Chang glowered across the narrow, dimly lit cave that was Kelly Joe’s on Houston Street, in downtown Manhattan. He could scarcely believe his eyes, especially not what his pointy ears captured in the smoky haze. Loomis was somehow center of the raked, Rialto-lit stage, crooning tol- erably, a Sinatra-esque “I GOT YA UNDER MY SKIN.”
Ovetta squealed her raw delight, in contrast to the dour chauffeur, who kept muttering over and
over,”What is he doing, that sick Fool–”
Another point of view was firmly set on Loomis Reader. Lyndsey, of course, wasn’t thinking of the Jonathan Akula nonsense right now, but was just delighted that her Akashic clues had at last gelled into some bizarre form of a happy reality. Just then, the “pit band” struck up NIGHT TRAIN and all pandemonium broke out at the front of this funky little “boite.” Ovetta, clearly in her cups, (all doubled D’s of them), rushed forward, suddenly inspired to do a strip tease. Chang flew, literally across two waiters trying to save his boss lady’s dignity.
Loomis, remarking “Too late for DAT, dear lady,” dove off of the stage at just
that moment.
Out back in the alley, Scrozzo, the head bouncer of the joint known as Kelly Joe’s, had just turned a mid-sized dumpster filled with rusty cans, fish heads, and simi- lar lovely objects atop none other than LEGBA and VICTOR! How they got to SoHo so quick defies description, so let’s just term it either lil’ bit of levitatin’, or some plain ol’ PRESTI-DIJ’TATIN’!!
And who but LOOMIS leapt clear into the arms of- Dat’s Right Folks, LYNDSEY PATTISON- her own sweet but increasingly “Baad” Self!
“There’s a cab, Loomis. I’ve got some cash left-”
“So let’s Vamoose,” cried Loomis, clutching her left hand.”Wh-why, YOU GOT TH’MARK!”
Somehow Lyndsey had acquired the Akashic squiggly hook with the Ankh-like loop above it, in the middle of her hand. Ali, their cab-driver and brand-new sav- ior, yelped, “My friends, a skeleton in a top hat and a big, scary, white Zombie guy are closing in on my cab–”
Loomis glanced in horror at Lyndsey. “So DO somethin’ –PLEASE!!”
Lyndsey rolled back her eyes, rubbed the sacred tattoo, and chanted.“Agash, abulash, A-Bab-BASH!! AGTHH—”
Now, between them and the cemetery pals, ran a massive, monstrous herd of dun-colored, hairy, prehistoric oxen, or AUROCHS. Ali and the sway-back taxicab took off like Aladdin’s carpet.
“We’re headed for the George Washing- ton Bridge, sir,” gulped Lyndsey, recovering quickly from her magical hallucination.
When they skidded to a halt at 175th and the Concourse, the fare, which (al- lowing for excess speed) came to 85 bucks. As they disembarked, Loomis clutched his head. “I can’t make that bridge. This kind of HEIGHT don’t agree with my psyche…”
Lyndsey put on her best John Belushi shrug, complete with pathetically scrunched eyebrows.
“Ali, sir, I’m sorry, what can I say, ummm, Effendi..?”
“Okay, okay, you win, lady. I’m just an old softy, so we’ll drop you off in Jersey. Hate to see your boyfriend slide over the rail or something, you know?”
“Thanks, Ali. God Bless,” sighed thefrazzled Ms. Pattison.
As the dusty, little, green sedan spun back around toward Manhattan, in the Fort Lee toll plaza, the spreading gold of the rising sun streamed through the massive girders of the G.W. Bridge and traced the bent but heroic silhouettes of Loomis and Lyndsey, starting the arduous trudge back to home, hoofing alongside the roadway, like Toto and Dorothy leaving OZ. Loomis hummed faintly, wearily, a familiar strain.
“Dumm dumm dum Dwamm Dwim dwum dwam DWEEM Dum, uhh..this time we’re WALKIN’ To –New OR-LEANS…”
Meanwhile back at the Beauty-Torium on Canal, Missy Gaulinfat witnessed the switching back on of some much-needed City electrical power. “POSEIDON!! We got da Juice flowin’,” she screamed with joy
to her husband, who was cowering behind the Formica counter.
The first thing she heard was the an- cient jukebox, roaring back to life with Fats Domino,
“AH’M WALK-IN’ TO NEW- OR-L’NS; AN’ HOPIN- THAT-CHA SAW ME… NEW ORL’NS IS MY HOME, NEVER MORE TO ROAM…”
(To be continued)
