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23 Jul 01 - 06:21 PM (#512877) Subject: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Peter T. I don't play anything except maybe the horses, but I have been around here for some time. Name's Madison, Blake Madison. No ear for music either, except that I can tell from the whine what make of gun the bullet passing my ear came from; and I can also tell when someone is lying. Part of the trade. It was a hot day in late July, one of those dry runs for what Christmas was going to be like if Congress continued to be in hock to the carbon cartel, but that wasn't my business at the moment. My business was sitting in front of me, an older extremely thin woman with long blonde hair who looked like Mary Travers xeroxed about twelve times too many. She was carrying a guitar, and I could spot a tambourine edging out of her macrame bag, and all in all I wouldn't have been surprised if she had broken out into song, which was a good thing, because she did. "Anyway, Mr. Blake, I was on stage singing a song from my forthcoming comeback album, "Ms. Tambourine Person", which goes something like this:
"You were my first love,
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23 Jul 01 - 08:11 PM (#512948) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Charley Noble The banjo player did it while re-tuning his/her 5th string.;-) |
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23 Jul 01 - 08:32 PM (#512959) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: CarolC Outside the door of Madison's office, the small woman with the dark hair waited. She bit her lower lip as she thought. There were too many things that just didn't add up. Too many strange things had happened lately that, take separately, wouln't mean much, but together they added up to something very troubling. She was relatively new to the folk festival, and was not privy to most of the behind the scenes gossip. She really had no interest in such things, or in the power struggles that seemed to turn the whole thing into a writhing mess of maggots fighting over a rank piece of meat. She just wanted to play music and laugh and have fun. But somehow, she felt she had unwittingly gotten herself caught up in the behind the scenes machinations. She thought about it a little bit longer, and then took a small envelope out of her pocket and slid it under the door. She didn't know if any good would come of this, but she didn't know what else to do... |
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23 Jul 01 - 08:54 PM (#512974) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen I left the office carrying my recently delivered envelope, and walked down to the Keg'n'Cork for a little bottled clarity after the events of the morning, and smiled as I walked through the door. Just the usual atmosphere, the few scattered regulars, the Del Vikings playing on the Wurlitzer.... and her. She had her back to the door and was standing behind the bar, en pointe, putting away glasses.
"Well, it must be my lucky day..." I drawled as I pulled up a barstool. She turned slowly, fixing me at first with a glare that would make Medusa blink, and then gradually shifted it to a warm grin that made me want to do anything but.
"Celebrating." I countered. "A new case deserves a new drink, don't you think?"
"What? Other than the bear that has been overturning the dumpster in the alley and the obvious desperate grab at the commercialism of the fading flower that is folk music? We've had them all in here from that Fresh Folk Natural bullshit-o-rama....and Billy's bought into it hook, line and sinker. Fer crissakes, look at this shirt!"
Work, man, work...I changed the topic fast.
I tried to look concerned, but she saw right through me, so much for opacity. Lucky leaned low on the bar, "It's her, isn't it? What's the poop, oh, Mr. Madison'o'mine?"
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23 Jul 01 - 11:45 PM (#513080) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen Just as she leaned across the bar again, giving me a spectacular view of the 'Billy's' on her t-shirt, when the swinging doors to the kitchen parted and Tracy came into view. Twin slices of cheescake on the piecart of life. It's a wonder anyone ever left this place. "Freedom girl, the shift is up, you better run while you still can.." Tracy called to Lucky, and then caught the apron that Lucky tossed to her. "'Nuff said," Lucky called back, she came out from behind the bar and looked at me. "You still wanna hear about those guys, Madison?" I nodded "Grab a table and give me a few minutes, okay?"
I sat down at a corner booth, facing the door, and waited for Lucky. She came out in a clean shirt that was nary a thread larger than the one she'd had on earlier, but who was I to complain? Just enjoy the view.
"Enough, I get the idea." I grimaced. "What next?"
"What was so funny?" I asked, what I thought was innocently enough.. "They said they had seen the little knife throwing gag at her gig that night. No one had seen where it came from, but no one was suprised either. That was a bit odd. There was one guy, quite a bit older than the others, that seemed to be this kind of roadie guru, kind of leading the inquisition. And with that brain-trust at the table, well, you know it took long enough to get around to what they thought had happened.....Damn, Madison, easy on the arches....anyway, the general consensus was that they could pretty much reject the idea of the jilted/jealous lover. Condolezza has the rep. The only thing they could come up with is that she was getting her just deserts for stealing all of those songs."
I stopped abruptly somewhere inbetween the piggie with roast beef and the piggie with none and stared at Lucky. "Stolen songs?" I gently set her feet to the floor, looked into her baby-blues, and asked her, "What are you doing on Saturday?" |
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24 Jul 01 - 09:51 AM (#513335) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos A purple battered pickup with a SMith and Wesson On Board bumper sticker slewed to a halt outside the bar, and a fellow from another walk of life came through the door blinking in the dim light. He wore suspenders that must have run with Polk, about four inches wide each, a baseball cap promoting the 1939 Cincinatti Reds, and a faded yellow button down shirt with sweatstains left over from the war on it and "Phillips Academy -- Exeter" in once-neat letters over the pocket. There was a large hunting knife strapped to his belt. And he carried a black hardshell banjo case. Lucky coked an eyebrow at me and changed gears. She swirled up to the stranger, all eyes and superstructure and big white purdy teeth and gave him her Number One Disarm and Control routine. "Well, howdy, Mister! Welcome to the Keg'n'Cork!! C'mon in and set!" She led him to a booth where she knew I'd be ablke to hear them. One of the things I like about Lucky. She has a brain. And she's not afraid to use it. Lucky came back with the stranger's Heinekin and curled around the ned of his table batting her eyes. The guy smiled politely -- he was thinking of other things, though. He looked like cast iron, I thought -- steely gray eyes, a neatly cut full beard in silver and white, bushy eyebrows, and broad shoulders with a hardened look to them. "What brings ya to our little town, stranger?" Lucky said with her eyes wide and her voice pitched just so. "{}I'm a folksinger. Name's Logos, Theet Logos. 'Least, that's what folks call me. 'S a nickname." "Glad to meet ya, Theet! New one to me!" "Wal, my ma named me Aesthete, but I couldn't stand the jokes, so I settled on Theet." "Can't blame you for that!" she smiled. "You gonna be in town long?" "Dunno. I'm looking for an old friend of mine, a gal I used to know back in North Beaqch a long time back. Name of Rice -- Condolezza Rice. Know her?" Lucky threw me a quick glance with more meaning than a bale of old Websters. I hunched my stool a little closer and listened harder. "Isn't she famopus or something? Oh... a singer???" Lucky prompted him. "Where'd you get to meet someone like that?? The tough-eyed old timer relaxed a little. He cracked a deck of Camels, unfiltered, a lit one up. Lucky didn't even flinch. The gal was good. "Long story," he said, looking into the middle distance at a velvet Elvis painting someone had given Billy as a joke one year, never thinking he would fall in love with it. "A very long story....."
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24 Jul 01 - 10:32 AM (#513374) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Les from Hull Roaming Ned Loonbucket stumbled into the Keg 'n' Cork and rested the battered guitar case against the bar. He looked like the definitive travellin' folksingin' guy, but anyone unfortunate enough to hear him grunt his way into a song wouldn't stay around long enough to hear him forget the rest of the words and collapse into a coughing fit. He wandered around the room looking for half-finished and abandoned drinks. He came upon a book of matches and thought 'Yer, could be useful'. He was ready to slip them into the pocket of the smelly old tweed jacket he wore when he noticed a single word scrawled inside in a child-like hand in pencil. In the dimness of the bar he couldn't make out what the word was. He could hardly read the instructions on the matches 'tear off a single match and strike against bottom'. Well here goes, he thought, tearing off a match and striking it against his bottom. By the light of his burning trousers he could just make out the word 'Cosmo'. |
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24 Jul 01 - 10:44 AM (#513385) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos ~mystery themes twanging violin music crescendos from behind the Elvis painting~~~ |
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24 Jul 01 - 11:08 AM (#513401) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor You could tell in one look that this man used to have "hero" written all over him. But tattoos fade like old memories and all he had left of his dreams was a battered flight jacket with an Apollo 18 mission patch. "If only she'd stayed in Huntsville." He moaned like a steel bar reluctantly accepting the weight of a concrete command module."She is the only one who knows the whole truth." |
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24 Jul 01 - 11:35 AM (#513430) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: LR Mole Meanwhile, parked in an elderly Buick, an editor in a well-cut suit handed a sheaf of manuscript to his passenger, an emaciated literary type in an old military overcoat and a greasy cloth cap pulled low. "But Mr. Veblen,"stammered the poet(for the passenger was a member of that underpaid ilk,), "what's wrong with my stuff?" "It reads like half-baked Bukowski, sauteed Brautigan, and parboiled Edna St. Vincent Millay," the smaller man snarled. "The kids won't touch it.You need music!Tunes! Acoustic-electric ersatz-authenticity, with sensitivity and singers with piercings!Amps!" "Like fuzz-tones? Wah-wahs?" hazarded the bard, trying to get with things. "Ya thirty years behind the times, there, Woodstock," snarled the money man, "Get out of the car." |
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24 Jul 01 - 11:36 AM (#513431) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: GUEST,Egads! Another Twist???? (thanks Moose) The long black limosine outside the Keg'n'Cork held none other than the nefarious Afteh Whoom, a Persian refugee with a PhD in particle physics from the University of Tehran, a small fortune in mis-channeled oil money from the Pahlavi era, a collection of original John Hammond master disks, and a mysterious connection to a gun-running cartel headquartered in Hilton Head, North Carolina. He had been out of circulation for a while after he first came Stateside. Seems he blew a chunk of dough on a glamourous customized van with velour hangings, full-size TV in the back, all mod cons... and he took a gang of his buddies out on the Interstate to show it off, put that baby on cruise control at 75 mph on I5 North, and went into the back to have a drink with his friends. Well, it SAID cruise control!! Afteh Whoom was one of the unadvertized sponsors of the FFN, and had been doing a tidy money-laundering business with the buskers in the area, but the heat was getting to be too much. Condolezza Schwartz seemed to be at the center of this, dragging Madison and the cheeky waitress along in her wake. The infidels must be stopped. |
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24 Jul 01 - 11:49 AM (#513441) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor The Infidels finished their set. And not a minute too soon. "Tune that bloody banjo!" Came a cry from the crowd. "And you HUM into a kazoo! don't blow into it!" |
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24 Jul 01 - 11:52 AM (#513444) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos Efteh WHoom reclined in the back of the stretch limo, gazing sullenly through coal-black eyes that some said held the fires of Satan. He was content -- it was going, going, just as he had foreseen. He stroked his small but perfect goatee, and took another small sip of the Chivas on ice as he watched the buxom barmaid of the Keg 'n' Cork escort some patron to the door. She had her arm over the stranger's shoulder and her head held down to hear what he was saying; Whoom could not make out the stranger's face in the shadowed doorway, but something about the Cincinatti Reds baseball cap seemed vaguely familiar. Suddenly, the stranger reached into a back pocket and took out a small envelope and gently slipped it down the front of Lucky's shirt, with a little effort. As the stranger turned away and stepped into the sunlight, WHoom suddenly sat up, spilling world-class whisky on his hand-painted silk tie, and pulled the wraparound shades from his face, staring. That beard! Those steely eyes! That portly waistline --- he knew this man!! Flashes of images rose unsummoned from his distant past --- the American gunboat looming out of the night, blinding him with its spotlights, the terror of losing his first really big deal as the sailors ransacked his little caique and threw all his carefully wrapped bundles into the sea... and the steely eyes of the deck officer watching from the gunboat rail...the cold wind of the night and the brutal beating that followed when he returned to Tehran empty handed with his story... this was a face Whoom would never forget... A guttural whisper escaped through Efteh's clenched teeth, as he raised a vow to Allah, swearing revenge. |
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24 Jul 01 - 12:12 PM (#513465) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Les from Hull Roaming Ned opened up the battered guitar case and selected his other pair of trousers from the tangled heap of clothes the case contained. 'I wonder what happened to that guitar I used to have?' he thought. |
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24 Jul 01 - 12:24 PM (#513482) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen I could care less about what it says on the bathroom wall, that Lucky Day is one hell of a dame. I watched Lucky maneuver the suspendered picker to a table and heard their conversation. Condolezza Rice? Mental note to ask 'MadameVoila' about that small fact that she happened to forget to mention, but I outwardly concentrated on my drink until Lucky returned. She raised one eyebrow and gave me a 'howja like them apples' look, and then pulled the cherry from her coke. Absentmindedly she chewed as she watched the picker. When she glanced at me, it was only to reveal the stem of the cherry tied in a neat knot on the tip of her tongue and to laugh her low laugh. God help the little man.
When Theet stood to leave, after a few Heinies too many, Lucky reverted to barmaid extrordinaire and put her arm around him to help him out the door. The pair stumbled along but the mission was accomplished, and when she returned, her face was pale.
We walked the few blocks to Chu Phat's oriental deli in a silence that was only broken once. Lucky turned back to glance at the limosine that was making a show of following us and asked me "Friend of yours?"
Chu Phat's was as dingy a dive as you could find in these parts, but the food was excellent. We ordered, the waiter left, and then we looked at each other for a moment before speaking. |
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24 Jul 01 - 06:51 PM (#513833) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos I've eaten at Chu's for five years and for some reason I can't even begin to explain he likes me. When he came out from the kitchen with his sushi cleaver in his hand, I wasn't worried, at first. What I had seen in the two notes already had my brain in overdrive, and what's a Buddhist razor or two between friends? He came over and shook hands with his left -- the cleaver was occupying the other hand -- and bowed to Lucky, who gave him the best Day Glo smile I'd seen from her all day. "Meestuh Mattzin, you nee' know somfin!" Chu told me sotto voce. "Dey some guy parke behinna kitchen, big stletch rimo, de chauffeur look like Attira or sombuddy... 'bout three hunnert poun!!!! Not too firenly, you know??" "Thanks, Chu. You're top Dlawer!" I said, and slipped him a fin I found in my shirt pocket. "Follow me, darlin'" I told Lucky, and led her into the men's room along the side of the building. I didn't care what was written on those walls, or what it smelled like. We had to blow that nightclub, and we had to do it fdast, and this was the only way I knew how.
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24 Jul 01 - 07:42 PM (#513862) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor Tall and blond, as she sauntered down the street, the butt cheeks in her tight dressed looked like puppies wrestling under a blanket. Her boobs, the product of Canada's finests medical science. Even with Lucky on my arm, I was paying attention. "Look at this. I think it may be a clue." "That stud in your ear is a ruby." "You mean"... "Yes exactly"...... "A red earing".... We walked on. |
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24 Jul 01 - 08:01 PM (#513874) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos [Ssssssssssssssssssssssssssss....!! :>) A] |
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24 Jul 01 - 08:27 PM (#513892) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS We cut the valves on the Limo's tires and slink out of the alley. |
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24 Jul 01 - 08:45 PM (#513910) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos Lucky's teeshirt almost didn't make it through the vent window, but I gave her a boost --at which she grimaced appreciatively-- and made it down the alley to the front end of the building and back around the block and up the street. Whoever the dude in the stretch limo was, he obviously wasn't working the pro line in his recce, so I put him out of mind. We needed a quiet place to work out what we were going to do next; if the information in the two notes was right, we were short on time and long on necessity. "Ya wanna come up to my place?" Lucky just turned up her sweet upper lip, and looked over her shoulder. "Thanks, sweetie, but I'd just as soon go back and thumb a ride with Mister Rentalimo back there!!" "Thanks. We have life and death nipping our buns and you still have time for wisecracks, huh?" "You got a better suggestion?" "Your place?" "You haven't met my roommate, have you?" "Should I?" "Not if your jolly-bag has any particular meaning to you...." "Oh." We took a few carefully chosen ramdom corners and ducked into a small cafe, where a forty-year-old waitress gave us a couple of stained plastic menusleeves with mimeoed lists inside them, the price column stained with several decades of white-out, and warned against the Spanish omelette. We slipped into a booth in the shadowed back end of the greasy dive and settled down on the warm red naugahyde banquette seats. We were sweating. But it was airconditioned. "OK, bright-eyes, what's your read on it?" I waited while she took a deep breath, several times. I was oping she would do it again, but she leaned over and started speaking in a low whisper that captured all my attention... |
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24 Jul 01 - 09:34 PM (#513946) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen "Wait a sec, here comes our waitress..."
"Hey kid, how ya doin'?" the waitress asked Lucky
"I'll take it with me to the grave." I replied. I thought it was funny, but Lucky gave me a dark look that told me otherwise. "Oh, come on? No smile? Fine then, down to business. I showed you mine and you showed me yours....Man....Still no smile?...I must be losing my touch...The question now facing us is what to do with what we've got. I'll go with you to meet Logos..."
We finished our coffee in stilted silence, paid the check, and walked out into the falling night. It was starting to rain, so I went to the curb to flag a cab, but Lucky kept walking. Fair enough, I guess we were walking home. I walked up beside her and tapped her shoulder, "Hey, back in there...." I went to a convenient spot across the street, out of the rain, and waited. The lights in her apartment went on, and through the thin shades I could see her talking with her roommate and making a cup of tea. I waited. Eventually, the lights went out. I waited. A few minutes after lights-out, the door to her building opened, and Lucky came out in a baggy sweatshirt, jeans, and running shoes. I looked at my watch as I fell in step a short distance behind her, 12:01. Time for catching up.
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24 Jul 01 - 10:43 PM (#513978) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos The hiss of the occasional taxi made the cool dark sound punctuated with ellipses. This was the city of broken thoughts, where you never knew if you'd end up finishing a sentence. The quiet slap of Lucky's shoes faded into the damp, blotted by the gentle simmer of a light warm rain; I followed a block behind, and it wasn't easy. She was in better shape from shoveling out drinks than I was from shoveling them down. I lowered my hat down over my purdy eyes and bent down against the rain, and stretched my legs a little further. She was leading me down to the waterfront. I pulled my shabby trenchcoat closer, comforted a little by the hard lump in the left breat pocket -- a small but accurate Belgian piece I had picked up years before from Toolose La Truc, a refugee castrato from Iran by way of Venice, Berlin, Rotterdam, and Halifax. He'd made his way to the city by singing tenor arias in falsetto on street corners until he came to the States. After that, he couldn't make ends meet, and he'd sold me the piece for a coupla sawbucks one night out behind the Loy Avenue Dairy Queen. Ya mever know when you're gonna need some unmarked hardware. Toolose had told me, and I guess he was right. Suddenly the wet slapping sound of Lucky's footsteps stopped. I rounded a dark corner, and stared through the rain. She was nowhere in sight. I smelled trouble. |
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24 Jul 01 - 10:46 PM (#513979) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Peter T. Apart from broad daylight and mutual signals, I don't much like following women. They are rightly suspicious of the night, and they have those astral eyes that pick up vibrations, unless they are stupid enough to have Walkmans on, which is one of the main causes of women on slabs in the county morgue. Lucky was not going to end up on anyone's slab, if she had anything to say about it. It was incredibly tiring work: ordinarily you could only do it in relays, planned and set. The only easy thing was that I knew where she was going, so I could double back occasionally: but I wanted to make sure that she wasn't being followed herself. Also I had no idea what she was getting into, or for that matter what I was getting into, and I hate that. The truth is, though I talk a good game, I worry about Lucky. I worry about them all. I worried about Samantha in grade 4, we would sit together on the school bus, and when her stop came, she would get off, and I would lean out of the window as long as I could see her pigtailed head, the bus would turn the corner, and I would worry about whether she would get home alright, 30 yards away from the end of the driveway. I worry about them all, and when I get involved with them I can't stand it: I want to put them into a warm soft room and make sure they are never hurt by anything ever again, which is crazy. It is one good reason why they leave. On the other hand, when she was 30 years old, Samantha took an overdose of pills one bright May morning in her fine house in Phoenix because she couldn't stand being the wife of the 2nd best realtor in the city any more; so maybe I wasn't that crazy after all. We came down into the part of town I hate the most, the part the City Fathers have buffed up and cobbled and pipe music into during the day, and electrocute any stray homeless people who find their way by mistake into it. There was a flatiron building adjacent to a pocket park, and, taking a last look around, which forced me to duck quickly back into the alley alongside the "Oh Honey Isn't That What We Were Looking For Shop", Lucky slipped through the entrance. There was a row of lights on up on the third floor. I was just about to follow, when the stretch limo I had seen earlier pulled up at the entrance. And out of it stepped Lawrence of Arabia with his legs sawed in half, until I realised that the guy in the Bedouin costume was just very short. I wondered if he got half price at the Flowing Robes Emporium in Cairo. He stepped forward into the streetlight, and immediately after him, carrying a guitar case, and dressed from head to foot in black, came Condolezza Schwartz. She looked like a tassel of corn going to a funeral for the Kelloggs' Rooster. What the hell was going on? I had to get closer, and was just stepping sideways to make a move for the fire escape ladder alongside the flatiron building, when something heavy hit me on the back of my head, and I went spinning down into total darkness just like the no fail high tech stocks my brother-in-law recommended to me last year.
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24 Jul 01 - 11:40 PM (#514008) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen I came to with the mother of all skull-pounders doing a two-step in my head. Wherever I was, for the first sensation. it was dark and incredibly close. The second sensation was that the darkness came from a veil of hair across my eyes that smelled like dime-store shampoo, and the closeness came from the writhing form of Lucky Day, who was peering intently down at me. "Oh thank god...you're alive!" she gasped, and kissed my temple, which I soon came to realize was the closest thing she could reach, given our awkward position.
Lucky squirmed around to face me, lying on her side, and whispered, "Can you manage to flip over? I can't get my hands untied, but I might be able to get yours free..."
Back in the land of the living, I turned to look at Lucky, who was expectantly awaiting her release. This was too good a chance to pass up.
Lucky scowled at me, "You were in here when they threw me in. I don't know how you got here, but it couldn't have been from following me, could it?"
"Wait! Okay! Jesus, you're a hard-ass. Let me loose."
"That's all well and good, but it doesn't explain our current predicament very well..." I drawled. Lucky glared at me with a look that she usually reserved for frat boys and people that kick dogs, before she continued.
"All right, Dick Tracy, scoot over...lemme at those ropes." Lucky, hotter than a two dollar pistol, turned her back to me and gave me her wrists. The instant the ropes were free, she stood up and started pulling a shelf unit to the middle of the floor. "What are you doing?" I asked
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25 Jul 01 - 12:23 AM (#514025) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor I took two aspirin and sat down to ponder the facts. What was the motive? The moon landing coverup? The stolen songs? Her secret formula for cold fusion? or perhaps I was overthinking this. So I took me a little shave with occam's razor. But who would be cold an caloused enough to take the life of a fellow human being? Perhaps it is a music lover who believes the following... "Some creatures forfeit any and all rights, and make ignoring the faint possibility that someone somewhere sees good in them, or will miss them REAL easy. " She was a pretty bad singer. That left me with about 10,000 suspects. I look at the schedule and a cold northwestern chill went up and down my spine. 11:00 AM to 12:30 Willie MacGates master of the Windows Named Pipes....... |
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25 Jul 01 - 01:56 AM (#514040) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen Dawn was breaking over the skyline as Lucky and I climbed from the vent to the fire escape, then dropped from the fire escape into the dumpster below, rolled out, and took off hoofing in double-time. We ran, alternately looking over our shoulders, until we reached the street in front of her building. I climbed the stairs behind her, gasping and grasping the rail for support, and thought it funny she didn't tell me to beat it. In fact, she hadn't said a word to me since we hit the vent. We reached her door, and she fished a key out of her pocket and threw the deadbolt. When the door opened, she went through without a glance towards it, or me. She waved her hand over her shoulder and muttered "Make yourself at home." before dropping her coat to the floor, kicking off her shoes, and disappearing through a door on the far wall. I stood for a minute, thinking how out of place her discarded shoes were in the middle of this tidy space. The place looked like a photo-shoot for "Cheap Apartment Monthly". She must dust constantly. It was then I heard the unmistakable sound of running water, and heard the pipes squeal as she hit the flipper for the shower.
I wandered into the kitchen and grazed through the cupboards until I found what I was looking for, and started up a pot of coffee. I was watching the guy across the street take out his trash when I heard her voice behind me. She pulled her knees to her chest, modestly wrapping the robe around herself, and her fingers around the coffee mug. "You saw the note same as me." she started "Theet just said I would be surprised, and boy was I. Why in the world would Condolezza Rice or Schwartz or Whatever-her-name-is be hanging around with those guys? And that roadie, the other night in the pub, he made out like he hated her, but they were chummy as all get out last night. They were working over a map of the festival grounds and performer schedule when I dropped, that much I know, but the only thing I could catch before hand was that she was pissed about a change in the booking that the arab fella wanted, but she felt it didn't have the right aura or something....Maybe we should check out some of the other performers? She seemed really worried about who followed her, and what was happening on the other stages..."
We sat for a moment longer before I asked "What now for you, Nancy Drew?"
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25 Jul 01 - 03:39 AM (#514056) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: CarolC The small woman with the dark hair reflected on the few weeks leading up to her decision to slip the note to Blake Madison. Actually, she thought about the year that she had spent with the folk festival. On the surface, it was a jolly group of people who enjoyed music and a good laugh. She tried to remember when she first started to feel uneasy. It wasn't a sudden thing. More of a gradual dawning of realization that something wasn't quite right, and her more recent realization that she'd gotten in way over her head.
She did her best to not get into the middle of the politics. But she was outspoken from time to time when she couldn't take the petty squabbles that seemed to be constantly brewing between the folkies.
It was little things at first. But after a while, strange things started happening in a big way. Mostly it was strange messages from people she didn't know very well, or even at all. Most of the strange messages were faintly veiled attempts to get information about her. Some of it, information that could be damaging to her or to people she cared about. Including her little friend, Flim Flam, the folkie clown.
But then she got a message from one of the singer/guitar players who had been digging for information about her finances, with information about how she could make sure her wishes were known in the event of her death. She had a strange feeling about this man, almost from the beginning. She instinctively felt uneasy about him, and fearful of his invitations to get her to go to isolated places with him.
But she didn't think too much about all of this until her big altercation with the head public relations man. She had been told that he was a man with a big heart and a lot of compassion. So she didn't worry too much about the flares of temper he displayed from time to time. She figured that was just something she would have to contend with.
But one day, she discovered that the PR man had a burning resentment of anyone who questioned his authority, which she had done from time to time. And he let her know, quite plainly, that he considered her to be a threat. And she had been told that he was not a man to back down when he got himself worked up. That was when she put all of the strange messages together in her mind and realized that she and Flim Flam might be in grave danger. And that was when she decided to leave the note with Blake Madison. She suspected that whoever was trying to kill Condolezza probably just wanted her to stop singing. |
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25 Jul 01 - 10:27 AM (#514227) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos I walked all the way home, pondering the intricacies of the strange roadie, the Iranian with the big shades, and Condolezza Shwartz. Who was she? What was the damn connection? The two-step in my cerebellum had slowed to a modest fox-trot by the time I came to my corner at Wallow and Eleventh. I was thinking so hard I almost turned the corner. Fortunately, I had stopped instinctively when the traffic light post starated cheeping in the dawn light. Good thing, too. I looked up to get my bearings and stepped back around the corner, hugging the grimy bricks of the frowsy Woolworth building that anchors my block in the world. The stretch limo was parked across the street from my pad, idling smokily in the cool air, leaking power like Three Mile Island and looking about as out of place as a tree hugger at a NAFTA convention. The three-hundred-pound driver was snoozing at the wheel, and the back section was hidden by tinted glass. I had had enough of being pushed around, running, and watching these jerks lay rope-burns on my heart-throbs. I pulled the Belgian automatic out of my pocket and sloped through a couple of alleys that the locals use. Pretty soon I was behind the limo, coming up bent over low and seeing red. I drew up behind the fenders on the streetside and reached slowly for the rear door handle. Before the slick dude in the shades could drop his Espresso Grande I had slid the door open and was sitting beside him with nine millimeters of P-35 attention locked firmly behind his right temple and my left hand locked onto his neck in a judo hold. "Move and die, asshole" I whispered. The Muslim sumo wrestler in the front seat didn't stir, and I wondered fleetingly if he was dreaming of paradise or Nirvana, or some impossible relationship. "Open that door real quiet like, Ayatollah. You and me are going for a little walk, if you want to stay whole....". He gave me a look that his mother would have used to fry couscous and looked toward the snoozing driver. I prodded his temple with Belgian steel and he opened the door, and I moved him out onto the street and across to my walk-up doorway before he had finished grinding his teeth at me. Upstairs, I grabbed a coil of 10-base-T wire I had left on the floor a couple of months earlier and wrapped the turkey nto a hard wooden kitchen chair. Hard. Lucky's wrists floated through my mind. "Okay, Sidhi. Tell me the story, nice and plain. Start with who the hell are you?" |
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25 Jul 01 - 10:31 AM (#514231) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor Only Willie MacGates would have the audacity to add electric pickups and a wah wah pedal to bagpipes. He was playing his signature piece, Piece Train. I could hear the screaming and twisting metal. And that was just the audience. I thought that I someone else doesn't Murder this guy, I will. Condolezza would take to this very stage later this day. This venue was sponswered by the manufacturers of Hemp christmas decorations.
Sleep deprivation was taking it toll |
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25 Jul 01 - 11:51 AM (#514271) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Peter T. "My name is Afteh, an indirect descendant of the Prophet, peace be upon him." "What brings you to our fair shores, Afteh?" I made a gesture as if I was about to pistolwhip him, which is not my style. "I am here to blow up America, boom, bring nuclear weapon shimmy shimmy under nuclear missile shield in box of Wheaties, or sell bioweapons, or play bridge with Omar Sharif, and steal your women into white slavery, pick one." "Let me see if I can work this out. You are suggesting that, for instance, because I don't know that the suras of the Koran are assembled in descending order of size, and that Baghdad in the 9th century made Paris look like Boise, Idaho, I am somehow prejudiced against Arabs." Afteh weighed him up for a moment, and then shrugged. "Oh, alright. You will not understand, but I will tell you anyway." "Try me. As the poet Rumi says, "What will God try next after he has grown tired of this world?" "I am a broker, I broker oil for weapons, oil for food, food for oil, and sell what is called indirect oil, oil that is embargoed by the United States, but which the Esso, Shell, etc, can shift around if they do the paperwork right, sell it through third parties, like me." "Lucrative?" I said. "Billions," he said. "You have no idea." "Which brings me to my next question." I was warming to the guy, which is always dangerous. "What are you doing wandering around at, and if my sources are right, investing in, a midscale Folk Festival?" Afteh chafed in his chair. "Do you think you could loosen these first?" "No dice." I said. "More." "The Sheik of Du'uran, by most accounts among the wealthiest men in human history, since his country is a pool of oil dusted over with a thin layer of sand, is renowned for his parties. He has theme parties -- one year it was the Maldive Islands, and he brought the entire population of the Islands to the party for one night. That is his style. Gaudy. He will go to Hell on Judgement Day for wasting his money. The poor will cry against him and Allah will hear." "It is very early in the morning, Afteh." "O.K., O.K. I am getting there. Last year he decided on a 60's theme, specifically 1966, and flew in everyone who had had a record in the Billboard top 100 in 1966, and wasn't dead, and had them play." "Including everyone?" "Everyone. The Rolling Stones, Paul McCartney, you name it. It took two weeks. Towards the end, they got down to some of the lower names on the list, and one blessed evening they got to Condolezza Schwartz. How can I tell you? She was captivating, mesmerizing, I fell completely for her. She was the only woman for me. Such music, such feeling, such beauty!!! You of course see it. Many cannot. What sadness. What a wrong that must be righted!!!" He strained in his chair like someone who must be off immediately into the streets, proclaiming the news. I shook my head. I shook it again. The world remained as it was. I shook it again. Nothing. And now my head hurt again. "So you have shacked up with Condolezza???" He looked shocked and horrified. "Omigod, omigod, no!! Such a woman to condescend to such as I??? Not in my wildest dreams!! Well, perhaps in my wildest dreams, but such are the dreams of princes, not of oil brokers whose hands are filthy with lucre!!" I gave up. The Cubs were going to win the World Series after all, and Shania Twain was going to receive the Nobel Prize for Physics. Why not? |
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25 Jul 01 - 12:11 PM (#514291) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Charley Noble Time for lunch! :-) |
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25 Jul 01 - 12:23 PM (#514298) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Peter T. I sent him on his way, after we exchanged a few more pleasantries, his concerns for the safety of La Condolezza (as he referred to her on one occasion), and my warning to call off his gangsters and the heavy crap if he wanted to have a hope of getting my help. It was 4 in the morning, and my head hurt. I made myself a cup of coffee, laced it with rubbing alcohol for my headache, and sat down to think. To tell you the truth, I was trying to get Lucky in her crappy bathrobe out of my head. When Playboy is going to come out with its "Women in Crappy Bathrobes" special issue, I don't know, but I expect to be at the newstand waiting. Damn the woman. After a few seconds of that futility, I shook my head again, and went over to my CD player. I took out one of the Condolezza Schwartz CD's that Lucky had left lying around, stuck it into the machine, and picked out number 7 at random. I was feeling unlucky. While the machine whirred into place, I got a look at the entry under the liner notes. It said: "FARMPERSON, I LOVE YOU." And under that it said: "We in the cities, and me personally, need to cherish farmpersons, because they bring us the food we eat, though they are also an integral element in the meateating chain of destruction. Yet this is a song for them, with all their roughewn contradictions!!". She began to sing: "O The farmer in the dell, O The farmer in the dell Hi Ho, Farm man and farm woman, From the furrow in your brow to The furrow under your plough, You drop great salty tears of sweat, Which can't be good for the plants, I bet! (banjo frails pathetically in the distance, then bad bluegrass machine heats up) WHERE DO OUR ROOTS COME FROM? AND WHERE DO OUR ROOTS GO TO WHEN THEY ARE GONE? Oh farmperson on your tractor, You are such an important factor In the fields of summer I see burgeoning, Not from lawyering or surgeoning, oh no, OH NO!! We cannot lose the farm, or we will lose our lunches!!! We are losing them in bunches!!!! But FARMPERSON, CAN YOU TELL ME: (big harmonica finish) WHERE DO OUR ROOTS COME FROM? AND WHERE DO OUR ROOTS GO TO WHEN THEY ARE GONE?? With a moomoo lost, and a moomoo gone, Here no moo, there no moo, Everywhere no moomoomooMOOMOOMOOMOOMOOMOOOOOOOO!!!! (Fade). What can you do? I went to bed.
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25 Jul 01 - 12:30 PM (#514306) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos [O, PT, I am enthralled!!! You be DA MANNN!!!. A.] |
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25 Jul 01 - 04:38 PM (#514518) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: katlaughing (BRAVO, PT!!!) |
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25 Jul 01 - 05:28 PM (#514540) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen Lucky turned up the Ave and walked towards Billy's. Her legs felt like lead from the night before, but when she saw Tracy and Jake standing at the door of the tavern, she quickened her step to meet them. "Aw, jeez, sorry babe," Tracy started, "I forgot my keys again and then Jake...jeez, you look like hell..." Tracy looked worried for a second and then started to smile.
Lucky opened the door and went in back and turned on the lights. There was the faint crackle of neon lights and then the soundsystem engaged: Lucky pulled the plug on the cd player, fished a quarter out of her pocket to feed the Wurlitzer, and in a few moments, the Ramones were butchering "Do Ya Wanna Dance" loud and clear. Much better. She went in the kitchen to unload the dishwasher, and was startled to see Tracy standing there, hand on her hip, still grinning like a dog with a mouthful of bees.
"What?" asked Lucky, with an uneasy feeling she knew where this was going. |
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25 Jul 01 - 07:57 PM (#514634) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen Tracy returned to the kitchen,carrying a hefty stack of flyers in the crook of her arm. "Just some kid from the festival, had to drop these off for Billy and use the head." she sighed. Lucky looked briefly through the listings, when Condolezza's name caught her eye. She folded one of the flyers up and shoved it in her back pocket. Madison might be on to something with this festival nonesense....
Saturday Concerts on the Pepsi "Have a Hempy Christmas" Stage
10:00-11:00a WILLIE MACGATES: Master of the Windows Named Pipes Lucky heard the bell jingle again, and equally cursing Tracy and Pavlov, went out into the tavern.... |
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25 Jul 01 - 09:18 PM (#514669) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos She pulled the door back harder than she needed to. It hadn't been locked. Reason the doorbell was ringing was the friazzle-haired folky hanging on it by the fingernails of his right hand. His patched Levis showing large freash patches of stain, he was buckled over barely keeping himself half-upright. He wore what must have once been an off-white home-spun collared and bloused peasant shirt. It wasn't off-white. It was bright, bright red. He tumbled toward her through the doorway gasping a long rattling intake of air, as though he would never get enough. From the color of his face it looked like he wouldn't. Lucky recognized him as Ned Loonbucket, the oddball singer with the overnight bag shaped like a guitar. She grabbed him by the shoulders as he fell and strained her bag lowering his long, pot-bellied frame to the barrom floor. She fought down a scream and grabbed the nearest touniquet she could find, a bar-towel half soaked in spilled whiskey. "What the hell," she thought. "It's disinfected, right?" She tore open the soaked peasant shirt and raised him into a half-sitting position. He was gasping for air again, the rattle in his throat stronger this time than the man himself, stronger than his life. She knew he was going. "Ned! What happened to you!!" she cried out, shaking and shocked by the cold vision of certain dying in the face of the man she was holding. "Peeeeepssss-i-i-i-iii!" he whispered, and he weakly raised one hand. It held a matchnook with bright blue lettering on the outside informing the lucky holder, "You Can Advance Your Carrer!!". The folksinger slumpoed in her arms, rolled up his eyes and left the body behind. She stepped back, horror on her beautiful face, one hand against her mouth, frozen in horror and amazement. Her senses were running double speed and the world was bright, hard, vivid, and much too present. She stared at the small hairs settling down on the dead folky's head, the drips oozing to the floorboards, and time seemed to stand still in a vivid unquenchable moment of pain. Then she noticed the sharp flavor of wet sulphur. She pulled the matchbook away from her mouth and glanced at it. The last thing he had done in his most important instant was to hand it to her. Why? She opened it and saw a single word, scrawled in a childish hand..... Cosmo |
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25 Jul 01 - 09:20 PM (#514670) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos Strained her BACK!! Her BACK!!! Geeeez!!! A |
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26 Jul 01 - 01:06 AM (#514701) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen I heard about Ned Loonbucket from the guys at the precinct, and I figured the roadies at the festival site were the next logical lead. Undercover work was definitely called for, and as is common knowledge, everything goes better under covers when one has a partner, so I picked up the phone and called Billy's. "Billy's Keg'n'Cork.." her voice barked in my ear "Lucky Day, fair shamrock..." I spoke in my best-guy-on-the-planet voice "Oh gawd, what do you want now, Madison?" she broke in, "I just got finished dealing with the cops and mopping up the last of that folkie, I'm really not in the mood for this.." I could tell at this point she trusted me about as far as she could fling Billy's BlackVelvet Elvis portrait, which according to eye-witnesses on 'BlueHawaii' night at the tavern, was roughly half a city block...
"Well," I stumbled on "In the oft-touted tradition of truly fine stake-outs and reconnaissance work, I was wondering if you would do me the honour of accompanying me this evening..."
Needless to say, 7:59 found me frantically shoving things into closets, kicking various other 'things without homes' under my couch, and generally cursing myself for not getting a maid. When the knock came at the door, I waited to the count of five before opening it, then cursed myself again for not using the peephole. At least that would have prepared my for the sight of Lucky Day in short pants. She walked past, surveying the apartment with a keen eye, then turned to face me. |
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26 Jul 01 - 01:08 AM (#514703) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen On these sponsor nights before the festival, the fairgrounds had all the ambiance of night at Coney Island, complete with a strange rotting seaweed smell that I couldn't quite place, but shrugged off upon seeing the Hempy Christmas Ornament Stage and it's occupants. Lucky trailed on my arm like the tail on a kite, fluttering and making me think that in another life, I'd have carried her books home from school for an entire semester. For almost an hour I was subjected to: "Aw man, check it out Madison! They have one of those 'Are They Real or Are They Fake' Old-time photo booths!" I nodded somewhat appreciatively, thinking to my self that I'd bet the farm they were real, when she fluttered again, "And a 'Hell's Front Row' hotdog stand! Blister-dawgs and S'mores, you can't beat that combination..." thus followed by a toturous turn on the KWOW Oldies dance floor during which Lucky peered up and me and whispered through some sappy number, "How's your headache?" After our visits to the 'Go-Go Hamster Petting Zoo' and the booth where they told you your 'True BLUES Name', yours truly: "Herniated Watermelon Polk", and herself: "Dyslexic Passionfruit Taft", grabbed our blister-dawgs and walked past the port-o-lets to a stand of mobile trailers at the edge of the grounds. When we were out of sight of the festival, Lucky turned to face me without a trace of the festival fruitcake I came here with.
"All right," she whispered "We've made our entrance, now where to we go from here?"
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26 Jul 01 - 01:24 AM (#514705) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos She needed to talk, and I let her. About Ned Loonbucket's last few seconds in this gig; about his last two syllables, hissing out of him like a hydraulic jack facing the Last Letdown. About the matchbook he gave her with his last act of will. And about the hunting knife with the scarred leather handlegrips the cops had found on the sidewalk outside the bar's front door, where it had fallen from Ned's back as he struggled to pass the message. "Pepsi". "Cosmo". It didn't add up, and somehow as long as I was walking next Lucky, it didn't matter as much. We got to the fair and wandered past scores of little booths with rented tables and cheap stereos and bored wannabe entrepreneurs running them. They were selling herbal shampoos, dreamcatchers, tie-dyed brassieres, hand-turned brass doorstops shaped like giant capos, cheap pine carvings of Woody, and hand-painted Zimmerman masks fashioned after the album covers from the Village -- the grimy cherub makes music look. There were Polish sausage and soul-kitchens, corn dogs and hot chitlins, pig's foot and Philly steak sandwiches, tofu burgers and diced kumquat candies. If you could imagine it meaning anything to a folky, there was someone turning a buck on it. We got to the end of the midway where the big sound stage had been set up. Hippies, flower pots, potted flower children, hempsters, hopsters, and finger-popping Daddio-s littered the ground on tarps and blankets. Further back the older and squarer suffered on pain-designed chairs. Up on the stage, they were running with all the clockwork precision of an untuneable twleve-string. Theet Logos was still up there, flanging away on a five-meter banjo -- I think that's what it was called, anyway. I don't pllay much, like I said, except for horses, and I wasn't looking for grass or roots. Theet looked exactly as he had when Lucky had walked him out of the bar two days before. With one small difference, He wasn't wearing the ten-inch hunting knife. He was singing something about "no-one's behind but the cold birds to moan", as near as I could make it out, and all the overgrown seedlings opn the tarps were nodding and singing along and grooving on the old guy. Well, it takes all kinds. |
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26 Jul 01 - 06:20 AM (#514767) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: CarolC The diner was almost empty. The small woman with the dark hair sat across a table from Jorge. Jorge was a bizarre mixture of folkie and right-wing reactionary. He enjoyed making the other folkies jumpy describing all of the ways he knew to kill people with musical instruments. Jorge had been a Marine Lieutenant in Vietnam, and had spent almost twenty years as a cop. He had a twisted mind.
"So you want me to take care of someone for you honey?" said Jorge. He fingered his longnecked Seeger banjo lovingly, a look of bloodlust in his eye.
She could see that this conversation was not going to be easy.
"Jorge," she said, "I've got a problem. I need some help. I tried to contact Blake Madison about it but I think he's got his hands pretty full right now." ("Or he wishes he did," she thought.) "I need some advice. I think there's someone who wants to harm me. Maybe even kill me and Flim Flam..."
"No problem honey, I'll take care of it. Just point the bastard out. Do you want it to be slow and painful, or quick and easy?" Jorge lingered almost wistfully over the words 'slow and painful'.
"No Jorge," she said, "I don't want you to kill him. Or even hurt him."
Jorge looked disappointed. He was almost salivating with anticipation. This was clearly a huge letdown. "Well, if you're sure... I can't hurt him, just a little bit? Scare him at least? Maybe give him the old 'bloodless castrator' pep talk?"
"No," she said. "This isn't for fun. It's serious."
"Well, ok honey, but it seems like a waste of my talents, don't you think? What can I do for you?"
She described the strange events of the previous weeks and explained that she wanted to find a way to convince the head PR man that she wasn't worth bothering with. She wanted him to know that harming her would cause more problems than it was worth.
"Well, shit. That's easy enough to do." said Jorge. "You got any pictures of this guy?"
"Yes," she said.
"What about his address and phone number?" asked Jorge.
"I've got his phone number and his e-mail address. I got them off the internet from a website for another music thing he's involved with."
"Well there you go, honey. Write down your concerns and the events as you've described them to me. Then put them, along with the guy's name, phone number, e-mail address, and picture, in a few safe places where the authorities will see them if something happens to you. Then let him know what you've done. Since he's a PR man, I'm willing to bet he'd rather avoid the kind of scrutiny he'll get if something happens to you and his name is the first one that comes up. But shit honey. Not even the bloodless castrator?"
She sighed. "No Jorge. Don't you have some work to do on the 'Folk Singer Flinger'? Or have you perfected the trajectory already? That trebuchet is a nice piece of work. Where were you thinking of flinging them?" "Well now," he said. "Interesting you should bring that up. I was thinking maybe a nice big steaming vat of horse shit. But I don't know if I can find a vat big enough. Might have to settle for the river..." |
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26 Jul 01 - 09:34 AM (#514855) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Peter T. We walked some more. Neither of us knew whether "Cosmo" was an animal, vegetable, mineral, or folk singer, but it was O.K. For awhile it didn't matter. It was a summer night. Lucky was funny and beautiful, and for a few minutes I could pretend we were an old married couple, except one of us was wearing hot pants. It wasn't like an old Summer Fair, like the one I learned how to play three-card monte in while I should have been manning the Claw many years earlier when I was working my way through reform school, but it was cheesy in its own right. They had those teeensy Christmas lights strung up everywhere that no one had ever seen five years ago, and now every cheap outdoor night spot had them strewn around, but even I had to admit they looked pretty good. I am a sucker for a warm glow against the summer stars from a carnival. You get reminded that life is pretty rinky dink, when it all comes down to it. From cheers to chance we go staggering on, booths with all sorts of attractions are wooing, drumming, bawling. For adults only, there is something special to see: the multiplication of money, nothing concealed, guaranteed to increase your potency, and the rest of it. Oh, but suppose you walk a little farther, beyond the last of the billboards, plastered with Pepsi signs, that bitter drink that seems so sweet to its drinkers, as long as they are distracted, beyond there, just beyond, the view becomes real. It is quieter, the trees and the night say dark things to each other, and the stars aren't cheesy. The man and the maiden are drawn farther out, into the meadow, the lights behind them coalescing into a warm opal. She leads him on, perhaps he is in love with her, she says: "Let's just walk a little more,", and he says, "Where?" and he is touched by her manner, which has suddenly become formal. Her shoulders, her neck – perhaps she is of noble descent. But then he turns back, and leaves her, waves in parting, but must leave....But why? What's the use? She is a Lament. She is the one who waits upon the newly dead and shows them the vast ruins of loss, the fields of late blooiming grief, and sometimes, when they are ready, she points upwards and they see that they are now under a different sky, filled with the constellations of loss, which she can name -- look, there is the Cradle, there the Window, there the Rider, and from time to time, even in the land of grief, happiness falls like a shooting star.. "Hey, Blake. BLAKE. Hey, remember me?" Lucky says. She clutches a Whack-a-Folkie Prize. "Where the hell did you go?" "Just thinking, Lucky. Trying to figure out Cosmo." "You are a bad liar." "Poetry, Lucky, you and the summer stars bring out the Rilke in me." She came up close to him, the fuzzy animal stuck under her arm. "You know, Blake, I don't think you are cut out for this line of work." "Yeah, I know," I said, "but my feet were too flat for the Marines or ballet school." |
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26 Jul 01 - 11:24 AM (#514956) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor There's a booth, in the corner, way up in the back. A crowd gathers. There is a frenzy to purchase the hottest souvineer at the festival. Folks of all ages and sizes are leaving the stand with big smiles, wearing a tee shirt. A tee shirt embazoned with a red headed cartoon bird pecking and repeatedly stabbing a folk singer, instantly and undeniably recognizable as none other than the enigmatic Condolezza Schwartz. If you move a little closer you will notice that the shirts are made from the finest hemp,and you will read caption. What Woody Would Do! A little further down the way another booth, doing a brisk business in seven inch switchblades. It is going to be a busy evening! |
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26 Jul 01 - 03:46 PM (#515166) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Charley Noble Sigh! Musical Interlude: And she smashed his head through the middle of the banjo, She left them both well beyond repair, And the people all said, "That's the way to treat a banjo!" She cracked his skull with a rosewood chair. |
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26 Jul 01 - 04:05 PM (#515202) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos We walked past the fringes of the fair, where small groups of folkies and tokies and various other dispossessed spirits dragged their bodies in search of new hope. One had two ukeleles and a sweet potato singing "If You Like A Ukelele Lady, Ukelele Lady Like A-You". Over in another corner there were three shapely girls in dumpy blue denim overalls harmonizing on some song about their young love playing at the ball. We past a grungy clique of guys in leather jackets, Navy peacoats, Army field jackets, anything that looked like they had earned it whether they knew anything or not. They were banging out chords on a couple of cheap Mellotone guitars and singing a raunchy version of "Back Door Man", leering and swigging long-necks from paper bags, several kinds of smoke rising above them in the night sky between the fields and the fairwar. We walked close behind one of more atonal singers, and I noticed, as I passed, that he had four studs climbing up the edge of his right ear. I noticed he looked unkempt, oily-haired and unshaven, not that I was in the best of bloom myself. At least I had Lucky along to add some tone. Then I noticed something else. His black leathger jacket had chrome studs on the seams, chrome stars on the shoulders, thick chrome zippers in various places, and large flame-patterned letters across the shoulders in back. The writing on his coat caught the light from the midway as he writhed around, drinking and laughing. Five letters in bright orange, dull crimson and black, hanging off his scapulae like some kind of cosmic advertisement, curved around a deep purple skull with green eye sockets. Five letters... Cosmo |
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26 Jul 01 - 04:53 PM (#515262) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor Music wafting from the "L.L. Bean Stage"
My Beamer needs a tune up, I'm out of cuban cigars
My girl friend needs a surgeon to make her like her self
Who says you can't have wealth and really feel the blues The caaaauuuuuucaaaaiiiisiiiiiooooonnnnn Bluuuuuuuuuueeeeees |
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26 Jul 01 - 05:04 PM (#515272) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: GUEST,Songster Bob Chapter Two: ... interval ...
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26 Jul 01 - 05:16 PM (#515285) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen I held Lucky's arm tight, a little too tight, for she looked up at me with those baby-blues sending out their "whotthehell is wrong with you" vibe. I kept walking. That's the way it always goes, folks. Not five minutes ago I was sitting in the dark of night, lit by stars, and sucking spun sugar off the end of Lucky's fingers, with the biggest break in the case thusfar drinking beer out of a sack not 50 yards away.
"I am a back door man
I, somewhat nonchalantly, dragged Lucky behind a flea market tent, and she jerked her arm out of my grasp and turned to face me.
"What do we do now?" she whispered to me over her shoulder. So simple. It was like using a t-bone steak to fish for Rottweilers. Lucky walked around the flea market tent, looking coyly at the Dirty Everything Gang, and proceeded to paw through a stack of used Kingston Trio LP's on the table. The singing got a little louder, and a little raunchier, and she looked over her shoulder again. What is that? Are they born with that? Look up, look down, look back up, half smile, flip of the hair and voila. Our man covered the distance in roughly half the speed of smell, and was standing beside Lucky. A smile, a little more of the hair flip, and draw out the cigarette. He fished around in his many zippered pockets, and produced a book of matches. He lit her cigarette, and was making his move. Ah, but she counters with the slight hand wave and the 'well, I'm here with some friends, but maybe I'll see you around' look over her shoulder to the crowd. Our man went for macho, that's what leather men do in those situations, and he pulled Lucky close enough to slip the matches in her back pocket and give her a swat. She giggled, and turned around to leave, waving and looking over her shoulder as she walked back behind the tent.
She looked up at me, evidently disgusted, which was no big surprise, and said, "Can we go home now? I feel like I need to be disinfected..." She handed me the matchbook, and I opened it to reveal the name of our mystery guest in the same child-like scrawl.
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26 Jul 01 - 05:25 PM (#515294) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jim the Bart And then, and then. . . |
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26 Jul 01 - 08:09 PM (#515430) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos Condolezza Schwartz' act had started about forty-five minutes behind schedule what with one thing and another. We could hear her back-yard-in-Yonkers-cowgirl tones throbbinbg lamely through the evening air, and the dull sliding-steel-and-chalkboard rasp of her Country Band In a Box back up group whining piteously while it tried to catch up. They were doing the support vocals and I could even make out the moo--moomoo --mamoo moo incantation, and I was glad we weren't any closer. The dull roar of the hawkers and festival goers was punctuated by the occasional punch-through of little clumps of selected important phonemes from the band. "...lunches.....da dee da dee da..bunches.....mufl wuffl wah wah..." I was wondering if the scorched blister dawg was maybe reorganizing itself in my lower intenstine, when I felt Lucky grab my arm. Two women had walked up to the leather-jacketed punk and his Rottweiler buddies and started talking to the one with the Cosmo logo on his back. One of them was a short preoccupied woman with dark hair. As the closing bars of the Farm Person love song faded behind the buzz of the midway, I stared hard at what I thought I was seeing. I shook my head hard. Nothing changed. The other woman in the conversation was Condolezza Schwartz. |
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26 Jul 01 - 08:49 PM (#515457) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen What a shock it was to my system, I'll tell you that much. Seeing as it was Thursday night, and Condolezza wasn't scheduled for playing until Saturday night...So the Farm Person Bluegrass Wah-Wah from her band doing a sound check had barely filtered through my brain when we saw them standing with Cosmo along the midway. Lucky saw me staring, and turned around as well, "What is it Blake?" she asked. I pointed to the collection of folk oddities before us, and Lucky's voice dropped to a whisper, "That's her, isn't it?"
It was nearing midnight, and the midway was starting to darken as one by one the strings of lights were extinguished. I could tell Lucky was agitated. She had fallen in the big black hole of detective work, and she had fallen hard. We caught a cab and drove to Lucky's. As the driver pulled to the curb and stopped, so did she. She had one hand on the door, and one foot in the street, when she turned to me and gave me that same up'n'down look of hers that was somehow, this time, almost pensive. She paused before she said, "Aren't you coming up?" I paid the driver, and left a huge tip because I sure as shooting wasn't going to wait around for change and risk the chance she would change her mind. When we reached her floor, Lucky gave a gasp and took off running. The door to her apartment was open, and the place had been tossed. I'll spare you the string of obscenities that flew out her apartment door, but after a quick check by myself to see if the tosser was still in residence, I found Lucky on the kitchen floor, scooping up dirt and trying to repot a basil plant that the bastard had knocked off of her windowsill.
"Gawdammit, Madison," she broke. "What a mess..."
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26 Jul 01 - 09:15 PM (#515471) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen That is one of the perks of being me, that my apartment always looks as if it's been ransacked, so I guess I save myself the grief of it ever happening. When we finally got in, I turned to see the most uncomfortable looking Lucky I'd yet to see. She stood, hands in pockets, lightly rocking heel to toe as she looked around the room. "Time to put her train on another track, Mr Madison." I thought to myself.
"Here, have a seat." I waved towards the couch. "You want something to drink?"
When I returned, Lucky was curled on the corner of the couch. I handed her the drink and sat at the opposite end. "Okay, fledgling detective, what have we learned today?" "Okay," she started, then took another drink, "Things that I, Lucille Day, have learned in the past 24 hours..." she trailed off, tapping her nails on her glass. "First thing, Theet Logos wants Condolezza. For what, unknown. He gives me a note that gets me in a heap of shit with the Arab. Theet had a hunting knife, and now he doesn't. Hunting knife turns up in Ned for some unknown reason, but Ned isn't worried so much about said knife as he is about saying Pepsi and Cosmo..."
Lucky curled a little tighter in her seat and her eyes shone. "And the Arab. What's the deal? He's obviously bent because I dropped in on his little party and wasn't invited....Something to hide? Dunno...Unless what he has to hide only applies to Theet...But he spoke to you? Right?"
"And just what about Condolezza then? She's got the Arab goon squad, so what does she need you for, no offense.." Lucky paused, to take a much needed breath, and drain her glass. "Refill?" I asked, and she nodded. When I got back, Lucky was sound asleep with her head resting on the arm of the couch.
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26 Jul 01 - 09:39 PM (#515489) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor Murder at the Folk Festival MURDER at the Folk Festival MURDER at the FOLK FESTIVAL MURDER AT THE FOLK FESTIVAL Condolezza Schwartz is playing! I don't care which freaking night it is. but it is NOW!!! Note the Shift in narration.
"Blake is right he is not cut out for this business. That where I come in. My name is Dislexic Nomel Madison. You can call me Mad Lemon." Norchez is bloodthirsty. Norchez doesn't need any of those pansy reasons to take a life. Norchez is cold. Atop light tower 2 on the East end of the Grassy Noel Amphitheater. The hemp nativity scene is not all it appears to be. The camel has a very long hump. When it is finished we notice that the hump is a Glock & Taylor tripple barreled sniper rifle, with a rosewood bridge and Flame Maple stock. It's manacing ruby laser painting a bead on the golden visage of Condolezza.
Woke up I was with Chelsea Clinton "Too many rounds on the target range had robbed Norchez of the ability to hear any human voice except for James Earl Jones and Bea Aurther's. Otherwise he would have pulled the trigger then and there. As it was, there among the Marajuana Pointsettias, he had an experience of Grinchian proportions and his heart grew three sizes. Right then and there. He no longer wanted to kill Bambi's mom or turn retired people into Soylent Green." But then, using his last ounce of militia training, he tried to imagine her as an imperial storm trooper. Her macrame shawl, a space suit, her guitar a blaster rifle like a jawa would use. But no. "She's too purty, she's too purty." he repeated over and over, redundantly, ad infinitum, As I, Dressed as a hemp donkey, took him into custody and had the police take him away. |
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26 Jul 01 - 09:55 PM (#515507) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor Note Dislexic Nomel Madison Is obviously Blake Madison's twin brother. "The Blues Detective" |
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26 Jul 01 - 11:19 PM (#515570) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos [Guys, guys -- I don't mind if you rip a couple pages outta my calendar but strive for SOME kinda continuity or sumpn....] |
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26 Jul 01 - 11:51 PM (#515598) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor [I was kinda thrown by the Thursday/Saturday thing and I had some attempted murder jokes ready. TODAY. ] The cell phone telephone rings with the tune "Luck be a Lady Tonight": "Blake Madison" "Blake, its me Mad Lemon. Where the hell are you? Norchez just tried to kill your client. What kind of a bodyguard are you" I said sourly. "But I thought she was playing Saturday", he said bleakly. "She is! Saturday with her band. Tonight 'unplugged'. and she almost got plugged right between her baby blues. Look buddy! I gotta go to Kansas City, so I had to have some action tonight! But you make sure that you're here on Saturday. You can't rely on ole Dislexic Nomel Madison for ever." "Thanks Mad Lemon. I owe you one!" "Yeah little brother, I'll put it on your tab." [Timeline resolved, take it away Amos.]
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26 Jul 01 - 11:53 PM (#515599) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen ****COMPLETE AND TOTAL BOLLOCKS FOR THEMS THAT CAN'T MANAGE THE PLOT**** Well, see, guys, it's a little known trick called 'reading'....I hear it works wonders *bg* At the beginning, Blake comes to the K'n'C, asks 'what are you doing SATURDAY night..not tonight, or tomorrow night, leading one to believe it is at the very latest, Thursday night...(Wednesday was an arbitrary choice just becuz it was) You have one night comprised of Theet, the Arabs, then the next morning of Blake meeting Afteh and Lucky peeling Ned off the floor. This would, once again, following the earlier continuation... be Thursday, at the latest Friday, but definately not Saturday... And the carnival, that night, Thursday night, headed by "On Sponsor Nights Before the Festival" on one of those posts up there would in fact, still make that Thursday night... Condolezza is scheduled to play Saturday night, she said so herself, not Thursday, not Friday...Saturday... How in the hell is a girl supposed to be able to figure out who the murderer is if you guys keep skipping around? hmmmm? Give us a little time to let it stew, why dontcha? hmmm? No sense in making it more difficult than it already is! |
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27 Jul 01 - 12:17 AM (#515622) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor [Yes you are correct! Obviously Blake was mistaken! Captivated by Lucy's charms no doubt! (I wonder are they real???)and did not know that she was playing at sponsers night! (Sorry, I needed action!!! Give me credit for not killing anyone off though I was sorely tempted! ****BG****)] |
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27 Jul 01 - 12:20 AM (#515629) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor Geese, I must be tired.. Should read "Lucky's charm" ;) |
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27 Jul 01 - 12:47 AM (#515633) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos "What day is it?" I muttered stupidly, wondering where I had gotten the unshaven feeling and the little corduroy tracks I could feel criss-crossing my cheeks." "It's Friday, you big dope!" Lucky replied, shaking me from my foetal position on the couch, where an oversized cushion in brown cord had made my face look like a Nazcan roadmap. I remembered having carried her in into my bedroom, and that I tucked her in just as she was, except for her shoes, and staggering to sleep on the sofa, which is about eight inches too short for me. "I think I realized what I learned yesterday, Mister Master Detective!!", she laughed, handing me a huge mug of black coffee. "What's that??" I asked muzzily, wishing I could crawl back into my own bed. Don't go there, pal, a small thought whispered. "There's two pieces we don't know. One of them is that WE don't know something. The other one is there's something Condolezza doesn't know. Don't you see??? She thinks she's in cahoots with the baddest bunch of dudes in town, and there's something totally UNREAL abouther perception of it!!" "After listening to her sing, I'm not surprised," I answered, swinging my aching legs down to the floor and trying to slurp up some very strong coffee. "Great thinking! All we have to do now is go ask her what she doesn't know, and she'll tell us, and we'll have the whole thing figured out!!" I ducked as a hairbrush flew across the room in my general direction, and quickly outgrew my preconception about girls not being able to throw. It missed my ear by inches and embedded itself in the thin plasterboard behind the sofa. "Get up!!! Get dressed!!! Come on!!!!" she demanded. "We're going out." Looking at the hairbrush sticking out of my wall, I figured I'd best do as I was told. I carried my mug into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face and started to shave. I could hear Lucky slamming around cleaning up my kitchen, humming a song about "dreaming the impossible dream..." -- which come to think of it was pretty close, seeing it was my kitchen. Forty minutes later we were munching some baguettes at a sidewalk table outside an economy model of a French cafe -- across the street from the Aubrey, watching the doormen scurry around changing shifts. The Aubrey, now, there is a hotel for you -- once one of the finest in the fair land, now thick with plaster dust, palimpsest, and decayed opulence that can't pull itself together anymore. The carpets are the same ones that Fontaine trod back when; Crosby, LaRue, Mix.... they were all here once. Now they're threadbare and mildewed. Past glories clinging to the present with a thin, nervous grip -- an appropriate pied-a-terre for a woman of Condolezza Schwartz' stature. We sat and watched, sat and waited.... |
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27 Jul 01 - 01:03 AM (#515639) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen The early morning phone call from Lemon-head put me in a sour mood. In Blake Madison's book, the only time a man should see dawn is on his way to bed. I rolled over and put the reciever back on the hook, rubbed my eyes, and prepared to return to dreamland when the light knock came at my bedroom door.
"Madison, are you awake?" Lucky softly called, and for a minute, I thought I was still dreaming. I grunted yeah, and sat up. The door opened a crack and she called again, "Are you decent?"
She came in wearing my crappy bathrobe and looked at me apologetically. "Sorry, I found it hanging on the bathroom door. Hope you don't mind."
"Did you sleep okay?" I asked. She rolled her head and made some remark about pretzels, then stared into her coffee cup.
"Well, first things first, this Condolezza chick is no good. Why in the world would she hire you if she had all of those arabs protecting her? The roadies mentioned her stealing songs. Did she? And from whom? How in the world does she know Theet? And better yet, how does she know Cosmo? Who is that dark-haired lady she was with, and the kicker for me: Why in the world would she hire you, then not make any contact after all this time? Then, that Arab guy. Are you sure he's on your side? Between him, the roadie, and Condolezza, there is that weird triumvirate that just screams bad news, to me anyway.." "Then there's that Theet Logos character. How does he know Condolezza? Is he the songwriter she lifted from? Did he lose his knife or did he use it himself? And Cosmo, now, he doesn't look like those roadies, but is heone? And we know he knows Condolezza, but what about him knowing Theet? Another threesome that worries me just a little bit." She sipped her coffee and stared out the window. "But you know the one that has me baffled, is Ned Loonbucket. First of all, why would anyone want to kill that lost soul? And the thing that bothers me the most, is that he was on his way to the Keg'n'Cork. Why was he coming there? To warn me? And Pepsi and Cosmo...why? If Cosmo was a name, does that mean Pepsi is a person too? Did he see Theet with someone, want to come tell me, and they got him before he could? That would explain the knife. And Cosmo...was Cosmo a helping hand, or the murderer? It is slowly driving me crazy, Madison...Just what did Ned know? Or better yet, think that he knew...after all, he WAS Ned Loonbucket..." I sat for a moment, wishing I could put her brain in a jar and keep it on my desk for emergencies. She had just shone daylight through every hole in this case. There were too many questions and not enough time to answer them all. We would have to be careful, and very lucky.
"But listen," she said, "I wanted to tell you..I gotta get going..." |
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27 Jul 01 - 01:10 AM (#515641) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen (aw, fer cryin' out loud, so much for cut and paste...LOL...sorry Amos!) Anyways, so they are sitting outside the hotel AND?????? |
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27 Jul 01 - 01:41 AM (#515658) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: katlaughing (Aside: isn't this the first time we've had multiple persons posting for one character? That might be the "rub" so to speak; still, am enjoying it immensely.) |
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27 Jul 01 - 08:55 AM (#515828) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen (I'm off to the side with you: Well, it's still story-time, but no, the problem is that for a murder mystery, ya gots ta have yer facts straight, m'am. Otherwise the flatfeet are just running for nothing ;) |
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27 Jul 01 - 09:49 AM (#515858) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor The shrink told me that, I take my meds, my multiple personalities would go away. That's the last time I shop at Placebo Joe's Pharmacy! |
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27 Jul 01 - 10:04 AM (#515873) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Peter T. What irks me is that Blake had to sleep in the other room twice on the same night!!!!!Is the guy unlucky or what? yours, Peter T. |
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27 Jul 01 - 10:26 AM (#515888) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos [Peter, for old time's sake, would you mind showing me how to tie that Gordian thing once more?] |
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27 Jul 01 - 11:03 AM (#515918) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor So after apartment cleaning, and errands run. Here we are munching french pastries, waiting outside the hotel of a client who's life has been threatened. We could just go inside and ASK her what she knows etc. I have a hunch she will tell us if she is really afraid for her life. It is then that I realize that the note on the knife did not mention a specific time or place for the murder. She could be in danger now! Now I finally realize how profoundly stupid I must be. There is cream in my expresso! I'm allergic to dairy!
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27 Jul 01 - 11:24 AM (#515944) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen *...And I feel incredibly stupid....of COURSE he would have carried her to bed and slept on the couch. So much for trying to think like a guy...(for women, anyone over 5 years old, if they fall asleep, she'll tuck them in right where they are.) Live and learn.* |
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27 Jul 01 - 11:30 AM (#515949) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: katlaughing Well I didn't mean to kill the whole thing!**BG** |
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27 Jul 01 - 11:50 AM (#515968) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor [Murder At The Folk Festival (the dumb detective) suggested addition to the title. Dumb detectives are funnier. Please continue everyone and keep in mind that at some point we may want to have a "Murder at the Folk Festival" or not... it's all good!] I knocked on her hotel room door and........ |
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27 Jul 01 - 11:57 AM (#515974) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos ***yeah, but detective people don't just go up and talk to people in their plots. They wait to be knocked out by them, physically or otherwise. ANd giving L the bed was the right thing to do because you know darn well if he had tucked her in on the couch, she would have woken him up an hour earlier than she did with a glass of tapwater instead of coffee and said "So, how come you got the bed and I had to sleep on the couch, Macho?!!"(LOL)**** |
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27 Jul 01 - 12:07 PM (#515984) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Peter T. No, no, no. She was already asleep on the couch. He would have gone and gotten a blanket and tucked her in where she was, so as not to wake her. That takes priority over where she slept. Were you guys born in Albania or something? yours, Peter T. |
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27 Jul 01 - 12:09 PM (#515985) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor In China Town and Maltese Falcon they did. But Blake Madison is no Jake Gettes or Sam Spade! |
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27 Jul 01 - 12:15 PM (#515989) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos ***I think you're right today, Peter T. But would you have been right yesterday? Are we talking Sam Spade, or Dirk Gently and his Holistic Detective Agency? Granted, Lucky sees through him and knows he has a sensitive side... And come to think of it, I think Madison's grandfather crossed to Ellis Island from Albania, having smuggled into Greece hidden under a cargo of leeks in the hold of a coastal lugger. The immigration officer just gave him the Madison name because he (the officer) had been born in Madison Wisconsin and couldn't figure out how to spell Nevruzete Gjoni Hatziyan. *** |
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27 Jul 01 - 12:21 PM (#515995) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: katlaughing Yeah, well Lucky might wanna have a talk with Nurse Sherry Aims before she goes falling head over heels for this well....this well-heeled heel of a dick, Madison. How 'bout it, Sherry? Where's a nurse when ya need one? |
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27 Jul 01 - 12:29 PM (#516009) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Peter T. Blake Madison always treated Sherry impeccably. He is not a heel -- he is a knight in rusty armour. She walked out on him, in a classic bar scene somewhere in this morass of story lines. yours, Peter T. |
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27 Jul 01 - 12:37 PM (#516019) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen "Well, I don't mean to interrupt," I said to the voices in my head, "But this IS cutting things pretty close."
I sat across from the Aubrey and waited for Lucky. She came up to the cafe with that same spring in her step, and sat across the table from me. The two of us chatted away, each with one eye on the front doors of the Aubrey, until we saw the golden mop of hair that was Condolezza Schwartz. She carried her guitar, and flipping her shawl over her shoulders, started walking towards McCurnin Park. Lucky and I got up, and followed close behind her.
McCurnin Park, on summer mornings like this, was usually filled to capacity with sun- worshipers, exercise freaks, and people on their way to work. Today was no exception. I held Lucky's hand, just for credibility, I told myself, but Condolezza was an easy tail, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to spot macramé in a jungle of spandex.
Well, after a stumbling entrance like that, even Condolezza Schwartz couldn't have missed me. I reminded myself that Lucky needed a few lessons in quiet observation, as well as a few other things that wouldn't do to talk about in a family park, the waved slightly and walked over to Condolezza.
"Well, Mr. Madison, I am in one piece, so apparently you are doing you job." Condolezza sniffed up at me, "Now I came out here to be inspired, so I'll have to ask you, is there anything else?" |
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27 Jul 01 - 12:49 PM (#516029) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: katlaughing (One more voice in the head: My apologies to the Private Eye Madison, the Gentleman. BTW, last I saw of Sherry, she was in a speedboat with a couple of characters in Florida.**BG**) |
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27 Jul 01 - 01:11 PM (#516054) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Jack the Sailor Blake: As I felt the sharp pain in my side I remembered the broken spring from my couch. I just didn't have the heart to let Lucky sleep on that batter old chesterfield. Its not like I was born in Albania or something.. |
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27 Jul 01 - 02:49 PM (#516170) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos I looked down at her long flowing blonde hair and her lovely if reconstructed face and waited for Condolezza Schwartz to answer the string of questions I had rattled off from the top of my admittedly turbulent thoughts. Her attitude, dismissive and self-centered, suddenly shifted and softened. And tears began to form up in her large green eyes. "Mr. Madison, you may be doing your job entirely too well," she remarked, fumbling in her guitar case for a patchouli-scented tissue. "And you are asking me things that I cannot answer right now. You deservebetter, but I cannot help you. All I can suggest is that you learn as much as you can about two men." "Huh? What two men?" "Enrico Rogers. And Sharpir "Image" Roberts. " "Well, who are they?" "I can't tell you anymore, Blake. I'm sorry. They work for the Pepsi Cola corporation. Now, please leave!!" She turned away and I took the hint. It was clear to me she was pushing the envelope just telling me that much. I knew I had some work to do. As I crossed the park heading back to the street corner where Lucky had retreated to watch, I saw a battered-looking purple pickup, circa 1964, cruising the street along the north side of the park, and suddenly pulling to a stop at the curb. The smell of trouble came rushing back into my fancy as I joined up with Lucky. She was out of direct view, pressed back against the building, watching and she pulled me in next to her. "Look!!! That's Logos' truck!!" she whispered urgently. I watched, pressed up against her enticing side, as Theet Logos climbed down from the pickup and started toward the spot where Condolezza Scwartz was sitting fiddling tunelessy with her guitar strings. |
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27 Jul 01 - 03:27 PM (#516193) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: JenEllen I walked away from Condolezza Schwartz, only marginally clearer than I approached her. It was certain she was hiding something. Between the muddled conversation on my part, and the vapid intellectual flagellation she was infamous for, I still couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong about the entire situation. I said my good-byes and walked back into the park. We saw Logos' pickup truck, and I doubled back to see what he was up to. For a long while, Logos stared at the statue of Jacob McCurnin, one of the cities founding fathers and the inventor of the toaster waffle. He must have known I was there, because he looked towards Condolezza, then started down the park jogging path away from her.
By this time, Lucky had found the park swings and was sitting on one, traveling in a lazy pendulum, her toes tracing ellipses in the sand. You know, there are times when I hate myself for standing and watching and getting lost in the beauty of everyday things, but this wasn't one of those times. I watched the breeze twist the hem of her sundress and blow her ponytail, and the sun glow on her shoulders, and, then out of the corner of my eyes, I saw him.
"Hey," he managed, in the patois of the street thug, to greet Lucky.
"Yeah, I remember you." grinned Lucky. "What are you doing out here? It's kinda early isn't it?"
Lucky's swing stopped cold. She looked at Cosmo again, and asked in a whisper, "Ned?"
Cosmo took the swing next to Lucky, and she basically reiterated what she'd told the cops the day before. He just nodded. Then Lucky, god bless her little ponytailed soul, went right to work.
The two sat in silence for a few minutes, before Cosmo stood up. "Listen, I gotta go meet some friends. Are you going to the festival tonight?"
As the kid walked away across the park towards Condolezza, I came over and took the swing next to Lucky. "Well, that clears a few things up," I said, "but I still have one question.." We walked down the park path, both noticing Cosmo Loonbucket and Condolezza Schwartz deep in conversation, and the approaching Theet Logos.
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27 Jul 01 - 03:36 PM (#516206) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Peter T. "Yes?", she said. "What are your views on non-violence, Condolezza?" "But of course, non-violence is everything! It is the air we breathe, that comes as a gift from these flowers, it is how we relate, one to one, and even sometimes in larger groups, and I wrote a powerful song about it that --" "Not just now, Condolezza." I interrupted. "The truth is that in the last 24 hours, just scratching the not very interesting surface of this folkie crowd you hang out with, one person is dead, I have been knocked out, followed, tied up, had a nice physical chat with your Arab pal, and there is a wandering knife with Theets Logos' logos on it, if not his fingerprints." "Theets?!!! Oh, no. He had such a beautiful soul, once. Is he here among us?" I was beginning to get the knack of having a conversation with Condolezza. It was like ice skating on skates from which all the laces had been removed. "And then there is Cosmo, who is a refugee from Altamont, and, to paraphrase Dame Edith Evans, we all know what that unfortunate movement led to." She huffed: "I don't know what you are talking about. He was never near Altamont. He has a Masters from Columbia. He is a genius." "Not to attack the hallowed halls of Columbia, but their standards seem to have degenerated. This guy has a doctorate in bumpatting, and got less than 390 on the W.N.S.S. exams." "W.N.S.S.?" "Writing your name on the sand with a stick." "I can't say that he is promoting my career as strongly as I would hope, but his name has certainly appeared on my checks recently. And on my new CD!!" And she handed it to me, and pointed to a name: Cosmo Tepperman, Executive Producer and Chair, Sadista Records. "And" she said, "Here he is now." A chubby short man in an impeccably tailored Savile Row suit, his remnant hair sprawled over his bald head like the bottom of your spaghetti strainer when you forget to put the salt in the boiling water, and smoking a large fat cigar, was picking his way over the daisies towards us. All I could think of was not that we had been up the down staircase, but that Condolezza seemed to have a Snow White complex, since here was the second dwarf of my acquaintance. "Lezza, Baby, how are ya? Saving the pipes? What are you doing out here, you aren't singing to this guy for free, are you -- hey, just a joke!" He bore an astonishing resemblance to Big Ears the Elf, except for the lack of beard. He kissed Condolezza on both cheeks, and sat down, rolling side to side for a second, and then settled in. "Cosmo, this is Blake Madison, who has been saying strange things about you." I apologised as best I could, without saying anything much. "Hey no problem, Blakey baby. We both have Lezza's best interests at heart. You really think this threat is real, not just the usual kooks?" I decided to prod the elf, which never works out well in fairy tales. "I'll tell you what I think, Mr. Tepperman. I think that what is happening is that there is a quid-pro-quo agreement to which someone in your organization is a party, which is using your company to shuffle oil out of Iraq illegally, and import CDs into the Ukraine, which will pirate them out to Kazakhstan, which will trade them for peaches to Iran, and then the peaches will be traded for Malaysian computer chips, which will show up in your cellphone next year." I am sure some of it was wrong, but I was flying a gaudy kite. I give him immense credit. He sat there and looked at me as if I were nuts, and then he broke out laughing. "What are you laughing about, Cosmo, what is he talking about? Oil?" Condolezza asked, an even more bewildered look than normal crossing her face, and looking both ways for traffic. "I think you should fire this guy, Lezza, he is kookier than the guys trying to kill you." I stood up. "Well, that's my current theory. Fire me or not, there is a dead man unaccounted for. But you might want to check this out before you do. This was found on the dead man." And I flashed them the matchbox cover. "See you around." I turned to walk away, and turned back. "Oh, and one more thing. I see that Sadista Records is owned by Sherman Oil, and you just went public three days ago. How much did you make on that?" Cosmo smiled. "You mean me, personally?" "Oh, why not." "$12 million. They're playing our song in Washington, or haven't you heard." I had heard. I walked away towards the Keg, idly wondering if my long awaited tax rebate had showed up in the mail yet, so I could buy that farm I had always wanted. |
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27 Jul 01 - 03:41 PM (#516213) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Peter T. [Sorry, we are now definitely into alternative universes by accident! More than one universe now contains Condolezza Schwartz (no!!), and for the sake of generations yet unborn in many cosmosses I will abandon my version of things, and pick up where others have boldly gone.] |
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27 Jul 01 - 03:48 PM (#516221) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: MMario * Condollezza exists in multiple universes? I am now *officially* frightened* |
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27 Jul 01 - 03:53 PM (#516224) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: GUEST,RobDale "Billions and Billions" Said the author of Cosmos on Discovery Channel as I realized that the Note on the match book was space-related and I contemplated going to talk to C.S. for a third unproductive time....
Just kidding.... |
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27 Jul 01 - 05:03 PM (#516289) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos As Lucky and I walked home, I mean back to my place, I told her about the bizarre coincidence that I had discovered. The matchbook kid having the same name as the Sadista Records executive, I mean. I told her how I had prodded the millionaire troll with the noodles-cold hairdo. Logos had veered off when he saw the two Cosmii hanging around the targe of his intention. I only hoped he would stay clear of her until the performance was over. After all, I had a client to defend, and his Smith and Wesson bumpersticker and missing hunting knife didn't add up to a "Confirmed friendly" IFF in my book. When we got upstairs, I broke out the Titanium G4 and started scrubbing the Internet for ideas about the two names the Condo-person had left me with. The usual PR garbage from giant corporations, a PDF file about their avowed environmental friendliness and Gaian partnership . I was interested to learn on their "Officers of PepsiCo" page that the CEO was a slick suit using the handle Enrico Rogers. And Sharpir "Image" Roberts was their corporate head of Public Relations. Small bells started going off in the back of my mind. I broadened the search a little and came up with something even more interesting. Pepsi's big suits had decided chips and sodas wasn't big enough for them. They had acquired an oil consortium--which incidentally happened to include little Sherman Oil--and brought all the parts together in a holding company called Cosmo Oil, Vaseline and Petreoleum International Development corporation, known as COVAPID. I learned something else from a newsgroup I found peopled by embittered exPepsico employees. The operations office in the PR department spent their days pulling off capers to forward the interests of Pepsi in the public "mindshare" -- wow -- and their chief operating officer was named Anita Lyphee. A small dark haired woman. The one I had seen talking to the thugs with Cosmo Loonbucket and Condolezza Schwartz the other night. Lyphee had connections with the biggest crime families in Mexico, Columbia and Ecuador. She had cornered the market in Panama hats back in 1979 and had gone on from one coup to another since then. AMzing the things you learn on the Internet. I dumped some saved pages tot he laser printer in the closet, folded up the Titanium and told Lucky what I had learned about COVAPID. She turned pale. |
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27 Jul 01 - 05:17 PM (#516300) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Lonesome EJ Sometimes I guy's got to do what a guy's got to do. Sometimes that even means going to talk to the flatfoot. I dropped Lucky at work and drove down to the Station, parking at the far end of the block out of habit. I made the walk almost to the door, when it popped open and who should appear but Theet Logos, dazzled by the sunlight on the street and blinking like a gaffed carp. He fumbled for his Vuarnets and slipped them on before the rear door of his limo was opened by a uniformed attendant and he was swallowedby the plush Corinthian leather inside. I waited until the stretch caddy had zoomed off before I hit the door, the big desk sergeant glancing at me with disdain before sticking his schnoz back into the Newsweek from which he was busily engaged in collecting a world view. Without looking my way again, he said "what can I do for you sir?" "I'd like to speak with the officer who's handling the Loonbucket murder." "Well he's very busy. What do you want?" "I've got some information for him." The cop sighed and slid open a drawer, sighed again and got up heavily from his swivel chair. "I'm out of witness forms. Stay here, I'll be right back." When he disappeared into a door on the left, I flanked the desk and went down a hall on the right toward a murmur of voices. In an office two doors down three men were gathered around three cups of java and Logos' hunting knife. The conversation stopped as I stopped outside in the hall. The biggest of the three, a red-faced, balding, Irish-looking guy says "who are you? Who let you back here?" "Dan Blake", I responded, using my traditional lame alias that I fell back on time and again during periods of duress. "Are you the investigating officer on the Loonbucket case?" He nodded and walked around the desk, close enough for me to get a whiff of Bushmill's off his breath. "I've got something to show you. Not here. You've got to come with me." "Where the hell?" he grinned but there was an undertone of threat in his voice. "Just down the street. Place called the Zephyr." "Alright", he grinned to my surprise. We walked out past the Desk Sarge who said "Hey! I told...Everything ok Lieutenant?" The big Detective just said "if anybody calls I'm in conference. At the usual place." We went out into the street, and I had to pick up the pace to keep up with the cop. "My name's Obannion, Mr Blake," said the Irishman. "You got a lot of nerve interrupting like that. I figure you for a PI." I grinned back. "Was it the snoopy attitude?" "No," he said, "it's the whiskey on your breath and the gun in your coat pocket." I was on the threshold of a new experience....I had met a cop I liked."I'll drink to that," I said. "Damn right you will," Obannion grinned back. |
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27 Jul 01 - 05:41 PM (#516316) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos **LEJ? Theet isn't the one with the limo -- that's Afteh Whoom, the Persian oil broker. Theet drives a purple pickup with 290,000 miles on it and a "Smith and Wesson on Board" bumper sticker!** |
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27 Jul 01 - 06:03 PM (#516328) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Lonesome EJ We'd gone through six Bushmills with cold Coors backers, me trying to pump Obannion for info while giving him the stuff he probably already knew. Finally, he said "look, Blake. Stop trying to bs an old bs'er. Fact is Condolezza is right at the top of the suspect list. As long as you're working for her we're just drinking and blabbing." "Yeah, she's a client, but it goes so far. If she did the old man, I don't want her money." Then I laid out what I knew for him. And he reciprocated. "I saw Theet leaving in his limo. He still on the suspect list?" Obannion laughed "Limo? You mean that beat to hell pickup?" I grinned, but the wheels were turning. It had indeed been Logos getting into the limo. "No", said the cop, "he's not on the list. He's a righty too." I finished the whiskey and put it down slowly. "A Righty?" Obannion ordered another round, turned and said "the wound angle on Loonbucket was impossible for a right-hander. The killer was a leftie. Like Condolezza Schwartz." |
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27 Jul 01 - 11:32 PM (#516469) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos We were getting ready to pack it in. I still couldn't figure it. Why was Condolezza running around with those roadies under Afteh Whoom's benevolent protection. Who WERE those guys? Why was she hobnobbing with a PepsiCo PR operative like Anita Lyphee? And what was Theet Logos doing in a stretch limo? He hadn't cut a disk since they ran out of medium-play master platters. It sure wasn't new found wealth. O'Bannion hadn't had a clue on that front. I dropped into the phone booth at the front of the Zephyr and called the Keg 'n' Cork. Billy answered. "Hey, Mister Madison! How ya been!!! Ya looking for Lucky? Hey, you need to take it easy here, ya know? Can't have you luring away the best thing that ever happened to the K'n'C!! Ha Hahh Haaa!!! Ya know??? Hahaha!! Say, lemme tell her to call ya back, wouldja? She's over talking to that banjo playing guy with the bottomless leg, the Heiniken drinker. Yeah, I'll tell her. So long, now, Mister Madison!! Don't take any wooden capos!!! Hahhaaahahaha!! Ya know what I mean???" I hung up and drove across town to the K&C. I ordered a gingerale at the end of the bar from Billy, then carried it over to where Lucky was sitting with Theet Logos. He looked tired, and distraught, like someone had left his face out in the rain. "Mind if I join you?" I asked pleasantly. "Oh, Blake!! I am so glad to see you!!!" she smiled. Y'know -- she looked like she meant it, too. I paused, waiting for her to add to the remarks, but the run wa sover for now. She introduced me to Theet. I sat down across from him, sliding past Lucky who was perched on the end of the booth table. I decided not to be coy. This guy had walked around the block a few times. "What were you doing leaving the precinct house in a stretch limo, Theet?" I asked, boring into his tired skull with my gimlet look. He didn't mind straight talk. He didn't mind dealing it out, either. "I never could make aliving playing the banjo," he said evenly. "So when I got out of the Navy patrol boat business, and needed to enhance my cashflow, I started a little business dealing ion folk music recordings. There was always enough hangers-on left over from the Limelighter days that I could keep it going, and lately it was even starting to pick up some, make a couple of decent years. Aesthete Productions. Well, I gotta call in my room at the Motel Six this morning from the cops saying I had to go down and explain how my hunting knife got into poor Ned. They said it had marks on the handle that coudl only have been made by fingerpicks. I told them I'd come by, aroiund 10:00 or so, and I was just getting ready to shave when the phone rang again and it was some motormouthed dame worked for the PepsiCo company, said she HAD to see me on a matter of great importance tot he environment, and my business, and so on. So I told her I'd be at the precinct and she said she'd pick me up. That was her limo you saw." "Anita Lyphee?" "Yeah. She wanted to buy my business and use it to promote folk songs. I said, gimme a break, lady. The nearest thing to a folk song PepsiCo ever bought was Ray Charles. But she said, no this was serious. Important for the future of the environment, too. Said PepsiCo wasa going to take a major stand on environmental issues, and they thought Aesthete would be one of the key pieces. So they figgered to offer me 6 figures for it. I never had six figures, see. Well, my fourth wife had a double.... an' if you count my daughter, well, she's got one of her own.... so maybe that counts.... but not money..." He was nodding off and I counted the Heinekin bottles. Six figures indeed. I nodded to Lucky and we helped Logos across the room into Billy's office. He keeps an army cot set up in the back, in between the unopened cases and clenaing supplies. Handy sometimes. We tucked him in, and Lucky gave him a little smooch on the head, and we went back out to the bar. We had some talking to do, and Lucky was still in Billy's 'kidgloves' book, so she took the afternoon off. We jsut walked down the streets together, comparing notes. It felt a lot better than talking to the Irish detective. Lots better. |
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28 Jul 01 - 09:20 AM (#516605) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Peter T. New thread time, for those with trad computers: here! |
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01 Aug 01 - 10:44 AM (#519053) Subject: RE: Murder At The Folk Festival!! From: Amos I woke up with urgency still running in my veins. I opened my eyes and flinched. Someone had left a bunch of excess sunlight in the room I was in, and it was getting all over everything. I tried again, slowly. No use. The sunlight was there and I wasn't in the mood to clean it up. Get used to it, bud. I saw things I recognized -- the cheap industrial-grade venetian blinds and Motel-8 reject curtains of the Watt Angus Memorial Hospital. My left hand, lying on a white sheet. I noticed my ragged fingernails. Pete O'Banion, his generous rump overwhelming the thin edge of a plastic hospital visitor's chair, turned backwards for comfort. And Condolezza Schwartz, a little rumpled and without her makeup. And...Sherry. All three of them were watching me with grave concern and hopeful little smiles, and thier eyes bugged with undelivered thoughts and conversation. The prospect was more than I could take. The only thing missing was a couple of Cosmos and Aftah Whom. I groaned and retreated into blackness, the only mercy available. |