A Very Formal Affair
Another Harry the Book story. When I was going through my backlog, trying to find one more story to fill out this collection, I came across this one and realized that yes, dancing competition is a sport, especially if people bet on the outcome.
I am sitting in my office, which happens to be the third booth of Joey Chicago’s 3-Star Tavern, studying the fight card and wondering if this could be the night Kid Testosterone makes it all the way to the second record before being knocked senseless. Benny Fifth Street is behind the bar, pouring himself an Old Peculiar, and Dead End Dugan, who is still having trouble adjusting to being a zombie, is standing in the corner, staring into space and trying to think a bunch of dead thoughts. Big-Hearted Milton, my personal mage, is in his office in the men’s room, surrounded by black candles, and chanting a curse which was supposed to get Betty Petunia into bed with him but so far has gotten him nothing but a slapped face, a knee in a place that I cannot mention in a G-rated story such as I am relating, and an evening explaining to the police exactly why he was playing itsy-bitsy-spider on her thigh just before she threw the wine at him. (“And it was not the house wine,” he complained in outraged tones when he arrived back at Joey Chicago’s. “It was Chateau Morganschlucker. Do you know what that stuff costs per glass?”)
I have just about concluded that Kid Testosterone cannot last 45 seconds with the Midtown Masher, give or take half a minute, and I am about to turn my mind to serious contemplation of the third race at Aqueduct when Gently Gently Dawkins, all 375 pounds of him, enters the tavern. He walks right up to the bar, grabs a handful of nuts and pretzels, tosses them into his mouth, repeats the procedure two more times, and then addresses the room in general. “Why is Benny Fifth Street behind the bar?” he says. “What hideous fate has befallen our beloved Joey Chicago, and before it happens does he leave the sawbuck he owes me with anyone?”
“Joey Chicago is fine,” says Benny. “He is catering a formal affair across town.”
“Catering?” asks Gently Gently. “You mean like with food and such?”
“These people have already eaten dinner,” answers Benny. “He brings along a dozen cases of his best whiskey.”
“What is the occasion?” asks Gently Gently without much interest, now that the food is off the table, so to speak.
“It is the annual Christmas Eve Dance Contest to benefit the Upper West Side Retirement Home for Warlocks and Witches of Advancing Age,” says Benny. “Though with Joey Chicago catering it, I doubt that any participants will be able to pronounce it by ten o’clock tonight.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” say Gently Gently, walking over and pulling a wad of bills out of his pocket. “Here is ten thousand dollars, Harry.”
I pick it up and start counting it.
“If I remind you of Joey Chicago, will you drop ten large on me too?” asks Benny.
“I do not wish to seem ungracious,” I say, “in case this is a Christmas present, but if it is not, and I certainly do not pay you enough for it to be, then what, pray, is it for?”
“It is a bet on the dance contest from Short Odds McDougal,” answers Gently Gently.
“And who does Short Odds McDougal pick, as if I don’t know?” I say, because Short Odds plays so many odds-on favorites that he could put the chalk company out of business, and there is no way that the favored couple can lose tonight.
“This is really strange,” says Gently Gently. “I ask him if he is betting on Twinkle Toes Tony and Fatima Fatale, who are the defending champions and figure to be about 2-to-5 to win again, and he says no, that I should tell Harry the Book—I guess that means you since you are he (or is it him?)—that he wants all ten large on Clubfoot Clarence’s schnoz.”
“Say that again!” I demand.
“He says the whole boodle goes on Clubfoot Clarence. I tell him he could split it five and five, half on Clarence, and half on an exacta for Clarence and Tony to come in one-two, and he says he doesn’t care who comes in second, that he wants it all on Clarence.”
“This is serious,” I say. “I have Clarence at 50-to-1 on the morning line.”
“Maybe his new partner will move him up in class,” says Gently Gently.
“Who is it?” asks Benny.
“Lezli Luscious,” says Gently Gently. “I am told that she is the Prima Ballerina at Salacious Sally’s Palace of Exotic Delights.”
“She is more like the Prima Bumpagrinda,” replies Benny.
“You two are missing the point!” I say.
“Lezli Luscious does not have any points, only curves,” says Gently Gently.
“The point is that Short Odds McDougal only bets on favorites, and suddenly he has laid ten large on a 50-to-1 shot,” I say. “If he wins I am out half a million dollars, and between you and me and the gatepost I do not have half a million dollars.”
“Not only that,” says Gently Gently, looking around the tavern, “but I do not even see a gatepost.”
“Clearly the hex is in,” I say. “We are going to have to go over there and find out what is going on.”
“I can tell you what is going on,” says Dead End Dugan, who has momentarily stopped thinking dead thoughts. “The hex is in, Harry.”
“Thank you for that insight, Dead End,” I say, because sarcasm is lost on zombies, as is logic, food, and pain. “I had better get Milton, and then we are on our way.”
I walk into the men’s room, and there is Big-Hearted Milton sitting on the floor, sporting a black eye and surrounded by eight big candles, and he is muttering and chanting in a language that is almost as alien as French.
“Milton,” I say, “get up. We have things to do.”
He puts a finger to his lips, then utters one last chant.
“Now she’ll be sorry,” he says, getting to his feet.
“You are referring to Betty Petunia?” I say.
“That’s right.” He cackles and rubs his hands together. “Throw wine in my face, will she?”
“What terrible thing have you done to her?” I ask, not that I really care, but I do not wish to hurt Milton’s delicate feelings, especially since I may need him before the night is over.
“She has left me for Bail Bond Bailey,” says Milton. “I have put a curse on her undergarments. No matter how hard she or Bailey try, her bra will not come off, and neither will her girdle.” He cackles again. “I guess that writes Fini to that romance.”
I do not have the heart to tell him that as far as anyone knows, and given the texture of her blouses that is very far indeed, Betty Petunia has not worn a bra since she reached puberty, and they do not even manufacture girdles any more. “That is some curse, Milton,” I say, while wondering if Morris the Mage is still on vacation or is maybe available to work this evening.
“All right, Harry,” says Milton, “tell me what is so important.”
“Short Odds McDougal just bet ten large on a 50-to-1 shot,” I say.
“Aqueduct or Santa Anita?”
“West 73rd Street,” I say.
He frowns. “What is happening on West 73rd Street?”
I tell him.
“Clearly someone has hexed Twinkle Toes Tony and Fatima Fatale,” says Milton. “We must go there before the judging is done and set things right. In fact, we haven’t a second to lose!”
“I am glad to see you so motivated,” I say.
“I have five yards riding on Tony and Fatima,” he says.
“No you don’t,” I say.
“Yes I do,” he insists. “I made the wager with Bet-a-Million McNabb.”
“You do not bet with your own employer?” I demand.
“I love you like a brother,” he says, “but McNabb gives better odds.”
I seriously consider telling him what Betty Petunia does not wear under her dress, but then I decide to wait until the evening is over, because I will need him on my side when I confront whatever foul fiend has tried to rig the dance contest.
We walk out into the tavern, and my crew gathers around me.
“Harry,” says Dead End Dugan, “I have been thinking long and hard on it, and my conclusion is that we should do something. I would tell you about what, but my short-term memory has been on the blink since the last time they dug me up.”
“I second the motion,” says Gently Gently, and then adds hopefully: “Maybe there will be some free eats at the contest.”
“Do we have to dress formally?” asks Benny.
Milton walks to the coat rack and dons his red velvet cloak, the one with the signs of the zodiac emblazoned on it.
“I am ready,” he announces. “How about you, Harry?”
“I am wearing my formal straw boater and chewing on my formal toothpick,” I say. “Let us away.”
And away we let.
* * *
We show up, and it seems that all the men are wearing black tuxedos, except for the few that are wearing blue, mauve, puce, or pink ones. The women are all trying their best to look like they are not wearing anything, and one or two just about succeed.
I leave Dugan at the door and tell him not to let anyone out until he hears from me, because I cannot believe that whoever has fixed the contest for Short Odds McDougal will not be on the premises to make sure nothing goes wrong. I look around the audience and I see Joey Chicago tending bar, and it is clear that everyone has been drinking hard all night because he is serving up his cheap stuff and no one seems to notice the difference. I spot Morris the Mage is in his formal black cape (which does not match his tan Hush Puppies), and Spellsinger Solly is actually wearing a tux, though with an advertisement for Matilda’s Meat Market tastefully sewn on a breast pocket. Herman the Plunger—who is not to be confused with Hyman the Plunger, the local plumber—is there, betting on every single dance, of which I gather there are an awful lot. Short Odds McDougal is there too, smiling like the cat that is about to eat five hundred thousand canaries.
“There is magic in the air, Harry,” says Big-Hearted Milton, though Gently Gently argues that it is merely the smell of pastries.
Suddenly I realize that I am getting a headache, and then I see that Velvet Voice Vinnie is standing at the microphone, singing his latest, so at least I know why my head hurts.
I look at the couples on the dance floor, and there, whirling and swirling like they are on ice skates, are Twinkle Toes Tony and Fatima Fatale, and it is like they are a whole different species they are so graceful. Which is not to say they are not a whole different species from some of the competition, because there are elves, goblins, gremlins, leprechauns, and even a ghoul or two out on the floor.
I peer into a darkened corner, and there are Clubfoot Clarence and Lezli Luscious, and I decide that Clarence has picked the ideal partner, not that Lezli can dance any better than he can but that once you look at her you forget all about the fact that this is a dance competition. She curses as he steps on her foot, but they go right on waltzing, which is kind of strange since everyone else is doing the rhumba.
Across the way is Swivelhips McGee, whose conversion from quarterback to halfback for the Manhattan Misfits never quite worked, and who wound up playing three-eighthsback. He is dancing with Dressy Jessie Sweeney, who keeps throwing dirty looks at Lezli Luscious, but the looks keep bouncing off her superstructure and shooting off into space.
“Who is that dancing with Pretty Perky Penelope?” asks Gently Gently.
“That is Lefty Louie,” says Milton.
“Are you sure?” says Benny.
“Of course I’m sure,” says Milton. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I am watching him, and he seems to be right-handed,” says Benny.
“He is,” says Milton.
“Then why is he Lefty Louie?” asks Gently Gently.
“Because he has two left feet,” answers Milton.
“He does not look that awkward to me,” observes Benny.
“You do not understand,” says Milton.
“Enlighten me,” says Benny.
“He has two left feet,” repeats Milton.
“You said that.”
“And no right feet,” continues Milton.
“Are you sure?” asks Benny dubiously.
“He comes to see me about it,” says Milton. “But there is nothing about the condition in my grimoires, so I tell him that it could be worse, he could have two left hands growing out of his ankles.” He frowns. “The ingrate does not even pay me for those words of comfort.”
“Who is Bellisima Brown dancing with?” asks Benny, indicating her partner who makes even Gently Gently look thin.
“That is Biscuit Boris,” I answer. “He regularly bets on the Boston jai alai games with me.”
“They do not play jai alai in Boston,” notes Benny.
“Probably that is why he never wins,” I say. “I will not tell him if you don’t.”
“Why is he called Biscuit?” continues Benny. “He does not look like a biscuit, so much as a blimp.”
“Because his doctor says he’s about one biscuit short of five hundred pounds,” I say.
The dance ends, and if Benny has any more questions they are thankfully drowned out by applause.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” says Velvet Voice Vinnie, as if they are cheering for him, whereas half the audience is applauding the dancers and the other half is applauding the fact that Vinnie has come to the end of his song. “And now I want to introduce our all-star panel of judges,” adds Vinnie. “Will you each stand up and take a bow when I call your name? First on the list is Mildred the Saint.”
A sexy redhead stands up and everyone claps.
“She is a saint?” asks Gently Gently.
“By marriage,” says Milton. “She is married to Nick the Saint, who is out of town on business, this being Christmas Eve.”
“She’s a knockout,” says Benny. “No wonder he keeps her hidden up at the North Pole.”
“Next is Lamont Lupo,” says Vinnie, and a tall guy in serious need of a shave and haircut gets up and takes a bow.
“And our final judge is Ming Toy Epstein, who you all know as the proprietor of Ming Toy Epstein’s Kosher Chop Suey House.”
A lovely lady gets up, waves to the crowd, and sits down again.
“The next dance,” announces Vinnie, “will be the samba, so grab your partners—no, not like that, Clarence—and let’s go.”
The music starts, and the dancing follows.
“This is a very unusual dance, this samba,” notes Gently Gently. “Everyone moves a lot, and no one gets anywhere.”
“Idiot!” screams Lezli Luscious, and I can see that Clarence has stomped on her foot yet again, and it is getting so swollen that it is almost as big as his.
The dance ends, and Vinnie announces that the jitterbug is next, followed by the two-step and then the tango, and I am looking all around the room, though I do not know what I am looking for, just something to tell me how the hex is going to work, and suddenly someone opens one of the drapes, and I hear a dismal howl coming from the judges’ table, and I look, and it turns out that where there were three judges now there are only two, and between them is sitting a wolf which is still wearing Lamont Lupo’s bow-tie.
“Foul!” cries Twinkle Toes Tony. “It is not fair that we be judged by a wolf.”
“Nonsense,” says Lezli Luscious. “I am judged by wolves all the time.”
A lot of the better-looking women chime in that they would rather be judged by the wolf than by the two women, but then the committee that is running the shindig holds an impromptu meeting at the bar, and decides that Lamont Lupo can continue to judge only if he can still deliberate with the other judges.
Lamont Lupo utters an ugly growl, and both Mildred the Saint and Ming Toy Epstein immediately hide under the table.
“In English!” says the chairman.
Lamont Lupo looks like he is considering eating the rest of the committee for dinner and the chairman for dessert, but finally Morris the Mage pulls out his wand and says something only Big-Hearted Milton and Spellsinger Solly can understand, and Lamont Lupo meekly walks out of the room, pausing only long enough to lift his leg on the chairman.
“Milton,” I say softly, “why do you let Morris take all the glory? You could have vanished that werewolf just as easily.”
“That is true,” agrees Milton, “but we know that the hex is in, and I want to see if one of the other mages rids us of the wolf, because if he does that means Lamont Lupo was never going to vote for Clubfoot Clarence.”
“Come to think of it,” I say, “Morris is standing very near the drapes, is he not?”
Milton nods his head. “Let me ask you one question, Harry,” he says. “Do you pay off if there is a dead heat?”
“At half the odds,” I confirm.
“So if one judge votes for Clarence, you are out a quarter of a million dollars, and if they both do, you are down half a million,” he says. “Either way you lose, right?”
“Right,” I say. “And I find this line of conversation extremely depressing.”
“Well, cheer up, Harry,” says Milton, “because you have told me what I wanted to know.”
“You wanted to know how much I am going to lose?” I ask.
Milton shakes his head. “I wanted to make sure that no matter how the judging goes, you can’t win.”
“You are all heart, Milton,” I say.
“You do not understand,” replies Milton. “If you did not pay off on ties, then I would have to assume Morris is working for both the remaining judges, but since you do pay off, then he only has to be working for one, and I know which one.”
“You do?” I say with a feeling of relief.
“Yes, I do,” says Milton. “Morris the Mage is nowhere as good a magician as I am, public opinion to the contrary, but he is every bit as expensive, and Ming Toy Epstein still owes me twenty bucks from the World Series.”
“You bet with her and not me?” I say, trying to control my temper. “Again you bet with someone else?”
“It’s immoral to bet with the bookie I work for,” answers Milton. “Besides, she gives me 4-to-1 and takes the St. Louis Browns.”
“There haven’t been any St. Louis Browns in more than half a century,” I say.
Milton smiles. “That is another reason I bet with her. Anyway, if she cannot pay me twenty dollars, which I ask for a minimum of seventeen times a week, she cannot afford Morris, so the culprit is Mrs. Saint.”
“You’re sure?” I say.
“As sure as my name is Large-Hearted Milton,” he replies.
“Your name is Big-Hearted Milton,” I say.
“In my exuberance at unearthing this dastardly scheme I momentarily forget,” he says. “Anyway, the culprit is Mildred the Saint.” He smiles confidently. “Trust me on this.”
“I was all set to believe you before those last four words,” I say.
“We are ready for the final dance number,” announces Vinnie. “This will be an old-fashioned down-home square dance, and I myself will do the call.”
“Accuse her now, before she has a chance to vote,” advises Milton.
“Yes, please accuse her now,” adds Benny plaintively, “or we’ll have to listen to Vinnie’s version of do-si-do.”
“All right, all right,” I say, walking over to the bandstand. “Stop the music.”
They start playing hoe-down music.
“Dugan!” I call. “Come over here!”
Dead End Dugan lumbers over and stands beside me.
“Dugan,” I say, “I want you to eat the first guy who plays so much as a single note.”
“I haven’t eaten in more than two years,” says Dugan.
Before he can tell me he doesn’t like food anymore, I say “You must be good and hungry then. Eat the first guy to play a note, and then eat the guys on each side of him.”
A violinist gives me a defiant glare, tucks his instrument under his chin, and prepares to run his bow across it. The trumpet player on his left and the saxophonist on his right immediately start beating him senseless.
I have everyone’s attention now, and I walk over to the judge’s table, point a finger at Mildred the Saint, and say in stentorian tones: “J’accuse!”
“No, it’s Mildred,” she replies.
“Come on, Mrs. Saint,” I say. “We know Morris the Mage is working for you, and that he’s the one who pulled the drapes so the moon would shine on Lamont Lupo. What were you going to do to Ming Toy Epstein?”
“That’s none of your business!” she snaps.
“You gave Short Odds McDougal ten large to bet on Clubfoot Clarence,” I say. “That makes it my business.”
“I told him to keep his mouth shut!” cries Mildred, and suddenly realizes what she has said. “Oops,” she adds. “I didn’t mean that. I was just kidding.”
“Dugan,” I said. “Give Short Odds McDougal ten seconds to admit his culpability, and if he doesn’t, then eat him.”
“All right, I admit it!” shouts Short Odds, just before Dugan can say “What’s culpability?”
“Why did you do it?” I ask Mildred.
“It’s that damned husband of mine!” she says bitterly. “He keeps me cooped up at the North Pole all year. You know what it’s like up there? 363 days of winter and two days of bad skiing! If you hadn’t ruined everything, I was going to take my winnings and buy a timeshare on the beach in Barbados.” She glares at Short Odds. “You just had to make the bet with a bookie who’s got his own mage. You couldn’t lay it off with Morgan the Gorgon.”
“Morgan was only offering 35-to-1 against,” explains Short Odds reasonably.
“Well, it has been a fascinating evening,” says Morris, heading for a door, “but I have urgent business elsewhere.”
“No you don’t,” I say. “It is Christmas Eve.”
“Then I’ll find some,” he says and leaves.
“So what’s to become of our charity pageant now?” asks the chairman.
“All bets are canceled,” I say. “And since all bets are canceled, I’m not going to press charges.” I walked over to Mildred the Saint, pulled out the ten large, peel off nine big ones for her, and hold the tenth up. “For expenses,” I say, and put it in my pocket. For a moment she looks like she is going to object, but then she sighs and nods her head.
“And since we know the hex was in, you are disqualified from judging,” says the chairman.
She gets up and walks out.
“That means Ming Toy Epstein is the only remaining judge,” said the chairman. “Vinnie, let’s have that square dance.”
But the evening is not over yet, because Milton and Spellsinger Solly have been deep in conference in a corner of the room, and I see them light their pocket lighters in lieu of candles, and while I can’t hear them I know they are chanting a little spell, and suddenly Vinnie has lost his voice, and the square dance is a bit of a shambles since with no one to call it the dancers don’t know what to do next, but they run their way through it, and Swivelhips McGee in particular looks delighted as he dodges dancers right and left and acts like he is back on the football field again. Finally the dance is over, and the judges confer, and it is a very short conference since there is only one judge left, and then we all settle back and prepare to hear her announce that Twinkle Toes Tony and Fatima Fatale are the winners.
But then Ming Toy Epstein pulls one out of left field, and says that in the considered opinion of the judging panel all the women were equally good so there will be no female winner, but there is one male dancer who stands out from the competition, and just as Twinkle Toes Tony is getting ready to take his bows and pick up his trophy, she announces that the winner is Lefty Louie.
There is a stunned silence, and then Tony stalks out furiously, followed by all the other dancers, and then the audience starts filing out, and pretty soon there is no one left but Joey Chicago, who is packing up what’s left of his goods, and Big-Hearted Milton and Gently Gently Dawkins and Benny Fifth Street and Dead End Dugan, and the judge and the winner and me.
“That was a most interesting decision,” I say to Ming Toy Epstein. “I am almost sorry I canceled all the bets, because not a single person placed a wager on Lefty Louie.”
“No one at all?” she asks, surprised.
“He has two left feet, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And that does not bother you?” I ask.
She slips off her shoes, and I see that she has two right feet. “Not at all,” she says, and she and Lefty walk out hand-in-hand.
“Isn’t that romantic?” says Benny with a sentimental smile on his face.
“Their firstborn will inherit two feet from each of them,” says Gently Gently. “In fact, he will probably qualify to run in the Kentucky Derby a few years from now.” He pulls out a ten-spot and hands it to me. “Harry,” he says, “will you book my bet before I forget?”