10,000 YEARS OF SING! SING!

It was 10pm on a wet, rainy night, and I was sprawled on the Chesterfield, sipping on a 5th - I usually preferred 4ths but for some reason this evening, I'd poured a 5th - when the telephone suddenly rang.

"Hallo - is that Will Fly?"

I recognised the rasp in the voice - it belonged to Vic "Scotch" Smithinsky, the hard-bitten proprietor of the Oak, a downtown folk joint with connections to the Mob. You know the kind of place - an innocent singaround out front but go through the back door and - pow! - Pro Folk entertainment flagrantly flaunting the Pro Folk Prohibition laws.

"This is Will," I replied, "what can I do for you, Vic?"

"I've got a gig for you if you want it," came the reply, "next Saturday night. Can ya make it?"

A needle of disquiet pricked me momentarily, but I ignored it. "Next Saturday? I thought you'd got Peters for that one?"

"He's pulled out," said Smithinsky, " - circumstances…"

"Peters has pulled out!" I ejaculated, "Why, in heaven's name?"

"Cold feet," sighed Vic, "he just can't take it any more - not for any money."

I moment of hesitation, then I gave in. I needed the dough. "OK Vic, I'll do it. What's the grift?"

"The usual - 2 45-minute sets, a percentage of the take, and any dame who takes a shine to your capo. Are we in business?"

"We're in business."

"Good. Be there at eight - and don't be late." He hung up. I put down the phone and took my secret gig diary from its hiding place in the bureau. I was writing the gig details in the yellow, onionskin pages when there was an unexpected squawk from the front door buzzer. Who could it be at that time of night. I quickly slipped the diary under a cushion and and opened the door a fraction - as I thought.

Too late. It was pushed open with some force and there, framed in the doorway with two of his goons stood, store burly, Irish Jim O'Carrollan, Senior Captain in the local Folk Enforcement Division - known as the Feds. He smiled grimly at me. "You're busted, Fly!"

I looked hurriedly down but everything seemed in order. "C-Captain O'Carrollan," I stammered, "what brings you here?"

"Don't mess with me Fly", he grunted. "We've had your 'phone tapped for days. We heard you take a paying gig at Vic's place - and we got it taped."

I went white. "But Jim - Captain - ", I pleaded, "cut me some slack - all I'm trying to do is make a buck - ."

"It won't wash, Fly - not with your record (which I hear isn't selling very well). You know the Professional Prohibition law in this burg as well as I do. It's the Moon for you - and ten years in the Singaround!"

I sank to the floor in despair. "No - not - not the Singaround. Please Jim - I'll do anything - I'll even give you Kirkpatrick's gig list."

O'Carrollan shook his head. "No dice - we can take Kirkpatrick any time we want to - without your help. " He turned to the two Feds by his side. "Cuff him boys - and put him in the buggy - and give his Martin to a charity shop!"

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Any resemblance to people living or dead in this story is bleeding obvious - so apologies all round.