Angel of the Night, pt 6

Rolf bared his teeth in a victor's smile and wove his way to the smokey back of the hall.

"Now, Maxine," continued Bernard. "Where were we before the young Adonis leveraged his way between us."

"I believe you were holding my hand." Maxine artfully laid her claw on the gray polyesther pinstripes of Bernard's knee.

"Ahh yes." He took her hand with one of his, and with the other picked up the bottle of Extra Virgin olive oil and dribbled a few drops onto the withered back of her hand.

"My favorite emollient," he said. "Let me embrocate that for you."

Angel of the Night, pt 5

The threesome strolled into the dim recesses of the New York Gothic Italian Brownstone Shrine of Our Lady Fellowship Hall. The happy, busy hum of chit chat and noodle twirling blended with the smells of Ragu and garlic bread. Bernard found a tiny table unoccupied and drug three chairs up to it. Rolf pulled a sheet from the roll of paper towels between the salt and pepper shakers and wiped a spot of sauce from Maxine's chair seat.

Maxine gave a nervous giggle. "Thanks, Hon," she simpered.

From the other side, Bernard patted her hand with his plump paw.

"Signorina," he said in a fake Italian accent. "Letta me bringa you fooda."

Rolf puffed his chest out and gave Bernard a dangerous look.

"I'll get the little lady her food!" He gave one fond glance to her and then narrowed his eyes at Bernard.

Maxine quivered in delight. Men were fighting over her!

"I'm not interested in an affray!" Bernard reassured. "By all means, you may collect the victuals. And in doing so, if you don't mind, bring mine too."

Angel of the Night, pt 4

They had reached their destination, and as Bernard searched his pockets for some smaller coins to make the tip split equitable, Maxine swung her fishnet-clad legs out of the cab and stood up, straightening her dress. Looking up, she sucked in her breath and took a step back.

A sultry-faced young buck had moved in for the kill. He tossed back his wavy black locks away from his deep blue eyes and lowered his chin to look into Maxine’s eyes. His steamy glance made her feel flushed and a little sweaty. He parked one hand on his slim hip and pursed his sensuous lips.

“Hi, Doll,” he said in a masculine drawl.

“Uh, hi there, Sweetie.” She noticed how his shirt buttons were straining against the movement of his strength underneath the material. What a hunk!

Since he just stood there, sweeping his smoldering gaze over her coiffed and heeled person, she spoke again.

“Going to the fandango?” Maxine motioned to the Catholic fellowship hall, from where the aroma of garlic and scorched pasta emanated.

“I am if you are. I’m Rolf, Rolfie to you,” he whispered intimately.

“I’m Maxine,” she managed to croak out.

“And I’m Bernard,” Maxine’s date announced as he stepped from the cab, still counting his coins. “Shall we remove ourselves from this adumbral street and join the merry throng?”

Angel of the Night, pt 3

Maxine’s hopes for her blind date were high as she smoothed her dress and turned the corner into the lobby. The man turned to greet her.

Oh Lordy, not that fat little kobold! she thought.

“You must be Maxine.” He said, “I’m Bernard,” and held out a plump, moist palm. “I envisioned that we’d gravitate to the Knights of Columbus spaghetti festivities this fair eventide.” Bernard’s eye twitched as he smiled a toothy grin.

“Sure, Honey,” she said. Linking his arm to avoid the clammy hand, they headed towards the waiting taxi.
The other couple inside squeezed over to make room.

"I find it far more commonsensical to share the fare when utilizing this form of transportation, don’t you assent to my pragmatism?"

By now Maxine was becoming quite excited. She had always been attracted to men who leaned toward sesquipedalia.

Angel of the Night, pt 2

Washing out the taste of last night’s cheap booze from her mouth, she vowed to stick to whiskey this time. Whiskey didn’t make her dizzy and forget stuff. She had another date tonight, and it just might be that he was THE ONE.

A good 2 hour’s work later, the map of hard years and long journeys that had been Maxine’s face was smoothed, filled in, leveled. Cover Girl and Max Factor had done their best, and Maxine was satisfied. Laying a pink chiffon scarf over her freshly picked and sprayed curls she pulled on a baby blue polyester sheath dress and adjusted her cleavage, pushing things up and moving them around as needed. A touch of powdered peach blush at the crossroads, and she was done.

The buzzer sounded.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby, Honey,” she replied into the microphone, her cigarette voice husky and low. She hurried down the hall, swaying in her 3 inch stilettos, a meretricious apparition to the leering apartment manager leaning against the door jamb dressed only in his sweatpants and wife-beater.

Angel of the Night, pt 1

Maxine moaned as the alarm clock buzzed in her ear. One long skinny arm shot out from the make-up stained sheets and slapped it into silence. The other arm appeared and slowly dragged the covers down off her head, the gray roots of her hair better matching the tired, lined face than the brassy, over-processed curls perched on top. Smacking her lips to bring the saliva back up, Maxine sat up in bed and reached for the remote. Damn! She’d missed “The Brave and the Bold” again! It was already 3 PM. Worthless alarm clock! She threw it against the closet door, and then, for good measure, threw a box of tissues at it.

Still smacking her mouth, Maxine slid out of bed and pushed her bunions into the ragged terry slippers waiting there. On her way to the bathroom, she detoured a little to walk by the mirror. Lookin’ good, Sista! You go! Maxine smiled coyly at herself as she fluffed her frizzy curls around her face, ignoring the flat back of her bed-hair. Stepping over the box of tissues she paused at the window, just in case the peeper in the conterminous apartment was watching and then stepped into the bathroom, pulling the string that turned the overhead bulb on.

Archeological Desserts, pt 5

Snood’s beautiful assistant came loping easily over the loose sand until she reached him. Her usually cool demeanor was altered with flushed excitement. In a self-important fashion, he began to explain, but of course Laura ignored him and began speaking directly to their leader with the same strange phrases and speech patterns. The professor, feeling out of the loop, stepped over to the leather bag lying on the ground like a dead groundhog. Curious he bent to open it.

“Don’t !” Laura barked. It was too late.

“Numbles,” the professor muttered in disgust.

With a calm voice that belied the feverish excitement in her eyes she said, “By opening the bag, you’ve accepted their trade.”

“Deer organs for my bezoars?” He couldn’t help the childish rise in his voice.

“At least they’re fresh; they want the bezoars, and they want them bad. Consider yourself lucky. They could have killed you for them.”

“What could these savages possibly want them for?’

“They use them in their sacred rituals, in casting spells, and for their healing ceremonies. Their leader says he saw these in a vision and has come to take them.”

“But…But…” For once the professor was at a loss for words.

“And I’m going with them!” Laura’s words washed over him like a pail of cold water.

“You can’t! What will I do without you?

It was too late for protesting. she had already swing up behind the bronze-skinned stranger. Her body leaned in toward his as she clasped her arms around his rippling abs.

“You can’t just ride off with that energumen! You don’t know what he’ll do with you!”

Snood’s one-time assistant only laughed wildly as the small group thundered off towards the end of the valley. He looked down. His bezoars were gone.

Sighing in resignation, he clasped the end of the leather bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“At least we’ll have a decent breakfast,” he said, forlornly walking toward the cook tent.

Archeological Desserts, pt 4

The fierce men were dark and solemn. They were muscular and bizarrely clad in loincloths of black pelts, and each had a large plastron displayed across his chest. As they neared, the professor could see these plates were from prehistoric turtles, long presumed extinct. the riders’ wiry paint steeds pulled up in front of him and screamed a challenge. Sparks flew from their flinty hooves as they danced nervously among the loose stones. Facing Snood, the leader stallion's eyes burned red and he bared his teeth in an unmistakable purpose to…wait…sorry, wrong story. The horse were patient and still while one of the strangers tossed over a large, floppy leather bag to the ground. When the men began murmuring weird incantations, he knew he was out of his depth.

“Laura! Come here at once! I need you.” With her degree in thaumaturgy, she would know how to handle this.

Archeological Desserts, pt 3

“Though I have to admit, some of those little buggers were pretty cute, except when they cried; I hate to hear kids cry on and on, little brats, but definitely, most certainly they had their cute moments, especially when, no, that was that little Mexican kid.” The professor knew he was babbling too much, but felt unable to stop. “Yessir, cute. And spunky too. All except for that one that puked on you every time you picked her up…” Finally he was able to stop the flow of useless drivel and risked a glance at his assistant. Her face was stone and her eyes dark.

“I have to get started on my work. “Laura’s words were brusque as she turned to leave.

Snood made his Camel last as long as there was room on the butt for his nicotine-stained fingers to handle the fag. Then he flipped the coal out onto the yellow sand and stood there contemplating on his bezoars. A speck of movement caught his eye. As he squinted into the sun, he spied a small group on horseback coming through the debouchment at the other end of the dusty valley. Unease wound its way through his emotions as he reflected on the impassability of that narrow cut through which the long dead creek had crept. It was obvious the small group was headed towards his camp, and he wished he had shaved that morning.

Archeological Desserts, pt 2

“Good morning, Professor.” Laura’s manner was as cool as her skin was hot in the morning desert sun as she shook her long auburn locks free from her tanned shoulders. “I see you’ve stumbled onto some dino gastroliths. I’ll get my notebook and start logging data.”

“My God, Girl, you are a scientist’s dream! What a great satisfaction it is to employ one with such organization, such skill, such willingness. Not like that last damn assistant who was always running off to powder her nose.”

Laura always despised Professor Snood when he started running down her predecessor, but what irritated her the most was his inevitable paralipsis.

“And we won’t even mention how fecund she was,” he said. “No, that would be just too much to heap on right now.”

Laura let her silence hang, oppressive in the hot, still morning, until the man became uncomfortable, recognizing her displeasure and anxious to win back her favor.

Archeological Desserts, pt 1

The first indication that Professor Snood had made the biggest discovery of his miserable career was when he stumbled upon the large pile of bezoars just 200 yards from the expedition’s main tent. It was slim pickings for dinosaur bones out in the barren wastelands of the Chimichanga Desert, and his backers were threatening to snip his stipend, but these gastroliths should give him some breathing room. As he pulled a drag from his unfiltered Camel, he saw his lovely assistant Laura, still dressed in the short filmy shift that she slept in, standing at the edge of camp with the rising sun behind her.

“Damn! That girl is callipygian!” he said to himself.