The Dame’s right eyebrow went up by a fraction of an inch. “Really?”
“’yep.”
“How can you be sure?”
“How many Tex-Mex-Chinese placed do you know serve sake at the correct temperature?”
“Good point.” She frowned. “This could be a problem.”
“Oh, goody,” I said, leaning back in my chair. Yet another paper airplane wafted by. This one said ‘I’m walking against the wind.’ “So, back to my original question: what does the clown mafia want?”
The Dame took a deep breath. “Let me be frank. The clown mafia is in trouble. A war’s coming and they’re not sure they can handle it.”
“How big a war, Frank?”
There was a muffled ‘bang’ from under the table. “That was a just a warning,” she said. “Any more stupid jokes and you can kiss a kneecap goodbye.”
“That wasn’t a warning,” I said. I was particularly proud of how evenly I managed to say it.
“What do you mean?”
“You winged me.”
The Dame looked under the table and then straightened up. “Perhaps a band-aid?”
I shook my head. “I just need to say a bad word and put pressure on it.” I pressed my other calf against the new flesh wound. “Crap. My dad was corpsman,” I said by way of explanation. “Anyway, Fr- nice lady, who could scare the clowns.”
She leaned close. “There’s only one group that’d scare them this bad: mimes.”
Tomorrow: Part 4
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