“Will the owner of the blue late model Nissan Sentra with the California license number of 23HNEY4669KRAALS92115BASUCKER138MOPPA161HIRCUS184207CIVIS230EBLANENSIS253 please report to the parking lot. Your license plate is blocking the fire lane.”
After hearing this, I do a double-take. Fred goes on to say…
“To whoever owns such a car—you run the risk of having the car cited for having such a frivolous plate.”
This gets an immediate reaction from a woman in the second row—whom I recognize immediately as my sister Janet. She is two years younger than I. She has the same coloring as I do; she too wears glasses; and she’s not quite so chunky as I am.
“A blue Nissan, Sir?” Janet asks.
“Yes,” says Fred.
“Oh, god,” mutters Janet. “It got put back! I’ll go out and fix it.” Janet exits the theater; as she walks up the aisle she takes a small screwdriver out of her purse. She wears a dark blue dress and black pumps. Her husband Pat, who resembles Steven Spielberg, waits for her in the audience.
“Janet has a lot of collections of unusual items in her home,” I tell Fred. “I’m puzzled, though—she lives in Utah, not California.”
“Didn’t you tell us Janet has a daughter living in Placer County?”
“Oh, that’s right. Her daughter is Lee Wieczorek Estrada. That’s probably Lee’s car.” Lee may have her mother’s taste for collecting things…
Meanwhile, the audience, which, of course, laughed at Fred’s initial announcement, gets visibly impatient.
Fred and I sense this. I go backstage, just as Fred says, “Ladies and gentlemen—The Cigar Band!”
The audience applauds. Jerry, Jeanette, Phil, and Johnny start by playing “Help Me, Rhonda,” opening with the lyric Dave Barry mentioned in his Book of Bad Songs:
Well, since she put me down
There’s been owls pukin’ in my bed… 
The audience laughs. I think I made my point to Johnny.
Now, as The Cigar Band continues, Alice and I go into a private dressing room we’ve used before.
She is in seventh heaven—and as I settle on a large leather couch in the room, she slowly undresses. She strips down to her panties and then sits on my lap. She takes her glasses—and mine—off, and sets them on the end table.
With her arms wrapped around me (beneath the wings), and our faces very close together, she speaks.
“I have a friend named Marion who is a senior secretary at the consul office. She says she thinks that Mum and Dad and I are to get that inheritance—the lion’s share of Sikes-Potter’s estate!”
We kiss and hug. On an impulse I squeeze one of her breasts.
“You never quit, do you?” she says, holding me close. She unzips my fly and thrusts her hand into my shorts, giving me an instant hardon. Thus encouraged, I lift her off me, stand her up, and pull her panties off, and lay her on the couch. We have a quickie right then and there.
“Oh, Alice, honey,” I say, still on top of her, “I think I know how we got our wings.”
“How?”
“Way back, in November 2002, we were in a swimming pool—”
“Oh, yes, I think I remember. We hadn’t formally met yet. It must have been something in the water.” 
Then we hear a knock, and Daniel’s voice coming through the door: “Oh, Lissie, you’re on in five minutes!”
“Oh, dear,” says Alice. I get off her; she wipes herself with paper towels, and gets dressed. So do I. We leave the dressing room; Alice returns to the wings just as Arthur and Lena have set up the instruments and such on stage for Prester John’s Aunt. Alice, Gwen, Lena, and Amy come on stage.
Meanwhile, I notice a wheelchair being pushed by a nurse in uniform, at the entrance to the auditorium area. Seated in the wheelchair, wearing a heavy robe, is Hannah Goes Oranjeboom. Accompanying her is her still-teary husband Cornelis, holding their new baby Harold. Also with them, and also teary, are Pete and Loora, the new grandparents. They all sit in the back row with Hannah in the wheelchair on the aisle. I know Pete will be on stage himself soon enough, as a penguin. And now Claudia has come backstage; the shapely Susan Bradley, in a fetching outfit, signs to her.
Apparently, she’s informing her of Harold’s birth because I see her react joyfully. At the same time, Gwen approaches me and–with a minute to go before she has to be onstage–asks…
“Have you seen my guitar?”
“No, I haven’t,” I say. “Er—I’ll look for it, but maybe you can borrow one from Jeanette or from the Punk Band.”
“Oh, all right,” says Gwen with a sigh. She locates Jeanette; The Cigar Band has just finished. Jeanette has two guitars with her; she hands one to Gwen, who thanks her and tests it, and decides it’s satisfactory. She goes on stage with Alice, Lena, and Amy.
I give Alice a telepathic message, but she interrupts me; she says, Gwen told me already, Luv. I acknowledge. Then Eloise, at the footlights, says “Ladies and Gentlemen—Prester John’s Aunt!”
The audience applauds. I see Howie Albert—long since recovered from the sword attack and sitting with his parents, in the third row. I sense that Howie has met Lena by now. (Since I understand that he is apparently gay, and I know Lena is too, I had not expected that there would be any social contact between them. I remember the end of an Our Gang short in which Mickey Gubitosi says about a girl, “She doesn’t like boys, and I don’t like girls—so we decided to hang around together.” :p)
Now, with Prester John’s Aunt thundering away on stage, I go around backstage and look for Gwen’s guitar; I go to other rooms.
Finally, I find it on a counter at the back of the lounge. I don’t get within twenty feet of it, before I switch my ESP on full force. No booby traps; nobody lying in wait; Gwen’s guitar is just there.
“Excuse me, _______,” says a ghostly voice. It’s Ulrica Werdin.
“Could you wait before you go over and pick Gwen’s guitar up? She should retrieve it—she may have some idea why it’s in here.”
“Like it was sneaked away as a prank, perhaps?” I ask.
“Perhaps,” Ulrica answers. “I have a feeling Gwen might know why it’s here. You or Alice should tell her as soon as possible.”
“OK, Ulrica, if you like I’ll send Alice a message as soon as they finish this song.”
“That’ll be a moment or so,” says the ghost. “Go ahead.”
I send a telepathic message to Alice.
I read you, Honey, she replies. The lounge? I think I know how that happened…
“Go ahead and photograph it if you like,” says Ulrica.
I nod. I find Alice’s Minolta and take pictures of the guitar from several angles. I also write down my observations on a note pad; I’ll give it to Gwen when I return to the stage.
Now Prester John’s Aunt continues their set. I stay in the wings. Alice’s band plays several numbers. I see Sylvia and George Stanhouse taking notes and discussing the performance, with Mary Blonda. And there’s another man seated near Stanhouse; I haven’t seen him before. He looks a lot like Robert Webber, who played the ad-man juror in 12 Angry Men. He takes notes and I wonder if he’s a talent scout. And Lorraine Adler sits nearby, with her own notepad.
The band finishes up now and gets a rousing ovation. I embrace Alice happily; I congratulate Amy, Lena and Gwen—to whom I give the notes. She reads them and nods, as if to say, I think I know what’s going on.
Now Arthur, Lena, and I remove the instruments, chairs, and stands from the stage; then Claudia Hart and Johnny Goss approach; she’s now going to do her mime act. The Morpheus is eerily silent as Claudia signs to the audience; Johnny breaks the silence to speak what Claudia is signing. He sits at the piano to play occasional riffs, and he announces the title of each skit, but for the most part the theater is silent.
I see The Contralto Quartet in the wings now; the statuesque and buxom Jane, Jeanette, Amy, and Sally wear white gowns that emphasize their preposterous proportions. The penguin act and Doris Sharp’s Punk Band will follow.
Now, the silence of Claudia’s performance is interrupted occasionally by a riff from Johnny’s piano. Gwen, who is satisfied now and apparently has retrieved her guitar, sends a telepathic message to Alice and me:
“Have you seen my guitar?”
“No, I haven’t,” I say. “Er—I’ll look for it, but maybe you can borrow one from Jeanette or from the Punk Band.”
“Oh, all right,” says Gwen with a sigh. She locates Jeanette; The Cigar Band has just finished. Jeanette has two guitars with her; she hands one to Gwen, who thanks her and tests it, and decides it’s satisfactory. She goes on stage with Alice, Lena, and Amy.
I give Alice a telepathic message, but she interrupts me; she says, Gwen told me already, Luv. I acknowledge. Then Eloise, at the footlights, says “Ladies and Gentlemen—Prester John’s Aunt!”
The audience applauds. I see Howie Albert—long since recovered from the sword attack and sitting with his parents, in the third row. I sense that Howie has met Lena by now. (Since I understand that he is apparently gay, and I know Lena is too, I had not expected that there would be any social contact between them. I remember the end of an Our Gang short in which Mickey Gubitosi says about a girl, “She doesn’t like boys, and I don’t like girls—so we decided to hang around together.” :p)
Now, with Prester John’s Aunt thundering away on stage, I go around backstage and look for Gwen’s guitar; I go to other rooms.
Finally, I find it on a counter at the back of the lounge. I don’t get within twenty feet of it, before I switch my ESP on full force. No booby traps; nobody lying in wait; Gwen’s guitar is just there.
“Excuse me, _______,” says a ghostly voice. It’s Ulrica Werdin.
“Could you wait before you go over and pick Gwen’s guitar up? She should retrieve it—she may have some idea why it’s in here.”
“Like it was sneaked away as a prank, perhaps?” I ask.
“Perhaps,” Ulrica answers. “I have a feeling Gwen might know why it’s here. You or Alice should tell her as soon as possible.”
“OK, Ulrica, if you like I’ll send Alice a message as soon as they finish this song.”
“That’ll be a moment or so,” says the ghost. “Go ahead.”
I send a telepathic message to Alice.
I read you, Honey, she replies. The lounge? I think I know how that happened…
“Go ahead and photograph it if you like,” says Ulrica.
I nod. I find Alice’s Minolta and take pictures of the guitar from several angles. I also write down my observations on a note pad; I’ll give it to Gwen when I return to the stage.
Now Prester John’s Aunt continues their set. I stay in the wings. Alice’s band plays several numbers. I see Sylvia and George Stanhouse taking notes and discussing the performance, with Mary Blonda. And there’s another man seated near Stanhouse; I haven’t seen him before. He looks a lot like Robert Webber, who played the ad-man juror in 12 Angry Men. He takes notes and I wonder if he’s a talent scout. And Lorraine Adler sits nearby, with her own notepad.
The band finishes up now and gets a rousing ovation. I embrace Alice happily; I congratulate Amy, Lena and Gwen—to whom I give the notes. She reads them and nods, as if to say, I think I know what’s going on.
Now Arthur, Lena, and I remove the instruments, chairs, and stands from the stage; then Claudia Hart and Johnny Goss approach; she’s now going to do her mime act. The Morpheus is eerily silent as Claudia signs to the audience; Johnny breaks the silence to speak what Claudia is signing. He sits at the piano to play occasional riffs, and he announces the title of each skit, but for the most part the theater is silent.
I see The Contralto Quartet in the wings now; the statuesque and buxom Jane, Jeanette, Amy, and Sally wear white gowns that emphasize their preposterous proportions. The penguin act and Doris Sharp’s Punk Band will follow.
Now, the silence of Claudia’s performance is interrupted occasionally by a riff from Johnny’s piano. Gwen, who is satisfied now and apparently has retrieved her guitar, sends a telepathic message to Alice and me:
The damned browser finked out on me; it printed my last reply twice before I could get the proper display on the screen… :mad:
"Thanks for finding my guitar. I guess I was so distracted by what was going on in the lounge that I lost track of it. I don’t know if you were aware of it but, when I was in the lounge, I…
“…sensed the appearance of a new ghost.”
Gwen sure seems to have a handle on things.
Claudia’s mime act continues as I call Alice over. In fact, now, Gwen and Alice step over to me. The three of us communicate by thought so as not to disrupt Claudia’s performance.
Tell us about the new ghost, Gwen, Alice begins.
Sure, an’ that won’t be necessary, says a telepathic voice, in a lilting Irish brogue.
Alice, Gwen, and I turn to the voice, which is downstage from us.
Sure enough, there’s a new ghost—wearing a nineteenth-century baseball player’s uniform. He raises both arms and says,
I am Anthony John Mullane, major-league baseball pitcher, deceased since 1944. I played in the majors for thirteen seasons; I pitched one no-hit game; and I’m one of the few ambidexters ever to flourish in any endeavor.
This baseball ghost means us no harm. We sense he is a DXM ghost.
In fact, he continues, I know about some of the things going on here. For example, Miss Berry, your guitar was left in the lounge by a curious employee of Mr. Galloway’s annex—another waiter, who examined the instrument but was afraid to face you or anyone else to return it, when the show began.
Gwen asks, Do you know who that employee is? We’ll probably want to discuss this with Mr. Galloway.
He was a pudgy fellow with real short brown hair and a mole behind his left ear, says Mullane.
Alice nods. I think I know who that is—one of Mr. Galloway’s waiters, Harrison Companion.
Well, let’s tell George or Betty during intermission, I comment.
You may call me Tony, or Antoine, or The Count, if you like, says Mullane. I’m from County Cork, Ireland.
While we’re at it, Count, I say, *Do you know anything about that man in the black suit, near the right end of the front row? He has black hair and is clean-shaven and wears glasses.
I’ll go have a look,* Mullane says. He goes; Alice, Gwen, and I wait.
Now Mullane returns, He hovers in front of us and says, *He’s writing comments, like that dark-haired young woman and that paunchy older man [Stanhouse]. I figure he’s either a critic or a talent scout.
Thanks, Tony,* says Alice.
Now Claudia finishes her act. The audience stands up to show appreciation; they wave arms and hats and things, to communicate to the deaf girl that they are delighted with her performance. She takes her bows and steps off stage.
The curtain goes down for intermission; The Contralto Quartet will begin the second half. We congratulate Ms. Hart in the wings. Susan Bradley compliments her in ASL; Brian Brown comes over and kisses her. She hugs him as if she’s never enjoyed a boy’s attention like that before.
We introduce Tony to Fred and Mr. Galloway in the wings, before we all go into the lounge.
Fred tells us Parker has said that Arty Morty is facing a DXM hearing in the Galaxy 100 office in a few days; Parker will want Alice and me to testify.
Meanwhile, we tell George Galloway about Harrison Companion taking Gwen’s guitar into the lounge. He sighs and says he’ll have to reprimand the waiter.
“He’s a son of that former Ragnarok CEO, Stony L. Companion,” Galloway says, “and he…”
he’s running out of jobs I can put him in."
“If he’s not a good worker, why do you keep him on your payroll?” I ask.
“I’m doing it as a favor,” Galloway explains. "You see…
“…spotted a thief who was apparently about to break into my car several months ago.”
“Go on,” I say.
“I had gone with Samantha to a medical building down on Amoruso—she and I had dental appointments. When we left the dentist’s office, we looked out a window at my car. We saw this troublesome-looking character moving furtively through the lot and approaching the car. Samantha and I saw him take a prying tool out—he was going to jimmy the door open. Then some young fellow saw him and sped across the lot. He jumped the would-be car thief and got him in a hammerlock. We hurried out of the building—I called 911. When we approached the car, the young fellow had overpowered the punk. A moment later a police car approached.
“To make a long story short, the thief pleaded guilty and he’s now in the county jail. The young fellow turned out to be Harrison Companion, Stony’s son. He seemed to be down and out, and I offered him work.”
Alice asks, “Where was the lot guard while this was going on?”
“Sleeping,” says Galloway ruefully. “I complained to the building owner, who had the lazy man fired.”
“Do you think Harrison is a thief, Mr. Galloway?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “He’s more like Archie in the comics—well-intentioned but tending to screw things up. I’ll have to talk to him.”
“You know, I think there’s someone who could help Harrison,” I say.
“Who?” ask Alice and Mr. Galloway in unison.
“Ruth Newport. I don’t mean that Harrison is like Shane Gilbert, but that she is a professional rehabilitator and she might be able to help him…”
“Oh, ______, I thought of something else,” says Alice, standing close to me. “Remember that little gift shop next door to your optometrist’s? The woman you said you went to school with?”
“Rowena Hickerson?”
“That’s the one. I was over there with Hermione last week—we bought some Fanky Malloon merchandise. She said she was looking for an assistant—someone to look after things while she ran the business in the back room.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” George says. “After the performance I’ll call Ms. Hickerson and send Harrison over there—to see if he’d fit in at Rowena’s shop.”
“What’s the difference between him fumbling here and fumbling at Rowena’s place?” I ask.
“Rowena is a natural rehabilitator,” says Hermione, who has been listening. “She once took a convicted child molester and put him to work. He now runs a food delivery service and has stayed clean ever since. An Archie Andrews-type bumbler is a piece of cake compared to that.”
“All right,” says Mr. Galloway. “I’ll also contact Ruth Newport.”
Now flashing lights tell us the intermission is over. We return to the wings. Jeanette, Jane, Amy, and Sally prepare to come on stage as George Galloway, Eloise Sharp, and Professor Stollwitz open the second half. The penguin act, Doris Sharp’s Punk Band, and Kwisp and Kwake will follow the Contralto Quartet.
The four stately women walk on stage to the cheers of the audience—including catcalls from some of the horny young men in the seats. The tall, buxom singers begin with the barbershop-quartet song “Goodbye My Coney Island Baby,” sung (off-key) in an episode of Emergency!
“…spotted a thief who was apparently about to break into my car several months ago.”
“Go on,” I say.
“I had gone with Samantha to a medical building down on Amoruso—she and I had dental appointments. When we left the dentist’s office, we looked out a window at my car. We saw this troublesome-looking character moving furtively through the lot and approaching the car. Samantha and I saw him take a prying tool out—he was going to jimmy the door open. Then some young fellow saw him and sped across the lot. He jumped the would-be car thief and got him in a hammerlock. We hurried out of the building—I called 911. When we approached the car, the young fellow had overpowered the punk. A moment later a police car approached.
“To make a long story short, the thief pleaded guilty and he’s now in the county jail. The young fellow turned out to be Harrison Companion, Stony’s son. He seemed to be down and out, and I offered him work.”
Alice asks, “Where was the lot guard while this was going on?”
“Sleeping,” says Galloway ruefully. “I complained to the building owner, who had the lazy man fired.”
“Do you think Harrison is a thief, Mr. Galloway?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “He’s more like Archie in the comics—well-intentioned but tending to screw things up. I’ll have to talk to him.”
“You know, I think there’s someone who could help Harrison,” I say.
“Who?” ask Alice and Mr. Galloway in unison.
“Ruth Newport. I don’t mean that Harrison is like Shane Gilbert, but that she is a professional rehabilitator and she might be able to help him…”
“Oh, ______, I thought of something else,” says Alice, standing close to me. “Remember that little gift shop next door to your optometrist’s? The woman you said you went to school with?”
“Rowena Hickerson?”
“That’s the one. I was over there with Hermione last week—we bought some Fanky Malloon merchandise. She said she was looking for an assistant—someone to look after things while she ran the business in the back room.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” George says. “After the performance I’ll call Ms. Hickerson and send Harrison over there—to see if he’d fit in at Rowena’s shop.”
“What’s the difference between him fumbling here and fumbling at Rowena’s place?” I ask.
“Rowena is a natural rehabilitator,” says Hermione, who has been listening. “She once took a convicted child molester and put him to work. He now runs a food delivery service and has stayed clean ever since. An Archie Andrews-type bumbler is a piece of cake compared to that.”
“All right,” says Mr. Galloway. “I’ll also contact Ruth Newport.”
Now flashing lights tell us the intermission is over. We return to the wings. Jeanette, Jane, Amy, and Sally prepare to come on stage as George Galloway, Eloise Sharp, and Professor Stollwitz open the second half. The penguin act, Doris Sharp’s Punk Band, and Kwisp and Kwake will follow the Contralto Quartet.
The four stately women walk on stage to the cheers of the audience—including catcalls from some of the horny young men in the seats. The tall, buxom singers begin with the barbershop-quartet song “Goodbye My Coney Island Baby,” sung (off-key) in an episode of Emergency!
Again I must apologize to the moderator, and the Teeming Millions in general–the browser screwed up and printed that last post twice!
Then, they do something unexpected. Just as they get about halfway through “Goodbye My Coney Island Baby,” Jeanette suddenly stops and interrupts their opening number.
“Hold on, hold on,” she says. “We’re not doing this song. Let’s do the other one.”
I hear Jeanette softly count to four and, without hesitation, she and the rest of the Contralto Quartet launch into a surprising performance of…
“Goody Goody,” a bouncy song made popular by various artists in the late fifties, including Frankie Lymon & The Teenagers. The whole audience is surprised. It’s rare indeed that anyone would interrupt a performance like that!
It’s also rare to hear “Goody Goody” sung in four-part harmony!
The audience applauds, however, when Jeanette and the others finish the song. I decide to ask them, before I go on, why they did that.
Now, they get the downbeat from Johnny Goss at the piano, and sing “I Am Woman” in the style of Jonathan & Darlene Edwards—matching every wrong note, and misstep, in the recording made by Paul Weston and Jo Stafford. The audience is convulsed.
They also sing “We’re All Alone” (Rita Coolidge); “Lost Your Head Blues” (Bessie Smith); and “Rock the Boat” (Hues Corporation)—none of which I have ever heard performed by a singing quartet.
Then they sing “San Fernando Valley”, which the King Sisters had recorded in the Forties. They lay the sultry effect on thick, as if parodying the King Sisters’ supposed sexiness. I wonder what the horny guys in the audience are thinking.
Then, to conclude, they finish “Goodbye My Coney Island Baby.”
Goodbye, farewell, so long forever
Goodbye my Coney Island
Goodbye my Coney Island
Goodbye my Coney Island babe….!
They get a rousing ovation. As the applause dies down Amy says, “That was a song sandwich,” and gets a laugh from the audience. Now the four women leave the stage.
Next, the stage is bare for a minute; but Pete Oranjeboom, Stan Brown, Bob Blonda, Jack Sharp, and Joe Bradley waddle onstage in their ridiculous penguin costumes, slapping each other with big fish, following George Stanhouse’s suggestion. Johnny Goss plays the piano; the audience laughs long and hard at this, and I note that even the Robert Webber look-alike is convulsed.
Doris Sharp’s Punk Band sets up next. Ms. Sharp, caparisoned after the gaudy and iconoclastic manner of Cyndi Lauper, introduces her musicians and warns the audience what they’re in for. The combo plays “Avril Lavigne, Poseur Punk Queen,” and the Morpheus quivers from the roof exit to the Hellmouth.
For the most part, the audience is not punk-rock fans, but they applaud Doris Sharp’s Punk Band just the same.
The next act is Kwisp & Kwake. Tomasso Luglio and Katrina Oranjeboom come on stage to sing “Anything You Can Do” from Annie Get Your Gun; Alice, in a similar costume, comes on stage and provides the piano accompaniment. Katrina has blossomed out much like Dolly Parton and her Western getup emphasizes this. She and Tomasso perform the duet in a way that would have made Rodgers and Hammerstein proud. The audience applauds appropriately; Stanhouse appears satisfied at this choice.
While this is going on—and I know I’ll have to go on stage myself soon, to play string bass for Jane Bradley—I talk to Jeanette backstage. She has changed out of the white gown and now wears a purple flannel dress and purple pumps.
With us in the wings are a few of the ghosts, including Leo, Ulrica Werdin, and Tony Mullane. And Jane Bradley, now in her outlandish red-and-white outfit (over her outlandish figure) approaches.
With the ghosts and Jane present, I ask Jeanette, “Why did you change your opening number like that?”
Jeanette, I notice, turns and looks straight at the ghostly nineteenth-century ambidextrous pitcher.
She explains herself, along with Jane, Amy, and Sally:
“We wanted to mix things up a bit,” Jeanette explains. “Kind of catch the audience off-guard like Jimi Hendrix did during a live performance on the BBC or Elvis Costello on Saturday Night Live in 1977.”
“Also, we wanted to add a degree of difficulty to our performance,” adds Sally.
“Well, to your credit, it did work out,” I say.
“I’ve certainly never seen anybody try to pull something like that on-stage,” Tony Mullane comments. “At least, not intentionally anyway. But there’s something I must ask the women.”
“What’s that?” Jeanette inquires.
Mullane says, "I was wondering…
Mullane explains himself, gesturing freely with both hands.
“After my death in 1944 I came out to California, where it was relatively quiet during World War II.
“I came to this city; I visited Bradford Street and found this theater, along with the Italian restaurant that used to be next door. Business wasn’t all that great, I could tell, since the U. S. had been at war with Italy.”
Luigi Luglio is present. “Well, Italy had surrendered about a year before your death, but anti-Italian sentiment was quite strong,” he says.
Mullane continues. “I remember seeing a young, hulking man who frequented the restaurant. He had a shock of unruly blond hair and he carried surveyor’s equipment—”
“That’s my Dad, Nathaniel Strong Senior!” exclaims Jeanette.
“Yes,” says Tony. “I had wanted to know which of you was related to Mr. Strong.
“In any case, Nathaniel was a very high-minded man. He did not consider every Italian to be Mussolini; he had Italian ancestry himself. In fact, he dated Italian girls all the time. He was 6 foot 5 and nobody would dare rag him about it.”
“What was the name of the Italian girl he was dating when you saw him, Count?” I ask.
“Bernadette Tartaglia.”
Jeanette looks down with a modest smile. “That’s my Mom,” she says. 
“Yes,” says Luigi. “Bernadette’s mother was my sister, Teresa Luglio Tartaglia.”
Mullane turns to the other women. “And what are your names?”
Amy, Jane, and Sally step forth one at a time and give their full names. He seems to recognize them. “And what are your mothers’ maiden names?” he asks.
“Thompson,” says Jane.
“Burke,” says Amy.
“Flanagan,” says Sally.
Mullane is fascinated. “During my major-league career I always saw young women attending the games—looking for future husbands, I suppose. In fact, I remember three women named Rebekah Thompson, Elaine Burke, and Carol Flanagan.”
Amy and Sally, still wearing their white gowns, blush slightly. “Those were ancestors of ours,” Jane says. “Yes, I had a great-great-grandmother named Rebekah Thompson. And they all three went to Boston, to see Cy Young pitch his perfect game in 1904.”
“I know about that, of course,” says Tony. “Oh—Jane, I thought I’d ask. You’re married, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” says Jane, blushing and showing Tony her wedding band.
“I saw two girls in the theater who resemble you,” says Tony. “The younger one was playing with that ‘punk band,’ as you call it.”
“That’s my daughter Doris,” says Jane. “Doris Sharp—who came on stage to introduce the combo—is the daughter of the theater’s part-owners, Jack and Eloise Sharp.”
We’d like to continue this conversation, but, from the applause Tomasso and Katrina now get, we know it’s time for Jane to go on. She gets wild, loud cheers as she strides on the stage toward her steel guitar; meanwhile I walk over to the string bass.
I notice now that our combo gets steely looks from Lorraine, Sylvia, Stanhouse, and the Robert Webber look-alike. Even Mary Blonda, our director, has that kind of facial expression. And Alice leaves the stage, embracing me briefly.
We start with “Biggest Parakeets in Town”—that will give me time to change clothes before my solo performance, which follows Jane Bradley. I plunk away at the string bass, and Jane sings the lyrics, allegretto, in that sultry voice. I leave the stage when that song is over, and Jane begins “Rusty Old Halo,” Hoyt Axton’s song. I break down in the wings; Alice embraces me; she knows why I react that way to that song. I pull myself together; we can see Lorraine and the others, still with the stern looks on their faces. Alice notices my apparent concern.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says, with her arms around me. The ghosts, along with Jeanette, Sally and Amy, smirk, as do Daniel and Hermione, standing in the wings on the other side of the stage.
“Why not?” I ask.
Alice smiles; she kisses me on the lips and says, “Well…”
I did a telepathic scan on them. They all quite liked the act."
“But, if that’s so, why do they all have stone faces?” I ask.
Alice explains, "It’s because…
“They are earnest. In fact, I think that’s how we want them to be—Stanhouse and Lorraine and the others to be totally objective. Remember, when Jane first rehearsed for Stanhouse, he waited a while before he gave her initial ‘review’.”
“Oh, I see what you mean,” I say. We just stand there for a moment; she rests her head on my shoulder. I can still see Daniel’s whimsical expression. 
“I wonder about that other man sitting with Mary and the others,” she says.
“The one who looks like Robert Webber in 12 Angry Men?” I ask.
“The same,” says Alice. “Perhaps he is a talent scout…” Alice pauses as if she’s trying to remember the man.
“Did you ever see anyone like that when you were performing as Prester John’s Aunt?” I ask.
Alice continues to think about this.
“In fact, I did,” she says. “And it was the very same man, I believe. I had seen him occasionally at dramatic performances at the college; but after my last booking with Prester John’s Aunt before I met you, I never saw him again. And the day after our last performance, there was an ambulance parked at the office of the Fine Arts School and I never saw the man again.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Four years ago, almost to the day,” she says. “In fact, I remember that the ambulance attendants wore greatcoats due to the cold.”
“So he may have been hospitalized at that time, and only recently has returned to his duties, whatever they may be,” I say.
Now George Galloway approaches, holding sealed envelopes; he hands one to Alice and one to me. Each has a DXM ID number and our last name on it.
“Julia Campos gave me these,” he says. She said she’ll watch the video of the benefit—she can’t get off work today. She talked to Parker before she left the Morpheus. Her legs are healthy.” Alice and I smile.
We look at the envelopes. As a routine manner, we do the ESP shtick. No surprises appear.
We cut them open. Mine reads:
To member _______:
You are hereby directed to appear at the administrator’s office in the Galaxy 100 Mall headquarters, to give testimony in the matter of League v. Artur Mortimer, at 8:30 a.m. on the __ day of ______, 2004. You may attend with counsel if you choose. Failure to appear is a League offense, and you must show cause if you are unable to attend.
(signed) Samantha Hoffmann, interim administrator, DXM League.
Alice’s notice reads much the same.
“Samantha sure takes her job seriously,” I say.
Now Jane Bradley has finished her performance and gets applause—including, as I notice, from the stone-faced critics in the front row. She comes into the wings; we congratulate her, and her husband Joe embraces her. Her breasts pop out of her top, and Joe deftly pushes them back in; the couple continues to embrace and nuzzle each other’s faces.
“You’re on next,” Eloise tells me.
Alice gives me a kiss for luck. I’ve already changed into my plain black suit with a bright blue tie and boiled shirt. I wear midnight-black shoes. I come on stage with Johnny Goss, who sits at the piano. We get applause.
Despite my formal appearance, I first perform “Take the Skinheads Bowling.” The startled audience applauds this piece; I notice Mom, Grant, Janet, and Stephan in the second row, puzzled but applauding.
Johnny sits in the wings as I sit at the piano to play the Chopin preludes, along with “About Strange Lands and People” by Robert Schumann. These get polite applause from the audience.
The next, and last, number I perform is “Fer the Good Times.” Before I start this, and before Johnny returns to the piano, I pause and think about a few things.
Who’s left on the program? Offhand I can think only of Dr. Clouse, singing “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Misérables; and perhaps we’ll all appear on stage to close the show, in an ensemble. I’ll ask Eloise after I go off.
I also look at the Robert Webber look-alike. Oddly, he no longer has a stern expression—the others still do. I use just enough ESP to ascertain that he has been giving my performance some special thought. Near as I can figure, he isn’t singling me out in a manner unfair to the others…I hope he isn’t.
And I see the lovely Vickie Sanders, herself a professional performer; she too is in the second row. I remember telling her once that I likened my singing to that of Alfalfa in Our Gang; she said that’s self-deprecating.
Now, I stand up and prepare to sing “Fer the Good Times.” Johnny gives the downbeat.
I open my mouth … but my voice doesn’t come out. Instead, the audience and I hear the sound of…
Gentlemen, if you please. UncleBeer requested you finish this story on January 9, two weeks ago.
I’ll be closing it over the weekend, so I advise you to wrap things up.