The Era -- Day By Day

[2 Days Dubai]

Caught the Long Island VA hospital story. A few years ago while waiting appointment at Hines VA,
the vet seated next to me recounted his Guadalcanal buttocks mortar shrapnel wound. He dove head first into a foxhole or else the shrapnel would have hit his head and simply bounced harmlessly off.

Jinx always takes a good pix but that oxygen masked snap and her lovely eyes pierce time's veil.

Speaking of pierced veil recover, the Langford case is marital cloistered slammed shut like a convent door.
Arrangement wedded bliss for a $25k finder fee requires written legal contract. Signed, sealed, properly witnessed, notary public commission stamped, and state secretary of state registered. Promissory estoppel mixed felony murder first last and always won't cut the baroness any slack.

The bride murder tragedy and the other spousal homicide serve poignant reminder that fiends exist.
The book to read is The Color of Night written Max Geier that chronicles the 1943 Martha James slaying
aboard a Southern Pacific train followed such judicial travesty this book should serve required One L criminal
law reading.

April's a bag of tricks and today's strip should have seen a secured perimeter with enemy dead.
Terry, however, is Air Corps shavetail so some allowance given.

Caniff's libidinous Male Call is carnal comic at its finest.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Figyehs Durocheh'd do sump'n like'at," frowns Sally. "One'a t'em guys wit'ta t'in skin, y'know? C'n dish it out but'ee can't take it. An'nat cawp, t'at Moore? You musta seen'im, 'bout nine feet tawl, gotta face like a moose? I remembeh one time when we was kids, he cawt Mickey sneakin' inneh an'ee beat t'hell out'v'im." "Nawt too bad a guy t'en," mutters Alice. Sally glances over at her friend, her face like cast iron, as the train rolls on toward home....)

("Indian chief me eye," scoffs Uncle Frank. "If 'ee's an Indian, Oi'm a Scotsman." "Doon't change th'soobject," growls Ma. "We gaaht t'do soomthin'. Oi toold Michael 'e could stay here till 'ee gaaht on 'is feet, boot after that paarty last noit, Oi can't have 'im aroond here. He'll say th'wraaang thing t'Sally again, an' she's joost loikely to..." "Oh, lissen to ye'self, Nora," dismisses Uncle Frank. "Ten toimes a day y'say yarr goona klll Bink Scanlan, bootchee nevarr do'." "True," acknowledges Ma, "boot Oi ain't spent no toime in Bellevue neitharr. Of coorse she woon't kill 'im, boot she moit poosh 'im off a train platfaarm. No, farrr 'is oown good, we gaaht t'foind someplace farr Michael t'goo an' we gaaht t'foind it quick. Oi wan'chee t'ask aroond, see whatchee c'n foind. Maybe that place 'e was livin' bf'arr 'ee went in th' Arrmy?" "Th' Raymond Street Jail?" deadpans Uncle Frank. "Foony foony man," scowls Ma. ...)

("It's In the Bag" is Mr. Allen's best movie, which admittedly isn't saying a whole lot, but I do laugh out loud every time I see it. "IMMEDIATE SEATING INSIDE!")

(It's like they're looking in a mirror.)

(Ahhh, poor Cliff Melton. They used to say with those ears he looked like a cab coming down the street with both doors open.)

(Careful, those farm folk eat a lot of starch.)

("I was hoping for Batman, but I suppose you'll do...")

(An Ike jacket with a bow tie? Did Tubby get a new job working in a gas station?)

( He's trying for William Powell here, but he's just too pudgy.)

(You'll never get anywhere, kids, if you settle for mediocrity..)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Ohhhh, yeah," chuckles Sergeant Doyle. "I was inna station when'ney brung 'em in. Leo wassa poifeck gennlemen. Had awn enough c'logne t' fumigate a cathouse." "Oi doon't caaar aboot Durocharr," dismisses Uncle Frank. "Oi got t'foind soomplace t' park Mickey till Oi c'n do what Oi -- gatta do. He's stayin' with oos, an' that woon't do at'all. Tell me noo, ye still oon that oold hoouse aahn Kingston Avenarr?" "Yeh," shrugs Doyle, "but it's -- y'know -- awccupied." "Blanche Dineen," snorts Uncle Frank, "an'nerr baaaardin' hoose far yooong ladies." "A very refined establishmen'," chuckles Doyle, sipping his coffee. "Oh, indeed," nods Uncle Frank. "Tell me, are ye paid oop aaahn ye insurance?" "Hm?" starts Doyle. "Ye knoo how that waaaarks," continues Uncle Frank. "Oi pay MY premiums, an' you pay YARRR premiums, an' nooobaaahdy says noothin' t'noobaaady." "Y'can speak plaineh'r'n'at, Frank," frowns Doyle. "Moost Oi?" smirks Uncle Frank..

Careful what you say about Margaret's singing now. Dad's sensitive.

I can understand that maybe some cop gave Mr. Gray a parking ticket, but I'd really like to know what his beef is with a coroner's jury.

"I suppose." "Oh good, lemme go get the rest of my stuff."

C'mon, Terry, surely you remember your old friend Pyzon? Sure, it was, what, ten years ago, but...

"Tell them to bring mops and brushes. I think we can get down to the wood if we put in a full day."

Well, you must've seen the movie.

Hey, you don't make it in the rassling game without practice.

Stop complaining, kid, you need the protein.

"OOOH MY HEART!"

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

"They were two men, and they wore hats." Well, that rules out the Indian chief.

And meanwhile, in the Worker --

This is the first statement I've seen from anyone suggesting that the late Judge Landis might not have been entirely sincere in his "there is no color line" statement of a few years back. Gee, ya think?

 

[Fading Fast]

Maybe that place 'e was livin' bf'arr 'ee went in th' Arrmy?" "Th' Raymond Street Jail?" deadpans Uncle Frank.

*****************************************************************

"They were two men, and they wore hats." Well, that rules out the Indian chief.

And now enters a "self-styled" Lady. The only thing we know for sure in this case is the Indian is not an Indian, and the baroness is not a baroness. I'm guessing we'd go three for three on the "Lady," but we don't know that yet. What a nice touch "self styled" is.

The loan-shark / hitmen killers would be such a perfect 1940s way for this story to play out. The unspent shell doesn't fit, but heck, even hitmen can buy a faulty ****** I guess.

*****************************************************************

...till Oi c'n do what Oi -- gatta do.

What's he planning?

******************************************************************
Careful what you say about Margaret's singing now. Dad's sensitive.

Oh, yeah, we know how that will play out.

Re the "Tryst Cabin Death," this could be a good one, but I don't know if I have the bandwidth to follow another complicated murder with the Langford one still unsolved.

Plus, "a plump, pale, middle-aged woman," very charming of Page 4.

 

[2 Days Dubai]

I skipped over the Langford murder Mack the knife shark bites blather.
A loan shark would need some paper and collateral security for twenty grand, short of life staked hot coal .38 caliber slugs. And Langford should have had that chump change available stuck snug his dresser sock drawer.
And all the rest.....

As for Terry today, a bit too androgynous that head honcho. But what the heck, April's tail is still quail.

I like that colonel snagging that gorgeous Russian gal Irene story. Watched Casablanca last nite just to get
my Ingrid Bergman fix and Irene's a nice chaser with coffee. Incidentally, the book to read is Aljean Harmetz' The Making of Casablanca; Bogart, Bergman, and World War II. Absolutely wonderful read.

General Patton pix hugging his cousin...long ago when in college one of my profs told tale that while writing a bio on Colonel Darby of Ranger fame, he learned Darby had divorced his wife for infidelity. While engaged with writing the book, Darby's former spouse telephoned him at the Army War College and asked that he omit her entirely from the biography. She had remarried, and her husband never knew of her marriage to Darby.
My prof discussed the call with another visiting instructor, Martin Blumenthal whom had edited The Patton Papers for the Patton family. Patton had had an affair with his niece during the Second World War, something the family obviously wasn't too keen to be aired publicly. So Blumenthal complied. He advised the prof to be similarly circumspect. And he was a gentleman so the lady never appears in his book. Rightfully so.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("So," sos Sergeant Doyle, dunking a Toomey's Diner donut, and shaking off the excess coffee, "I hadda tawk wit' Blanche Dineen. 'Bout what you was askin' yestehday." "Very koind a'ye, Thomas," frowns Uncle Frank, with an irritated glance at the coffee spatters on his coat sleeve. "An' she's gawt a room," Doyle continues, donut crumbs exuding between the syllables. "Well, nawt really a room room, but t'ez a cot in it an' a light bulb. Inna basement, see? Y'go in t'ru t'side doeh, an' she c'n lock t' doeh at t'tawppa t' staiehs, y'see? In case Mickey gets any ideehs 'bout -- you know -- fratehnizin' wit' t' young ladies." "Ah," ahs Uncle Frank, unwrapping a Tootsie Roll and jamming it into the side of his mouth. "Hoo mooch does she waaant'fr'it?" "She'll let'im have it," offers Doyle, "f' ten bucks a week." "Farrrra BASEMENT?" sputtters Uncle Frank. "Annnnn," Doyle concludes, "y'gawtta get'eh a pot roast. See, she hoid about'ta pawrty, she does some business wit' t'at guy Quinlan, y'know? T'one dresses awl snappy? T' goils love 'im. I guess he was goin' awn an' awn about t'at pot roast. An' she ain' had a pot roast in t'ree yeehs. So if you c'n get'eh a pot roast, why, Mickey can live in'eh basemen." "G'wan oota that!" fumes Uncle Frank. "Oi oonly need 'im tharr t'il Oi can do what Oi got t'do. Will she settle farr a ****da hambarrger?" "Ya drive a hawrd bawrgain, Frank," exhales Doyle. "Make it two pounds. An' no sawdust!" Uncle Frank ponders and extends his hand. "Deal." he declares. Doyle clasps the extended hand and gives it a vigorous pump. "Nex' toime," sighs Unce Frank, shaking crumbs from his palm, "Oi'll appreciate if ye poot doon th' doonut farrrst...")

("T'at was a pretty good pot roast at t'at pawrty," sighs Joe. "Made awla rest'v'it woit'while." "I wisht'ed been leftovehs," shrugs Sally. "Yeh," frowns Joe. "I seen'at guy wit' t' trick moustache anna Adolphe Menjou suit loadin up 'is plate, an' I t'ink 'is pockets too. Who wazzat guy anyways, some frienda Mickey's?" "Some guy Uncle Frank knows," offers Sally. "I seen 'im aroun'. I t'ink 'ees a salesman a'sumpn'." "Uncle Inky," offers Leonora, crunching her corn flakes. "He makes money." "Ah," nods Sally. "Yeh, a lawtta t'em salesmen do. Y'know, Joe, you otta tawk it oveh wit'tim, see how ya get inta t'at line'a woik." "Uh oh," snickers Leonora...)

(Well, someday he might get one for selling cars.)

("Yeh," yehs Mickey, indolently paging thru the Eagle. "I wouldn' min' seein'at Dillingeh pitcheh. I might go t'night afteh dinneh -- hey whatta we eat'n?" "Seems you been eatin' enoofa me oice cream," frowns Ma, regarding the row of empty dishes before him. "Put it awn me tab," snickers Mickey, as the screen door skeens open. "Hey," heys Mickey, leaning across the counter as he examines the new arrival. "Who's t' t'mateh?" "Groo oop," admonishes Ma. "Bink Scanlan," announces the newcomer as she tosses her jacket over the counter and reaches for an apron. "What's it to yeh, slick?" "Mind ya tongue," sneers Mickey, "when ya addres t'heih t' t' maneh." "Oh, I get it," snorts Bink, glancing at the framed photo above the Bromo-Seltzer dispenser. "Yawr t'at guy. Hey, what happnt'cha face?" "Ohhh, it brightens up," exudes Mickey, "soon's somebody toins up t'heat." "Getta loada Spicy Romances heeh," laughs Bink. "Too badja gotta woik innis dump," winks Mickey. "You'n me could go see a pitcheh." "Ain'choo confident," purrs Bink. "Jus' so happens I'm awff at six-toity." "An' I ain' even awn at awll, yet," insinuates Mickey. "Jaaaayzuz, Mary, an' Jooseph," exhales Ma, her face sinking into her palm...)

(That'll be George "*****" Selkirk, who wore the Babe's number from 1935 until he went into the service. They called him "*****" because "*****letoes" was too ***bersome. Meanwhile, the most interesting thing about this whole Durocher situation is that nobody seems the least bit surprised about it...)

(Behold an Esquire subscriber.)

(Well, it worked for Leo...)

(And they called Mr. Selkirk "*****letoes" because, well, he ran exactly like Janie here.)

(Good, Scarlet. Learn that detective slang!)

(Careful, kids! He's a roustabout!)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Is that really the Chief? Or did they get him mixed up with Father Divine?

A Bolivian tin-plate heir and a displaced Bourbon? Ask them if they know E. Marian!

Never mind the law, toots -- now you'll answer to the Bell System!

Give it a few days, kid. And where does one get a crossword-puzzle dress?

ALL RIGHT YOU CAN LET ME OFF HERE.

Hey Bleachie, does this mean you're all done with what's-is-name?

Olsen and Johnson's lawyer would like a word, please...

I hear Charles Laughton was up for this role.

Hey, how many places are there where you can go trout fishing right from your own bed?

Honestly, though, what else could this neighborhood have to talk about?

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

Pola Negri???? I bet she knew Ramon Novarro too.

"Nine feet tawl, face like a moose!" And let's all say a prayer for poor Mr. Parrott, who is truly earning his paycheck this week.

And in the Worker --

Mr. Low will not be getting a Christmas card from Leo this year.

 

[Fading Fast]

"Yeh, a lawtta t'em salesmen do. Y'know, Joe, you otta tawk it oveh wit'tim, see how ya get inta t'at line'a woik."

One, of course, it's insane that Sally still has no idea what her mother and Frank really do and, two, there is no person on earth less wired to be a salesman than Joe.

***************************************************************

Meanwhile, the most interesting thing about this whole Durocher situation is that nobody seems the least bit surprised about it...

Heck, I didn't know about it historically, but it didn't surprise 1945 me.

****************************************************************

Is that really the Chief? Or did they get him mixed up with Father Divine?

Also, Mrs. Langford told us she was, what, born in 1895 (which seemed optimistic), but in this picture, she could be 46.

****************************************************************

ALL RIGHT YOU CAN LET ME OFF HERE.

Sandy really looks like he's thinking, "Yup, good luck to you, kid. Let me out, I'll go back to the farm where there's plenty of food and I'll wait for you there. I'm sure it will all turn out great for you."

*****************************************************************

I hear Charles Laughton was up for this role.

If Laughton was going to do comicstrip work, T&TP would be the right strip for an actor of his prestige, but It looks like they already cast Stanley Adams in the role:

 

[LizzieMaine]

I can't figure the game Caniff is playing here. I went to the trouble of looking it up, and Terry did in fact meet Pyzon nine years ago --

There's no way Caniff doesn't know his own continuity, and while you can make the case that Pyzon doesn't recognize Adult Terry, there's no way Terry doesn't know exactly who ad what he is. I await a full elaboration.

As for Sally, well, she does have a remarkable gift for constructing her own reality. Her daughter, however, seems to take after her grandmother...

Am I the only one who thinks it's hiliarious that Leo and his goon beat up "John Christian?' I wonder if either one of them ever read "Pilgrim's Progress?"

 

[2 Days Dubai]

I cannot stand Bunyon's Pilgrim's Progress. Absolutely loathe that book.
-----
So, the late Langford was a pro. This story is too inordinately studded with studs, stallions, and mares with wares, ways, and most assuredly means. All too much with first cup of morning coffee.

Mrs Nelms' first marriage is not immediate reinstated fact; although presumptive initial read is that her subsequent marriage is invalid, such is not the case. The subsequent can be adjudicated resolve through court process but any offspring second are still in standing. Also, husband number one isn't constrained but emancipated subsequent posthumous presumption; so Lazarus is free to leave.
And husband number two isn't in an enviable position to begin with, while his wife remains sole arbiter
of her heart. Little more than a pawn, even if a prince otherwise, his marital standing is considerably affected.
Communal marital property interest remains his, however subject probate resolve or mutual dissolve.

A beautiful girl once proposed to me but the war was still on so I declined. A confirmed Irish bachelor,
reading Second World War marital bliss n' blister articles really hits home. I feel for those who dared and suffered trials and tribulations for winners and those whom lost at love. God bless them all.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Doon't look at me loike that!" insists Unce Frank. "Oi nivvir bin maaar serious in me loife." "Yarrr daft, man," scoffs Shaughnessy the butcher. "They'll be haaaaaalin' ye aaahff t' Bellevue, an' Oi hoop at least they give ye th' fam'ly rate. Th' NARRRRVE ye gaaaht. Foive ****ds a' hambarrger. Ye moit as well ask farrr th' moon an' sixpence." "Well, Oi joost assumed," prims Uncle Frank. "After aaaaahl, Oi harrrrd Mavis Doyle walked oota here th' oothar day with..." "Nivver ye moind aboot Mavis Doyle," snaps Shaughnessy. "Naaaht anoothar warrrd aboot Mavis Doyle." "Oi'm oooonly r'peatin'," shrugs Uncle Frank, "what Oi hear aroond th' neighbarhood. Whoy, Doris Dewes says SHE haaaard...." "Oi can't give ye foive ****ds," sweats Shaughnessy. "Tharrr ain't soo mooch hambargarr in th' whool borra." Shaughnessy's eyes flick as he makes a fast calculation. 'Oi could manage ye three ****ds." "Me cloient will be disapparnted," exhales Uncle Frank, "boot Oi think we can see it cleaarrr..." "Gasoline coopons," injects Shaughnessy. "Oi beg ye..." hesitates Uncle Frank. "Ye haaaard me, Frank," repeats Shaughnessy. "Gasoline coopons. My --- ah--- sarrrce is in Jarrrsey, an' he ooparates purely on a cash-an'-carry basis." "Ah," nods Uncle Frank, pondering this unexpected complication. "Verrry well," he nods. "Oi getchee gasoline coopons -- an' I get FOUR ****ds'a hambarrger. An' it bettar not smell loike no racetrack, if ye get me meanin'." Shaughnessy issues a penetrating glare. "Deal," he concludes. "Oi knew," grins Uncle Frank, offering a Tootsie Roll, "we could do business...)

("Saaaaaarves'm roit farr droivin' t'th track," hmphs Ma, "whin th' train stops not half a moile away. Sooma thim ****tars could stand soom exarsoise." "Hey," heys Bink Scanlan, "is Slick gonna be around t'day?" "Who's Slick?" frowns Ma. "Y'know," flusters Bink, jabbing a finger at the photo on the wall behind the counter. "Him." "MICHAEL," enunciates Ma, "is oopstairs sleepin'." "Oh yeh," snickers Bink. "I guess he didn't get much sleep las' night." As Bink flounces into her apron, Ma glares a stream of daggers across the counter, and chews fiercely at her lower lip....)

("Hey Ma," queries Willie, gazing intently at the Eagle. "Ya t'ink Pap would like a pipe?" "I dunno," shrugs Alice. "He chews onn'em cigawrs, but I neveh seen'im smoke'm. Might be cheapeh inna lawng run t'chew awn a pipe." "I dowanna get no pipe anyways," dismisses Willie. "I wanna get'im t'at jacket." "Nah," nahs Alice. "T'at looks like a Awrmy jacket an' he had enuffa t'Awrmy when he was in it." "No," corrects Willie, "I mean'nat ot'eh one. T' Lee-eye-sueh -- I dunno t'at woid, but ain'nat jacket swell?" "Yeh," agrees Alice. "T'at's a lawtta money t'ough." "I bet I could get it," declares Willie. "I could retoin bot'ls." "Bot'ls is two cents," notes Alice. "So a dolleh is -- um -- fifty bot'ls. An' seventeen times fifty is...a lawtta bot'ls." "Oh," ohs Willie, crestfallen by the realities of finance. "Lissen," offers Alice. "You lemme do some askin'. I bet I c'n raise some money. We gawt a few days yet." "Pap'll look like a movie stawr innat coat," grins Willie. "Well," chuckles Alice, "I t'ink 'e awready does...")

("Three minutes to curtain, Mr. Gleason," yells the callboy. "Yeh, yeh," responds the rising young comedian, folding the newspaper and tossing it on the makeup table. "Hm," he hms, noticing the cartoon. "Bus driveh, huh? A bus driveh.....")

(That'll be Johnny Murphy, the first relief pitcher to be called a "fireman" and one of the first dedicated relief pitchers, period. They called him "Grandma" because he was such a prissy old fuss while waiting to go into the game. I don't believe anyone will ever call Leo "Grandma.")

(You can't tell me this **** rides Pullman. AND HE FORGOT HIS GOOSE!)


(EW! EW! EW!)

(Shouldn't it be more of a TOOONK sound, like knocking on a coconut?)

(You can tell his heart isn't really in it...)

(NEVER TAKE CIRCUS TICKETS FROM STRAANGERS)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Metaphysics? Is that what they call it now?

"Once a godfather, always a godfather..."

C'mon, all you need is a screwdriver. And the diagram's right inside the box cover.

April can drop that "lil' ol' me" act pretty damn quick when she wants to.

Well at least somebody understands the concept of jurisdictional boundaries.

"And mother's put together quite the collection of those little glass jars the chipped beef comes in!"

And to think she's got to push her own carriage.

"I'm sorry to have to write you this letter, but..."

Given the current tide of the times, this is the most magnificent troll ever.

What are you trying to say here, Mr. Smart????

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

"A check transaction involving a chain restaurant." Well, at least somebody still goes to Childs.

 

[Trenchfriend]

View attachment 710204
("Doon't look at me loike that!" insists Unce Frank. "Oi nivvir bin maaar serious in me loife." "Yarrr daft, man," scoffs Shaughnessy the butcher. "They'll be haaaaaalin' ye aaahff t' Bellevue, an' Oi hoop at least they give ye th' fam'ly rate. Th' NARRRRVE ye gaaaht. Foive ****ds a' hambarrger. Ye moit as well ask farrr th' moon an' sixpence." "Well, Oi joost assumed," prims Uncle Frank. "After aaaaahl, Oi harrrrd Mavis Doyle walked oota here th' oothar day with..." "Nivver ye moind aboot Mavis Doyle," snaps Shaughnessy. "Naaaht anoothar warrrd aboot Mavis Doyle." "Oi'm oooonly r'peatin'," shrugs Uncle Frank, "what Oi hear aroond th' neighbarhood. Whoy, Doris Dewes says SHE haaaard...." "Oi can't give ye foive ****ds," sweats Shaughnessy. "Tharrr ain't soo mooch hambargarr in th' whool borra." Shaughnessy's eyes flick as he makes a fast calculation. 'Oi could manage ye three ****ds." "Me cloient will be disapparnted," exhales Uncle Frank, "boot Oi think we can see it cleaarrr..." "Gasoline coopons," injects Shaughnessy. "Oi beg ye..." hesitates Uncle Frank. "Ye haaaard me, Frank," repeats Shaughnessy. "Gasoline coopons. My --- ah--- sarrrce is in Jarrrsey, an' he ooparates purely on a cash-an'-carry basis." "Ah," nods Uncle Frank, pondering this unexpected complication. "Verrry well," he nods. "Oi getchee gasoline coopons -- an' I get FOUR ****ds'a hambarrger. An' it bettar not smell loike no racetrack, if ye get me meanin'." Shaughnessy issues a penetrating glare. "Deal," he concludes. "Oi knew," grins Uncle Frank, offering a Tootsie Roll, "we could do business...)

View attachment 710206

Martin's Seersuckers. HA, there we got it!

Yeah, keep cool and pretty!

 

[Fading Fast]

Ye moit as well ask farrr th' moon an' sixpence."

Not an expression I'd have expected Shaughnessy the butcher to use – or was it common in 1945 as, today, I never hear it?

So, is Frank going to get him real gas tickets or does Inky have some work to do?

*******************************************************************

"is Slick gonna be around t'day?"

Bink is not afraid to play the game by her rules.

*******************************************************************

"Pap'll look like a movie stawr innat coat," grins Willie. "Well," chuckles Alice, "I t'ink 'e awready does..."

Aww.

*******************************************************************

Great picture.

*******************************************************************

EW! EW! EW!

"Are there any more male relative in the family, umm, just asking?" – Lyric

*******************************************************************

"A check transaction involving a chain restaurant." Well, at least somebody still goes to Childs.

Mrs. Coleman, "The Baroness," listed her age as 38 when she applied for a marriage license in 1940, but she's 35 now. Hmm. These people are all congenital liars and frauds. They even cheat each other. I still like the loan-shark / hitman theory.

 

[LizzieMaine]

Shaughnessy might seem like a crooked butcher on the surface, but deep down he's a real fan of Somerset Maugham. At least that's what he wants Mavis to think.

Howie Schultz really is that tall. I'd love to see him in a footrace with Ted Williams.

I guess if you're gonna lie about being a Baroness, knocking a few years off your age is a piece'a cake. I wonder how old the Chief is?

 

[2 Days Dubai]

Shaughnessy might seem like a crooked butcher on the surface, but deep down he's a real fan of Somerset Maugham. At least that's what he wants Mavis to think.

I guess if you're gonna lie about being a Baroness, knocking a few years off your age is a piece'a cake. I wonder how old the Chief is?

Somerset Maugham's The Painted Veil and The Moon and Sixpence are excellent second tier reads.

The Langford marriage may be invalid. Mrs Langford might still be wed that social register cad or scion.
Interesting she didn't hear the revolvers-probably Smith & Wesson-speak death to her ''hubbie'' the decedent gigolo only mere steps away. Her counsel is quite remiss.

April is presumably listed dessert menu option; albeit cake icing spread top. Can't figure an angle here.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Gasoline coupons," hmms Ignatius J. Quinlan, gently resting his glass on the bar at Flynn's Cabaret. "Of course, you are aware of the risk inherent in such a project. And of course, the meticulous effort required or the preparation of such finely detailed work would not be -- inconsequential." He smiles to emphasise this last, his perfect teeth gleaming in the dim light. "Can th' palaver, Inky," sighs Uncle Frank. "Oi joost want t'knoow what it's goin' t' caaahst me, an' thin Oi c'n get oota here. Oi doon't loike t'be seen in sooch places." "No doubt Mrs. Leary would agree," flashes Inky. "So -- to business. I have a proposition to offer. In past times, of course, we have conducted our affairs on a purely cash basis, and I must admit to a certain sense of, shall we say, being placed at a distinct disadvantage over the course of our negotiations. But be that as it may, I would agree to engage in this latest project in exchange, not for currency but for -- a certain item." "Ye'll nivver foind a prewar suit," dismisses Uncle Frank. "Especially not thim pretty ones you favarr." "The item I wish to -- acquire," continues Inky, "is a certain object d'art. An etching, to be specific, an exquisite specimen of intaglio work raised to its most sublime. A street scene a la Parisienne. I believe it to be the work of the French master Felix-Hilaire Bulot. Of course you are familiar with his oeuvre." "Oi seen it on a chocolate box," eyerolls Uncle Frank. "An ye can farget aboot it, I'm an haaanest bootleggar. Oi doon't involve meself in art hoists. "I suggest nothing so base," dismisses Inky. "The work in question hangs in the foyer of a local -- ah -- establishment. You are familiar, perhaps, with a certain -- ah -- home on Kingston Avenue?" The color drains from Uncle Frank's face. "Ye doon't mean..." he gasps. "I'm certain that a man of your -- ah -- loquacity," smirks Inky, "would find it a trifling task to convince Mrs. Dineen to -- how should I say -- agree to a mutually-beneficial transaction." "Barrrrtendar," commands Uncle Frank. "Rye. And chaaaarge it to th' caaaanni-sewer...")

("No," nos Alice, "it ain' in t'day's papeh. Siddy neveh goes swimmin' anyways, t'at sawlt wawteh makes his scalp itchy. Heeeh, I gawt t'ad I toeh outa yestehday's." She pulls a folded clipping out of her overall pocket. "A bit loud," observes Mr. Ginsburg, adjusting his spectacles. "On the sleeves, hound tooth? And those lapels. What occasion would call for..." "It's whatchacawl a leeeezheh coat," replies Alice. "Sal tol' me awl about it. It's what awlem guys in Hollywood weah, whenneh eat'n inna Brown Doiby an' goin' t' Saint Anita's Race Track an' Hollywood Bowlin' an' awlat. It's leezheh." "And for Mr. Krause, you think..." trails off Mr. G. "Willie's gawt 'is hawrt set awn it," shrugs Alice. "An' I was wondrin' if..." "Maybe in the shop," muses Mr. G. "Tweed, I got. Rayon, you don't want. Chintzy, it looks. Fades in the sun. But some nice linen, linen twill, oh, a magnificent jacket I could make." Well, yeh," protests Alice, "but I can't affawrd..." "What afford?" counters Mr. G. "Remnants and scraps I got. You I should pay to take off mine hands. Is Mr. Krause still a thoity-eight short?" "T'oity six," sighs Alice. "We ain't been eat'n much. "T"oity eight I'll make it," promises Mr. G. "Someday you'll eat, but only once in a lifetime will there be such a coat...")

(Coming events...)

("A fine speech, sir," offers Mr. Parrott, his not-so-bright eyes squinting above incipient bags. "I note that Mr. Walker," frowns Mr. Rickey, "was conspicuous by his absence." "Yes sir," acknowedges Mr. Parrott. "How old," queries Mr. Rickey, "is Mr. Walker? You needn't calculate to the day, a general estimate will suffice. "Um," ums Mr. Parrot, consulting his pocket roster, "thirty-four, sir." "How old," continues Mr. Rickey, "was Mr. Camilli when we found it advantageous to dispense with his services?" "Um," ums Mr. Parrott once more, "thirty-four." "You will please," directs Mr. Rickey, "secure a good calendar with an artistic print, and you will mail said calendar to Mr. Walker with my compliments." "Yes sir," gulps Mr. Parrott. "Incidentally," adds Mr. Rickey, "how old are *you?* "Um," ums Mr. Parrott, "thirty-six, sir." "Indeed," frowns Mr. Rickey....)

(All right, now this one's clever. It's Bill Knickerbocker, get it? He was a mediocre backup infielder for the Yankees who filled in for Joe Gordon over a stretch in 1938 and went on a red-hot tear. And then Gordon came back and Bill Knickerbocker was pretty much never heard from again. There's a lesson in that somewhere...)

("Jug Ruff." If he's still around in the 70s, there's a career waiting for him in a certain type of movie.)

(You know who I wish would come back? Angel Varden.)

(A smart cookie like you, Janie, and you don't carry a ***? Tsk.)

(I dunno how the detective thing will go but if you keep holding those handlebars like that, you're gonna hurt yourelf.)

(Tootsie's getting bitter in her old age.)