that always played inside his own noggin. Just another night at The Lucky.

"So as I was SAYING ~ , " Penelope shook her head again, sopping smears from marked-up margins of her once upon a crime pristine notepad, reconsulted her precise storyline and swirled the circumstances out for a second opinion's piping in. "Fast Franny J knew her way around firearms and clean shots and dirty dealings -- "

The sudden shadow abrupted all further swirlcomstances. This conversation was tabled.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

The shadow had a voice. A shaky voice, but a voice.

"Um, Carrie, Ms Payne, have either of you two seen Lieutenant Phillips? I, uh, received word that he'd be here at The Lucky Shot uh Tavern, and uh, er, I have a message to deliver, um, personally to him."

Savvy tells, as savvy always does. Especially intensified femme-savvy with antennae on alert. For even the waning inebriation saw through the flutter of the stutter of the always poised and proper piano teacher about town, young and lithe Mrs Laurita Poe. Classic ivory keys indeed. This gal could pound some rag time too. Penelope and Carrie shared that kind of knowing glance. Their lyrics though came out discordant:

"How the hell would I know Laurita?", Carrie lighthearted out with an eyebrow arch for good staging support.

Penelope tipped her tousel towards the Lucky's darkened hallway to the back room. "You'll find the man you're looking for at the corner table with the best view of the bar." After a short pause of a quick think, she tossed in, softly, "Good luck Mrs Poe, good luck."

“Thank you Ms Payne, I read you in The Holler. I guess you’ll have quite a column to write about all this sadness AT THE BIJOU," Laurita replied eyeing the drinks on the table. 

“Pick up tomorrow’s Holler, I’ll have something ready for deadline, and call me Penny. It’s Laurita, right?” 

“Yes Laurita, Laurita Poe. I’m very pleased to meet you. I better deliver that message now but I’ll look for your column tomorrow.” Penelope circled the rim of her glass with her index finger and Laurita thought she had never been inside a bar when she needed a drink more.

 ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Lieutenant Phillips took selective notice of the happy hours that swirled around him. The sharp crack of pool balls colliding, the tinkling of ice against glass, or the carefree laughter of labor unburdened were of little concern. He drank and quietly reviewed his list. Those that were on it were suspects, those that were not were civilians and therefore did not exist. A civilian approaching him however was grounds for making his list. “Hello Ms Poe, how are you this evening?”

 ~  ~  ~  ~  ~ 

Leon caught Anthony’s eye and held his forefinger two inches from his thumb. “Give my partner here a light beer too,” he added jerking the same thumb over his shoulder at Eddie. “How’s tricks?” he offered with a nod to his old partner Dan Stine. 

“Everything’s copacetic Big Mon,” Stine shot back quoting a favorite author the two shared. 

“Good to hear it, you and the Constable got anything on the BIJOU case so far?”

“Well podnah, that’s classified information now that you’ve gone freelance. Did I hear you say this youngster is your partner?”

“That’s right, Eddie I want you to meet Sergeant Daniel Stine.” 

Eddie wiped beer sweat off his palm onto his pants leg and shot out his hand for a shake. “Nice to meet you officer,” Eddie said with complete sincerity.   

Daniel shook the boy's hand and told him, “You listen to this man son. He’s as good as they come.” Turning his attention back to Leon he said, “I mean that partner, you want back in all you have to do is say the word.”

“Thanks Dan, but the Bobbsey twins from homicide are out of business I’m afraid,” Leon replied quasi-quoting the same favored author and clapping a big hand on his old friend’s shoulder. 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Laurita Poe leaned in, slowly. Laurita Poe whispered, gently. Take heed. Laurita Poe's mission of a message was delivered up close and personal to Lieutenant Phillips. 

Indeed.

* C * L * I * F * F * H * A * N * G * E * R * !

* AT THE BIJOU * 

Please return to next Sunday's Matinee

for the next gut-gripping epic'sode!

" The Prints and The Popper "