Craven Gets Flashed XV

I got some great shots, Mr. Danger,” said Jenny. “I had Ramone looking bloodier than anything at the Valentine’s Day Massacre. Did you finish writing it up?”

Craven Danger stood at the open trunk poking at the typewriter with his index finger.

“I’ll be finished in a sec. I haven’t met my quota of exclamations yet. And. . . there! Twenty should cover it. That oughta give those early morning readers a good poke in the eye.”

When Sergeant Dowd pulled to the curb behind Jenny’s wreck of a car, his eyes bulged as he spoke in a hushed tone.

“Is that a 1916 Olivetta M1 you’re tapping away at, Craven?”

“Step away, Dowd. You’re not getting your greedy mitts on this. And what brings you all the way down here? I thought you and Dwayne were garbage-picking.”

“Antique rescuing, if ya don’t mind. When we heard there was a disturbance on Bleecker Street I thought you might need our help. So we followed ya. Then we got side-tracked when Dwayne spotted  an E. Joy Morris carosel pony. Circa 1901.”

“Where’s Dwayne now?”

“Sitting on the pony. No way we could fit that thing in the patrol car, and I didn’t dare leave it alone. When I’m done with you I’ll get the paddy wagon and rescue my horse and rider. And since it looks like everything’s under control here. I need to ask you about the Olivetti. How about it?”

“No way, sarge.”

“I’ll give ya five bucks and a free ride uptown in a heated automobile. I’ll even let you run the siren.”

“Where do I sign?”

“Wait a doggone minute,” said Jenny. “That’s my Olivetti and it’ll cost ya ten, and I get to ride up front. I refuse to ride in the back with the hired help.”

“Hey!” said Craven. “I don’t work for you. You work for me.”

“Who got you the free pizza?”

“Well, you did.”

“Okay, then. Grab my camera bag and hop in the back. And no playing with my Speed Graphic. Go on, get in.”

“I’d sooner dip my head in a barrel of honey and go frolicking in a bear cave. What I really need is a barstool, and a stiff drink from a bartender who listens, even if all he really wants to do is poke me in the eye and tell me to shut up. And I’m certain that after I get through telling him my story, he’ll renege on his vow to be a good-listener and southpaw me twenty feet off the barstool. And I’ll be happy to take a ten-count as I wait for the paddy wagon. And least it’s heated and moves faster than that drafty old waddling duck you’ve been driving. So, good night and good riddance!”

“Are you finished?” said Jenny.

“Yeah. That’s all I have to say.”

“I mean with the story I asked you to write.”

“It’s still in the typewriter. And, by the way, you just spoiled a perfectly good kiss-off. I don’t get the chance too often. Betty never allows it. I hope you’re happy. Now please. Not another word. Let me walk away in peace, with my collar up, my head held high, and a little movie music playing in my head as I stroll down this boulevard of broken beer bottles, straight into the arms of that gorgeous hunk of a saloon across the street. Give me that much. Please. I’m begging you.”

“Touchy, ain’t he,” said Sergeant Dowd.

“Sush!” said Craven.

“I’ll say,” said Jenny.

“Sush, I said! Show a little respect. Let me have my moment!”

Jenny and Sergeant Dowd mouthed the word Okay, then locked their lips with invisible keys and tossed them in the air.

“You guys make more noise out of being quiet than anyone I know. And maybe this ain’t how Bogart would do it, but I’ll be strolling down that boulevard with my fingers in my ears. And make darn sure I get the byline for that story, Jenny!  Good night!”

Maybe I’ll just tell my story to the first passed-out drunk I run into. Bartenders can be an ornery lot. Especially when it comes to me and my stories. They usually end in tears.

Photo courtesy of Wki Commons: 

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Macchina_per_scrivere_Olivetti_M...