Burlesque - 7

Frank’s eyes settle on a thick, brown, Kraft paper envelope which sits quietly propped on top of the television. A sudden gust sends dingy net curtains flapping and the letter flopping to the floor. A guff of Parma Violet rushes as he springs up and over to slam down gloss choked window; the sashes creak then sag, defeated. Pressing nose to glass he peers through, the street sleeps. ‘Come out, come out wherever you are…’ the note hangs; there aint a sinner in sight. Sighing - one can delay the inevitable only so long - Frank retrieves the missive and studies the calligraphic perfection of his given name. Francis curls and whirls in thick black copperplate and as his eyes slide, focus slips. (You son of a hell tainted harridan)

Well open it man.

He does…

My dearest Francis,

Old friend, as you can imagine, I have had a terrible time of it, tracking you down. I suppose it has been a while and well, you do get about rather. But here we are, heartfelt labour bears it’s fruit; vous voila! success!

I could rattle on and ask one thousand questions, but I took the liberty of having a little chat with your delightful neighbour and find you generally don’t work on a Sunday - Well, what could be more propitious! As you know, I too appreciate my day of rest. So what about it, a spot of lunch? Obviously at my invitation - Get your thinking cap on and see if you can’t come up with a pleasant watering hole where we can catch up on old times; and, of course, ponder the future - we do have unfinished business Francis; there is after all, still that question of a signature that needs resolution.

Well, can’t hang about here all evening - Saturday night and all that. Till tomorrow then, shall we say twelvish?

Sweet dreams,

Your eternal pal,

Sam

Frank sits heavily on the coffee table, a Swizzlers wrapper crinkles under thigh. (Parma bloody Violets) ‘You bastard.’ Running his hand through oiled, greying locks he appears to have suddenly aged. Deep, deep down a chord snaps and pings. Flinging back limp fringe Frank swings as Little Freddie King picks up the riff, ‘I’m going down,’ (come and get me fucker) ’down, down, down, down, down.’

Julian’s broom handle hits the offbeat.

‘I got my big feet in the window, I got my head hanging on the ground.’

************************

‘Cooee!’ Slipping through the door and into the darkened club, Babe blinks, blinded. She strains to make the adjustment. Dark shapes hover, but nothing moves. ‘HELLO!’ Nothing. She suffers a heaving slump of disappointment - and she’d left Phil upstairs, asleep - for nothing. (Bugger) Sighing heavily she hauls her Karrimor (Well I’m up now, might as well get on with it. Though…) the thought flutters, wilful, bloody. She turns and walks stoutly toward the toilets. There may be no point at all - the cleaner’s probably been and gone. But once that girl‘s got an idea in her head, ‘Oh you little beauty!’ Bending she plucks her prize from it’s indignity. (To the runner up!) With the point of a French polished nail she prises off a scab of dried sick and slides the wrap deftly into pocket. A quick look in the mirror, dazzling verification - That toothpaste really does do what it says on the ad - and off she pops. Ready for anything.

Well nearly anything.

‘Argh!’ One hand still holding back the lobby curtain, the other clasped to her mouth, Babe hiccups with relief as the dark figure looming resolves itself into Gabriels pleasing form. And he’s smiling, at her!

‘Good morning. I’m sorry if I scared you.’

‘Oh, it’s alright - I’m quite jumpy by nature,’ She’s jabbering, she’s actually flustered, ‘Are you okay?’

Gabriel strokes the slight graze at his temple, ‘I’m fine,’ and smiles, again, ‘I’m sorry, we didn’t get a chance to introduce ourselves last night.’ His eyes, oh, those eyes, ‘I‘m Gabriel, and you?’

‘They call me Babe.’

Can't be! Our Babe? Simpering?

‘And what do you call you?’ He leans in, there’s a faint odour of,

‘Well actually it’s got Sharon on my birth certificate,’ He’s smiling again, at her or with her? She’s starting to prickle now, she can feel the blood rising,’ but you know, I think I prefer Babe.’

Who wouldn’t?

She screws up her face, ‘Can you smell burning?’

Gabriel turns, tilting a fine aqualine nose and sniffs. ‘No.’

A curl, escaped from hairband falls across Babe's eye; she twirls it, around and around forefinger, compulsively. ‘Well, better be getting on.’ (Ugh! Conversational grandmaster.) ‘Is Val still around?’

‘She went home to get some sleep.’

(This is hopeless , what’s got into me?) ‘Suppose I’d better get off as well then.’ (Oh, fuckit, dimwit, dimwit!) ‘Will I be seeing you again?’

He grins, cutely crooked teeth flashing as he laughs, ‘Yes,’

(They are so white - do you think he bleaches too?)

’most definitely.’