Blue Moon 12.0

by Donna Lamb

.

"Where w-we going?" Jo asked. She looked out the window of the Mustang at the passing lights. Los Angeles in winter, late January, is just about as green as it gets -- which isn't very. It didn't look like winter out there except to someone who'd grown up in the area.

Trees actually overhung this part of Santa Monica Boulevard, making it darker and the lights brighter by contrast. Jo had always liked winter, the cool days and nights chilly enough to wear a sweater. It rained in the winter, too, but not at the moment. The overhanging evergreen oaks and bare-limbed sycamores gave way to palm trees, a more authentic look for L.A., and Jo didn't think of them as inappropriate for winter. A wind made the palms wave and quiver; she imagined she could hear the rattle of the big stiff leaves against each other.

Richard finally replied to her question. "I don't know," he said. "Arnie said something about Hollywood."

It's been less than twenty hours since -- since I stopped being Joel. And less than eight since I really started being me, Jo thought. After I found Dunny and understood this is how it's supposed to be. Completely un-self-consciously, Jo squeezed her left breast with her right hand gently, then released it. She smiled. "You kissed m-me," she said.

"You needed kissing," said Richard. He glanced toward her then turned back to watching the taillights of the van containing the rest of the band.

"Oh, the Texas defense." Jo giggled.

"Yes'm," said Richard, in a Gary Cooper voice."It's the Code of the West." He grinned.

"I kind of liked it," said Jo.

"Glad to know I haven't lost the knack," said Richard. "Kind of, huh? Well, that was a number three; I'll try something stronger next time."

Jo blushed. Next time? "What m-makes you so sure ...."

"Because the moon is blue," he said, glancing at her.

She turned even redder. Good thing it's dark, she thought. "Damn your dimples," she said. "You're way too cute to stay m-mad at." Was he blushing now?

Richard laughed. Good thing it's dark, he thought.

"Richard," she said. "Dimples aside, what's going to happen to us?"

"Uh? We're going to play in the band?"

"B-besides that?"

He lifted each hand off the wheel in turn before putting them back at ten and two. "What -- uh -- what do you mean?"

Jo bit her lip. "I'm not sure. I'm kind of new at having a b-boyfriend."

Richard smiled. "I'm not sure what's going to happen -- with us. It's kind of a weird situation. I mean, just you and I -- not even counting the band. You were amazing up there tonight."

"Bugs is amazing. Why is a guy like that not already in a b-big name b-band?" Jo looked at her fingers. No point in building up calluses to play the guitar with Bugs around. "I'm pretty sure I've heard that guitar on some albums but I've never heard B-bugs name b-before."

Richard shrugged. "I got to thinking about that. I dunno, but Lemon-eater could probably write his own ticket, too. He's good, I just don't know blues as well as I know rock. But I wonder why I haven't heard of him before, either."

"W-weird. Like they came out of nowhere."

"Yeah," agreed Richard. "It's weird."

Jo stayed silent for a bit. "What happened to me is p-pretty w-weird, too," she said. She looked out the window on her side.

Two women stood on a street corner in the January chill. She'd seen such girls many times before but the impact of their predicament struck her differently now. What must it be like to live such a life? she wondered. She might have had sympathy for them before she became a woman but now she reached out, emotionally, trying to feel empathy. That could be me, she thought. What has to happen to you so that becomes a better choice than something else?

Richard struggled with his own empathic problem. What's this like for Jo? Yesterday, she was a guy. A dweeby guy who didn't really know how to relate to women. Now she's a beautiful, sexy woman who seems to know all the right moves without thinking about it. Instant -- well, I dunno?

"It's a little weird over here, too," he said out loud.

"You've had girlfriends b-before, though," said Jo, aware that she was teasing him a little. "Lots of them, sometimes several at the same time. I've seen how girls look at you -- and how you look b-back at them." Come to think of it, she thought, what am I going to do if Richard keeps on being -- Richard?

He smiled without looking away from the lights leading them deeper into Hollywood. "You're not just another girlfriend, Jo. I don't know how to say this. I don't want anything to hurt you, ever. Not even me, especially not me." I love you, Jo. I just can't say it aloud -- yet.

The van ahead turned into one of the rare downtown Los Angeles alleys; Richard followed. The lane went between some fashionable shops and trendy restaurants before the van eased into a parking spot behind a neon-decorated building a little larger than the others.

Jo tried to think about what Richard had just said but a glowing sign distracted her. "Wrangler Jill's? Where have I heard that name b-before?"

* * *

Wrangler Jill's, the bar, or club, occupied a rambling structure on a busy corner near the downtown edge of the Los Angeles area usually called Hollywood. Weathered gray boards covered the outside of the building, decorated here and there with Western artifacts like longhorns, rusty barbwire, hand water pumps, rifles, Indian headdresses, placer mining equipment, a buckboard on the roof, and a fort-like log palisade around the parking area -- plus lots and lots of neon. Too junky for true kitsch, the outer decor achieved a sort of pioneer funkiness that seemed to encourage the raucous crowd trying to get in the front doors. The loud, country rock music blaring from doors and outside speakers probably helped.

As one of the largest nightspots near but in L.A.'s downtown, Jill's attracted a very mixed clientele and while the evening's first band played country, almost any kind of pop music could be heard on any night, Thursday to Sunday, except rap. Jill disliked rap.

Jill, herself, (real name Allison Dill) often hosted the show. A flamboyant lesbian dressed in cowgirl chic, Jill stood over six feet tall in her Western boots with a cloud of frizzy blond hair spilling out of her Stetson down to her waist. Her braying alto introduced acts, chided patrons who weren't clapping or drinking or dancing, and generally added a cheerful, who-gives-a-shit-I-give-a-shit ambience to the goings-on.

The club had two dining rooms: one serving burgers, pizza and wings; the other, upstairs, offered steak, ribs and seafood. Food could also be served in either of the two long bars flanking the wide space in the middle of the building identified as "The Stomping Floor" on several signs. A balcony lounge called "The Loft" had one wall open to the dancefloor below. At the back end of the large space, light and sound equipment fenced off a low stage big enough for a fourteen-piece swing orchestra.

A few blocks away, the trendy shopping area of Melrose Avenue began and, not much further away, lay the duplex where Richard and Joel had lived for several years. I've never been in here, thought Jo. I thought it was a lesbian bar when I saw it in the daytime. So why do I think the name of the place is familiar?

She climbed out of the Mustang without waiting for Richard's help. They were working, it wouldn't have been appropriate, though she didn't think of why, she just did it.

Around back of the club where Bugs and Richard had parked the van and the Mustang, the building looked less like a cultural happening and more like any other large restaurant. Big dumpsters, wide unloading docks and the smell of spilled beer and food waste could have disillusioned anyone looking for Hollywood-glamor. Jo wrinkled her nose and looked across the car toward Richard.

"We don't have anything to carry so I'll help the guys lug stuff, you go in and find out where we set up," said Richard. Bugs had already opened the back of the van and Arnie the side. Kylie, carrying her guitar and trumpet cases wagged her head at Jo.

"Okay, see you inside," said Jo, already heading toward Kylie. The excitement of what might be a new career, something she'd only vaguely dreamed of as Joel, beckoned.

Kylie handed her the trumpet case. "If we're carrying instruments, the guy at the back door will let us in without hassle. And I need to go to the bathroom before we climb back on a stage."

"Mmm, m-me, too." A women's bathroom in a nightclub? Well, everybody's gotta go sometime, thought Jo. And it doesn't even seem odd anymore.

Sure enough, the bored guard at the back door looked only at their chests and asses as they passed him and just grunted at Kylie's cheerful, "Heyo!" She snorted once they were both inside, "Guess he likes skinny broads, huh?"

Jo had to laugh. Kylie's round face didn't really go with her almost stick-thin body. Five or six inches shorter than Jo, Kylie couldn't have weighed even a hundred pounds. Including the instruments, the two of them wouldn't weigh much more than Lemon Jones.

Jo would have had to ask directions but Kylie knew right where to go, between the kitchens and down some stairs to a room actually painted green with two bathrooms opening off of it.

"Jo isn't it? You and Charlie an item or that just stagework?" Kylie asked after they had set the instrument cases down.

"Uh? I guess we're b-busy finding out?" Jo admitted.

"Huh." Kylie made a face. "Meaning he won't say one way or another. Men."

Jo giggled and nodded. They did what business needed doing and met back in front of the long mirror. Jo took comb, brush and makeup out of her purse and laid them out.

"You need foundation, girl. Those lights out there are hella bright," Kylie said. She pushed a tube toward Jo. "and you gotta use oil-base so it don't wash off with your sweat."

Jo nodded. "I didn't bring my own 'cause I thought we were just taking a m-meeting." Makes sense, she thought. She remembered tubes and bottles of professional makeup in her dressing room back home along with a handy-size case.

"Use lots," Kylie said. "People are going to be looking at the girl singer -- a bunch." She grinned. "Guess I'm demoted back to rhythm guitar."

"I'm -- I...." Jo didn't know how to reply to that.

"Bugs playing, you singing, Lemon taking in the slack, me and Arnie and your Charlie totin' wood and carryin' water -- we're going places, girl. What do you think of I-NO-Y for the new band name?" She spelled it, all caps with hyphens.

"Uh, I kinda like it," admitted Jo. "It rocks." She beamed, excitement bubbling up. "What did you call it b-before?"

Kylie grinned. "Blue Moon," she said. "Too corny, huh? Funny you sorta used the name in your song."

Jo only shook her head, wondering.

Kylie took another look in the mirror. "We're killah, Jo. Joey. Josephine!" She spun and opened the door to the green room before grabbing her ax.

"It's M-melody Jo, uh, actually." She picked up the trumpet case and followed the older woman out. It is, isn't it? Yes, it is.

* * *

The sound of the earlier band had permeated the whole building so when they stopped, Richard noticed immediately. It's sort of like when the surgeon stops carving off your frost-bitten toes, he thought. It doesn't sound quieter, just different. The other sensory assaults of a busy nightclub, the roar of the kitchen, the smell of the crowd, filled the absence of music with equal insistence.

"Now we can start moving our stuff on stage and Arnie can start wiring us in," said Bugs.

Richard nodded. He'd got familiar with the routine of setup in his previous stint with a band.

"Leave the big speakers. I'll check that no one has blown the ones Jill has built-in first," said Arnie. He picked up the portable sound board in one hand and the box of tools and cables in the other. "They went over, I'll go in and rag on their ass to get their stuff off stage." He meant the band that had just ended their set.

Bugs grunted. He passed a heavy amp out to Richard. Lemon gathered his instrument cases, bass guitar and two different saxophones and followed Arnie. "Your woman the hit of that last show, man. You guys got your own stuff?" he said over his shoulder.

Richard nodded, also heading for the door; the amp and the big case of breakables passed down by Bugs made enough for one trip. "Jo has a whole private studio. All I own is an old acoustic and a junior trap set at my folks." Thinking back on what Lemon had asked, he wondered, Is Jo my woman? He decided that thought deserved a grin.

The man at the door didn't stop them either, but he didn't check them out like he had the girls. "Knock'em on the head, McDonald," he said to Lemon.

"Yuh," agreed the black bassist. "Kick'em while they down."

"How'd he know my name?" Richard joked as they negotiated the hall between the kitchens.

Lemon laughed. "I call most everyone McDonald if I don't know their name, so it's like my second nickname, too. Don't happen that's your actual name?"

"Uh, no. I'm Richard Alexander." They followed Arnie's bulk up a small flight of stairs to the narrow backstage area where six men in gaucho costumes wrestled with their own gear. "You're Aron Jones. Bugs Benny. Arnie Roberts and, uh, Kylie's with Jo. Melody Jo Thierry."

"Uh, huh," said Aron. "Don't do no good to tell me yours, done flew out my head. I still don't know Bugs's right name and we been playing together for six months." He put his cases behind the soundboard Arnie had leaned against the wall.

Richard sat stuff down where indicated and he and Lemon started back. The gauchos mumbled greetings but Richard didn't catch any names and got quickly out of their way. Arnie stayed to watch their stuff and help the gauchos clear off.

"How come you guys ain't pulling down big bucks?" Richard asked. "You're damn good."

"Well, I tell you," Lemon began, "it's like the song said, "If it weren't for bad luck, we'd have no luck at all." He sighed. "Sixteen years ago, I killed a man in a bar fight. Did time for it, though I didn't mean to kill him. Friend of mine."

"Shit," said Richard without meaning to. One of the cooks in the "gourmet" side of the kitchen glared at him as they passed back out to the alley.

Jones continued. "Now Bugs been in and out of drug rehab so often they call a revolving door a 'Paul Benjamin' down at the County. Hell, that's his name -- Paul Benjamin." He grinned back at Richard. "Kylie's made a project of the poor man, keeping him straight for the last year or so."

"You lying about me again, sourpuss?" asked Bugs heading past them with the floor tom under one arm and the bags for the other toms looped by their ropes over his other. He had his own guitar on his back. "You and Jo Darling gonna stick with us, Charlie?" he asked Richard.

"I think so." Lemon and Richard grabbed up the last of the gear from the alley where Bugs had stacked it and followed. Bugs had already locked the van.

"You better," said Lemon, bringing up the rear. "Or you'll deal with Kylie. On the way over here, she talked us into naming the band 'I-NO-Y' after what your girl did to the bugman's tune."

"Her way of saying you're in," said Bugs, in front of Richard. "She sang that like I wrote the tune to her words. How long she had that song in her head?"

Richard gulped. "Uh, she made it up -- on the spot."

Bugs would have shrugged but the toms were too heavy. "You want in, you're in. And your girl is so in, she's into it."

My girl. What will Jo think of that? Richard wondered. "Uh, thanks. Been meaning to ask. Whose drum kit is this? Nice."

"These traps belonged to Gogie Luft, our last drummer. Got shot in the brisket out in Reseda last weekend. They say he ain't going to make it."

Richard mind boggled. George "Gogie" Luft had played drums for several soul and rock groups back in the seventies. Richard's dad owned the records. "I'm going to be beating on Gogie's drums?"

"Kit belongs to the band now, Gogie said so," Bugs told him.

Richard began to sweat.

Kylie and Jo appeared from some side stairs and followed the boys onto the stage to help set up. Richard whispered what he'd learned to Jo. Then he settled in behind Gogie's drum kit, stagefright grabbing at his heart. Or was that just leaning in so close to Jo? He watched her set up with the keys. I should have kissed her, he decided. After all, she's my girl.

While checking out the keyboards, two of them, Jo thought about how much she wanted to kiss Richard and how excited she felt. From an audience of about 60 in the Westside cantina, they were going to be playing in front of several hundred in a real night club. We're in a band, and life is so good!

Eventually, after sound checks, Arnie brought the stage lights up slowly. "Here they are folks," he announced on the wired-in speakers. "I-NO-Y! Starting off with their version of Beat the Devil!"

"Rock'em!" shouted Jo. A pink spot hit her. She brought in the electric piano, hot and sweet.

"Knock'em in the head!" yelled Richard, drumming like he wasn't scared spitless at all as a golden spot picked him out.

"Kick'em while they down!" Lemon added then blew a long wail on the baritone sax, weaving in and out of his blue spotlight, face puckered around his reed.

"Make damn sure they're dead!" screamed Kylie, bringing down the hammer on her bass as a green spot lit her up.

Bugs said nothing but his guitar chattered and cursed like a demon in a pot of boiling oil while his spot and all the rest turned red then white hot.

They rocked the crowd and the crowd rocked them back.

* * *

Arnie flashed the strobes.

"Mercy!" Lemon-Eater Jones growled. "Done got them Dancin' Blues!" Then he made his tenor sax wail.

Kylie sang:

Got them Dancin' Blues,
Can't shake 'em!
Low down Dancin' Blues!
Can't take 'em!

When your baby done you wrong,
When the work-a-day's too damn long!
Take your blues onto the dance floor
And dance till you ain't blue no more!

Got them Dancin' Blues,
Can't shake 'em!
Low down Dancin' Blues!
Can't take 'em!

Lemon paused for breath. "Mercy!" he howled and the sax howled too.

Richard sang:

Got them Drummin' Blues!
I can't beat 'em!
Low down Drummin' Blues!
Can't defeat 'em!

When your battles can't be won,
When you need a little fun,
Come on down to Wrangler Jill's
And beat your drums all to hell!

The others stopped playing and Richard beat a drum solo chorus like the ghost of Gogie Luft had possessed his sticks. What the hell am I doing? he wondered. The crowd roared their approval. I just am not that good, Richard thought. For the moment it didn't matter, the crowd thought he was.

Bugs ripped his verse out of the soul of his guitar and pounded it into the dancers with quick fingerings and a driving rhythm. It felt like good-time blues but sounded like pure rock and roll and it made every foot in the building want to move to the beat..

Lemon picked up his bass guitar and howled again. Kylie had switched to her trumpet and added a wail. Lemon sang:

Mercy! Done got them Dancin' Blues!
Done caught them Dancin' Blues!
Can't outrun 'em!
Got them Dancin' Blues!
Can't outgun 'em!

He paused while Richard and Bugs supplied machine gun sound effects and Jo provided bombs bursting in air. He danced with his guitar and sang:

When the light's out in yo' cell
When you feel like raisin' hell!
Take your ass to Wrangler Jill's
And make it ring just like a bell!

Done caught them Dancin' Blues!
Can't outrun 'em!
Got them Dancin' Blues!
Can't outgun 'em!

Again the machine guns cut him off and again he howled for mercy. Jo looked into the darkness where the crowd danced. Jo played with one hand on each set of keys, dancing with the rest of her body. She pretended to pick someone out in the flash of the strobes and sang to them:

Got them Lovin' Blues!
This times a bad 'un!
Got them Lovin' Blues!
You know you've had'em!

Took my heart and mashed it flat!
Might as well use a baseball bat!
Gonna dance my blues away!
Gonna dance the night to day!

Got them no 'count Lovin Blues!
Didn't choose 'em!
Got them lowdown Lovin Blues!
Can't lose 'em!

The crowd roared. The band played on, five choruses before the noise died down and Arnie doused the stage lights for the end of the first set on Lemon's last, "Mercy!"

* * *

At the bar in the Loft, Andie Moore grinned at Wrangler Jill. "Before you say anything, remember the bet. Tonight's wages against an extra thousand both nights if you want them to play tomorrow."

Jill shut her mouth and looked thoughtful. "What if I want them for Saturday, too?"

* * *

In the green room, Lemon chugged ice tea and Bugs poured a cold beer on his own head.

Kylie and Jo scribbled frantically on scraps of paper, planning the next set.

Richard looked wonderingly at the sticks he still held in his hands. "Thanks, Gogie," he whispered then stuck the tools of his new profession through a loop of his belt.

"Okay," Jo announced. "We're going to start the next set with the instrumental version of Why Not then Lonesome B-blues, then Grapevine, and then Kylie, Richard and I do Love Shack, followed by Lemon with the Too Drunk B-boogie...." She named a few more songs and took a deep breath, "And we finish the set w-with I-NO-Y."

Kylie shook her head. "Then Richard gets you off stage, Bugs takes the drums and Lemon and I do Jackson, to cool the crowd off. That way we keep them wanting to hear I-No-Y again instead of having to do an encore too early."

Richard stared at Bugs. He plays drums, too?

Lemon grinned. "We do a hell of a job on Jackson. Make 'em sit up and take notice; her so little and white and me so big and handsome. They want to climb on stage to get anyone, it'll be me." He laughed and they all smiled, knowing exactly what he meant.

"You think that's necessary?" Jo asked. Richard stepped close and they put an arm around each other.

"Better safe than sorry," said Bugs.

"We'll end the night with I-No-Y, too," said Kylie. "End our last set. That's our song," she waved a circle, "and we want them to come back to hear it again." Everyone nodded.

Arnie stumbled halfway down the steps, almost filling the little stairwell. He looked a bit pasty, his thin hair limp. "Andie's got us three nights here! With a raise!"

"You all right, man?" asked Lemon. "You have another heart attack, 'member we ain't got no insurance at all."

"I'm okay," said the big man. "Got my pills. This is better than working the big studios, anyway." He smiled. "They didn't want to take a chance on me dying in the middle of a set anymore. Screw 'em," he explained to Jo and Richard's questioning look. Turning awkwardly in the tight space, Arnie headed back up. "Gotta check the line to the left side, some kinda fuzz coming through over there."

Jo put her face up to be kissed and Richard kissed her. It didn't even seem that odd any more, to either of them.

* * *

The blond man had waited in the restaurant for his date for most of half an hour. Then he'd eaten, alone and annoyed. After eating, he'd wandered toward one of the dance bars, arriving just at the end of the first set. Pretty good band, he thought. A lean redhead looked him over and he winked.

She came closer, "Do I know you?" she asked.

"It's possible," he admitted. "And I'm sorry about last night."

She laughed and let him buy her a drink.

* * *

Barry Aronhaus enjoyed himself talking with the lithe young redhead. She represented a type he found attractive; slim but not muscular, a soft girlish form built to his scale. Both of his wives and most of his girlfriends had fit that mold.

"So, what do you do, Cyn?" he asked after they had drinks. She'd told him to call her 'Cyn' because 'Cynthia' sounded like someone in a novel and 'Cindy' like a sitcom character. He liked calling her Cyn; it seemed appropriate.

"This and that," she said. "Study some, party some, work as little as I can. How about you?"

No reason anyone outside his district should know him, especially someone as young as Cyn. "I'm a lawyer." He'd found that claiming to be a politician made some people suspicious but admitting to being a lawyer disarmed a lot of them. "Wanna see my teeth?" he asked. He grinned.

She laughed.

They moved closer so they could hear each other. The band had started playing again; an intricate rocker with a lonely melody almost hidden inside a driving rhythm. "Wanna dance?" he shouted.

She nodded.

A moving-letter marquee above the stage, like one of the "Silent Radio" things they used to have in banks before video got so cheap, announced the name of the band as "I-NO-Y" and the name of the song as, "Y NOT?" Cute. Above the marquee, several rear projection TV screens showed the crowd dancing or random scenes from old Western movies.

They moved out onto the dance floor. Barry prided himself on keeping in shape and following the latest dance fashions; they'd stand in the same place for a number of songs, hardly touching while they jerked their bodies in time to the music. Sooner or later, a slow number would come along and he could take her in his arms. She looked as if she would enjoy that as much as he did.

The marquee announced the band members in red LED lights that marched across and disappeared. Lead guitar: "Bugs" Benny. Bass and Sax: "Lemon Eater" Jones.

The band played with energy and more style than he would have expected from a club band on a Thursday night. They had an improvisational jazz feel with a hard-edged rocking sound. "These guys are good! Even if their names are crazy!" he shouted, motioning toward the stage.

"What?" she shouted back.

He shook his head, smiling. She shrugged and smiled.

The next one was a slow one and he took Cyn in his arms, a warm and lively bundle. They kissed, very hot for so early in the evening. Still, he reflected, not like his last girlfriend who had an innocent way of kissing while her body sent wanton signals right through him, direct to his libido. Just thinking of her improved the moment.

Cyn could almost be her doppelganger. Same height, same build, same green eyes, almost. But with red hair and a longer, toothier jaw. And a brasher more direct personality. He wondered why Melody had stood him up? He had called her cellphone several times earlier but she hadn't answered.

Actually, Cyn looked more like his wife, Barry decided. Red hair, a little fuller in the hips and bust than the virginal-looking Melody. Cherie had turned into the same sort of controlling witch as his first wife. Wanting to be with him every moment, wanting to run his calendar for him, do his expense reports. He decided not to think about his wife.

The slow song had brought them close and Cyn fitted her head against his shoulder, just tall enough in heels that he could kiss her with kranging his back. "Good song," he bellowed into her ear. He glanced at the marquee which read: "Lonsome Shoes" Vocals by Charlie McDonald and ...

Misspelled "Lonesome," he thought. When the girl singer came in on a couple of verses, something about her voice made him look up. Another Cherie-clone apparently, a tall, almost lanky, redhead sang and played behind a pair of keyboards.

They had somehow danced closer to the stage but he couldn't get a real good look at the girl singer. And he already had an armful of beautiful redhead. What's that old saying? A hand in the bush is worth more than a bird on the wing? He smiled at Cyn and she smiled back.

* * *

On stage, as "Lonesome Blues" ended, Jo made a beeline offstage and behind the curtain, looking toward the other band members with a rueful expression. Kylie made a tinkling noise with her high strings and grinned at Richard's odd look.

Lemon had grabbed his bass and went right into "I Heard It Through The Grapevine" while Kylie took over the keyboards. The crowd liked it, getting back into the lively tune after the slower song. Lemon singing tenor worked well on the number; he had a knack for sounding as if he'd invented the words himself. Bugs and Richard did the backing vocals.

Jo stayed gone for the whole number but re-appeared in time to take the keyboards back and sing close harmony with Kylie on "Love Shack." She'd ditched the red wig and stood there in her short blond hair, looking much cooler. Richard hammed up the Fred Schneider lyrics, covering a number of fluffs with wisecracks. Lemon, back on sax, almost lost his pucker when Richard ad-libbed, "Crescent moon? Wrong shack!"

* * *

Somehow Barry and Cyn had got separated in the crowd and the congressman-very-much-at-large found himself standing almost directly in front of the stage. He stood there, staring up, open-mouthed. "Melody?" he said, knowing she couldn't hear him. With the lights in her eyes, she couldn't see him either. He craned his neck to look at the moving words of the marquee. "Keybds: Melodie Terry" it read.

Someone pushed him. "Dance or get off the floor, old man!" someone else shouted at him.

Barry looked around for a way to get on stage but the lights and speakers made a very effective fence, besides the burly fellows holding up the wall at each end. He moved toward one of the bars, hoping to find a side door to the backstage area. He had to find out if that was really Melody and.... Well, he'd figure out more questions when he found out if she'd really joined a rock band in order to stand him up.

Back in the crowd, a tall redhead followed Barry's movements. She spared only a glance for the girl on the stage before making her way toward the same side Barry had picked.

* * *

A huge man blocked Barry's way. The mammoth being stood close to seven feet tall and supported his grandiose weight with two massive ivory-tipped canes. An island of quiet and space in the crowded bar surrounded the gargantuan figure.

Barry looked up and up into the serenely smiling countenance of Mr. Dar Gmunro. Thick spectacles magnified the pleasant brown eyes peering back at Barry from their nest of pockmarks and tribal scars. It took a moment for the smile to register. Automaton-like, Barry smiled back, a politician's reflex.

"You are to be addressing to yourself Mr. Bartholomew Aronhaus, Esquire? Yes?" asked the giant.

"Uh, yes," said Barry. How did this guy get in here? he wondered. Without causing a panic?

"I am to be having the honorableness of being known to many as the Rightly Revered Dar Gmunro, inconsequently the owner of a peach-covered small abode, humbly am I permitted to refer to as the Palace of Dnuro," said Gmunro. He tucked one thick cane under a tree-like arm and stuck out a hand the size of a hassock.

"No doubt. Pleased. I'm sure," Barry babbled, shaking hands with the man monster.

Gmunro didn't let go. "Into the near vicinity of my posterior approach, existence of a brambly portal may be discerned, happenstansively the objective seeking your benign self."

"Uh...?" It's like he swallowed a renegade congressional committee chair -- or the whole committee. "What?"

"Passage into, through, beyond this finistere progresses untoward that personage thou doth desire to intercourse wherewithal."

"Who?" Barry wanted to back away but couldn't, the enormous hand held his in that insidious way sofa cushions grip a TV remote. Intercourse? Is he talking about Melody?

"Powers that be restrain my estimable self from counseling your wormly being lest ye refrain from venturing to sing additive chorus with one who punted a coda to your punctissimo." Gmunro waggled a pair of eyebrows like funereal Caterpillar earth-movers.

"Yeah, well, it happens," said Barry. Always agree with madmen, then run like hell.

"There unto forthwith, I pronounce upon you an urge, a geas. Go, do, be. Or be not." The mountainous man stepped lightly aside, revealing a door bearing a sign that read, "Bar Employees Only." At the same time, he released Barry's hand from its prison.

Without saying a word to anyone, without looking around, Barry proceeded through the indicated door, disappearing into the poorly lit passage beyond.

Mr. Gmunro watched him go, apparently satisfied in some obscure way. Then he retrieved his cane from under his arm and addressed one of the bartenders. "Might I be to serving a wee drachma of the Glenmorangie?"

The bartender looked over the enormity of his client, considering. "You want a double?" he asked.

"The dux, an't please you," said Gmunro.

"Huh? Ducks?"

The professor of Latin studies on the end barstool chortled. "He wants a liter."

"Oh," said the bartender. "We only got it in fifths, 750 milliliters, you know?" He took the dusty bottle from a high shelf.

"Ah, 'tis not so deep as a church but 'twill serve." Gmunro nodded. The bottle and three hundred-dollar bills changed hands.

"The sea of Scotland engulfs me," the giant pronounced then gulped premium single malt right from the bottle in defiance of several codes of statute, propriety and common sense. "I grow appetitive," he murmured to himself. People near the bar gave him even more room.

A tall, red-haired woman approached the door Barry had recently used.

"Madame Erinye," Gmunro addressed her. She paused, glancing toward the huge figure looming in the dim corner of the room.

The big man produced a small black object, like a magician making a coin appear. "Is it that to be necessitating this you are forgetful?" he asked, offering her the device.

She took it and put it in her purse then followed Barry through the door. She seemed to be deep into a dazed sort of concentration, an urgent trance.

Gmunro watched her disappear into the backstage areas of Wrangler Jill's. He gusted a sigh like a warm southwester then turned toward the other bar patrons. "Be there any souls brave and intrepid a sufficiency to venture a bold excursion to Fatburger on behalf of my inconsequentialness? I am to desiring six double Fats with all they may endow and an equal profligacy of chili cheese steak fries."

Two people raised their hands. "Admiral Farragut be praised! Two of you will surpass the portage. Chili cheese are the very potency of American cuisine." He handed them a hundred dollar bill and waved two more at them. "Return forthwith and each of you shall enjoy the company of the Master of Lightnings."

"That don't sound safe," said one of the volunteers.

"He means Ben Franklin, idjit," said the other. "We'll be back in forty minutes, Your Honor."

Gmunro nodded benignly. After they left, he turned to look at the doorway he'd ushered Barry and Cherie Aronhous through. "Not without pity. Not without pity," he sighed.