The rustling well-dressed crowd of Parisian lace and titles applauded with some spirit as, still blindfolded, I placed my hand gently on the shoulder of the mistress of the house, the Countess Cladissa D’Dadario, identifying her as the bloody assassin. As I removed the blindfold, tossing it aside, she, in turn, a gracious lady of perhaps mid-fifties, with many rumored affairs, began to laugh.
Friday is said to be an unlucky day, Kyame Piddington read. It is hangman’s day. Some star having special gravity struck with sporadic force yesterday and illuminated some of the social phases in the zodiac of Dodge City. There was a gambling sport who was chaired by a pugilistic concubine.
by Barry H. Wiley
“John, you know why drummers always leave their sticks up front in their car?”
I waited.
“So they always qualify for a handicapped parking place.”
I had to laugh. Jack Smitz (Jax Smacks as he was better known in the jazz crowd) delivered the punch line with solemn mock sincerity, accented by a suitably lifted eyebrow.
