Throughout my life I’ve had an affliction of good ideas.

Ladies, even more than wait staff, like to gab. You could learn a lot in a house of ill-repute, honestly. Well, yes, lots of stuff.

I learned about an uppity shrew of a chanteuse singing at all hours over at the Centenial Arms. She had a mouth, and a body too. Mostly, she had a cush gig at the Topaz and friends in high places.

Here’s where the supposedly good idea kicked in, as I made a costume change thanks to a variety of customers having left in a hurry with no intent of looking back. The place wasn’t even that far of a walk, especially after the seventeen cups of coffee I drank to stay awake.

It should have been a good idea. Maybe it was in some ways, well intentioned perhaps. I was just hoping for a few answers maybe, a chance to help from the shadows like Nick had said.

Instead the dame put a crazy pistol in my face. All I could do was try to explain how I was a Methodist boy from Indiana, and I wasn’t not even sure I’d ever met a Jew.