Style, you
either have it or you
don't. And if you have it, you have it
all the time.The Rogue Meets His Match
by Tux Toledo
Page 5
I was on my second
espresso when Eddie finally wandered by. He wore a too-green
plaid sport coat and a dark brown hat with a gray feather in the
band. His nose had lost the battle to dominate his face but it
had not yet given up the fight.
"How ya been, Winston?" he said.
"Good, Eddie. And you?"
"I'm still alive and kickin."
"Still play the horses?"
"Aye, whenever I've got spare change."
I smiled and slipped a list of horses and some spare change into his coat pocket. He winked and smiled.
"Say, Eddie, I’ve got a question for you.”
“Ask away, Winston.”
“Have you ever heard of a stripper named Irene Atom?" I asked.
"Irene
Atom," he pondered. "A stripper, you say?" His eyes
squinted, forehead creased, and jaw tightened. When Eddie
ponders, he ponders.
"Yes," I said.
"The name sounds familiar," he said. "She still performing?"
"No. She's an old-timer. Retired at least fifteen years ago I'm told. Thought you might have heard of her."
"My memory must be a-slippin, Winston. I don't know of no stripper named Irene Atom."
"Well, thanks for exercising your brain."
"You're
welcome, Winston. I'm sorry I can't remember. I'll let you
know if it comes back to me. Be seeing you." He saluted me
with his index finger and shuffled off.
Have you ever noticed
how interrogation makes one hungry? No, you probably
haven't. Well, believe me it does. Questioning Eddie
Muncher had made me extremely hungry so I followed the scent of garlic
across the street to Little Joe's. There was nothing wrong with
the food at Enrico’s but I figured I’d be able to run into a few more
old-timers at Little Joe’s. And I was right. I sat down at
the counter next to an old hawker named Skeets.
"Hello, Skeets."
He looked at me through bangs of dry yellow hair that was so much like straw a horse would have eaten it.
"Why, hello Winston Churchill!" he said. "I haven't seen you in ages."
He held out a scruffy hand. I shook it carefully.
"How have you been?" I asked.
"Can't complain. I'm eating enough garlic to stay healthy."
"Good."
"Yes, sir. Garlic and olive oil will make you live forever."
I smiled. He may just be right.
"Say, I'm looking for someone", I said. "Maybe you can help."
"Sure. I'm always willing to help a pal." He slurped some spaghetti into his mouth. "Who are you looking for?"
"A stripper named Irene Atom. She retired about fifteen years ago."
"Irene Atom? A stripper?"
"Yes. I'm told she used to work in North Beach."
Skeets shook his head.
"You sure she didn't work at Finocchio's?" he laughed.
"She was a stripper," I repeated.
"Oh." He shook his head again. "No, I'm afraid I can't help you."
"Then keep eating your garlic."
Skeets smiled and saluted me with a fork full of spaghetti. "I'll let you know if something turns up," he said.
"I'd appreciate it."
"But I don't think anything will."
I
ate a plate of first rate pasta carbonara and resumed my search.
But it was no good. No one remembered a stripper named Irene Atom.
© 2008 David Biagini