Disclaimer: The song lyrics in the Regency scene and some of the dancing are elements borrowed from the Disney film "The Great Mouse Detective". I make no pretense of having thought them up myself. They just work with what I was trying to do.

Part 3

Four Days Earlier

4281 Kensington Ave.

George Buchheim sat at his crowded city apartment desk. The desk top was covered with open filing folders piled on top of each other with clandestinely taken photographs, illegally photocopied government documents, and notes handwritten in quick hand poking out, old paper coffee cups with film of stagnant java glazed on the bottom and under the brim, an ashtray piled full of used cigarette butts, and a recently polished off whiskey flask. The man himself looked little better than his work place. He'd been working on an exposé on the various incidences of mismanagement by the ruling regime, the Paradigm Group, and how these incidences had led to the current decline in societal welfare, for nearly a day and a half now, taking a three hour nap at two in the afternoon in the hide-a-bed. He'd slept in his cloths, so his collar and back were messed up and his pants were folded in an unnatural way. His wiry hair was a mess and he'd begun to develop a five o'clock shadow.

Now was the time that he'd thanked providence that he was publisher of Paradigm Press. He could disappear from the office for two days and not be missed. As long as he was there on Friday and Sunday to pat the editor, an overzealous 'yes man' named Phil Gessay, on the head for keeping the paper going in the prescribed direction he was free to immerse himself in his pet projects. In this case, the mother of all stories. Something that actually could create change and do something positive for his city. It was this image that fueled his fervor; things of this magnitude made him paranoid and uneasy of getting caught by some Paradigm 'lap dog' atune to his scent. The sooner this was wrapped the better.

In fact, it would have been wrapped had George not stumbled on a new source with a new angle on the investigation. His name was John, though he spelled it 'Jean' and the man seemed like a charlatan at first glance, but on a lark, George followed up on two of his claims only to find the to be substantive. It was inexplicable.

As the possessed fingers of the Paradigm Press publisher pounded on the typewriter, his eyes kept glancing up at the clock on the wall. The time was now 11:27 and up until now George's reticence to leave and finish his piece had reigned over his constitution, but now he had only nineteen minutes to meet his source at the Regency Club. Quickly he got up and threw on his overcoat and his beat up fedora, making his way down to the curb bellow where he hailed a cab.

George's cab pulled up to the curb in front of the Regency at 11:49 by his watch. He was late, but hopefully his source hadn't been spooked by his tardiness. He quickly paid the cabby his fare and strode toward the club.

The Regency was operated on lease in the basement of a privately owned banking firm in a run down building with a chipping green facade and with only a scant sign above the side entrance saying merely 'Regency Club'. The true draw to the place was the folded plywood street marquis that sat on the sidewalk to the right of the left of the entryway promising "Regency Club: Cold Drinks, Hot Entertainment" and then a list of the performers appearing that night. Standing to the right of the entrance, partly barring the way, was a barrel chested black man with his arms crosses, eyeing up everything that might turn into trouble. He wore a white collar dress shirt with a black bow tie, a purple vest, and pressed pants, giving an air of respectability, but his blond corn rows, scarred cheek, and gold ring bedecked fingers betrayed him as hired thug muscle.

As George walked by him, the man gave him a good once over before taking a step back and allowing him to move into the cramped stairwell. George was glad of this. If there'd been trouble, he knew that an explanation of his rush would have gotten him a ring encrusted knuckle sandwich to the gut, a hearty laugh, and a push into the gushing gutter. That was Paradigm City.

At the bottom of the stairs George was admitted through a second line of security, this time a bald, 300 pound white behemoth, into the club. The Regency Club had a bar at the front, to the left of where George had entered, and a dozen tables behind a railing with two sets of stairs on either side leading down to a split level floor. There were booths set against the walls and the first level tier with another dozen tables in front of the raised stage area. The place was doing a steady business, and the air was rank with cigarette smoke and stale booze of the lowest grade. Not even the lowest Paradigm "lapdog" would slum in a place like this.

George made his way down to the ground floor and to the booths. The perfect place in the Regency for clandestine dealings were the booths; out of the way and close enough to the stage to ensure that neighboring eyes and ears were preoccupied. True to form, his source was in the third booth from the right wall. He was a short man of about five foot two inches with artfully slicked and parted salt and pepper hair and a pencil mustache, shaved with as much care. He was a strange little man, characteristic of a snitch stereotype. George sat down and smiled so as not to draw undue attention. His source wasn't as cautious.

"You h'ar leht." He said, in a strange accent. That was another thing that struck George as odd. Although there were different accents and colloquialisms found in Paradigm City, this man's was unique, even to George, a man familiar with almost all respects of Paradigm society.

"It couldn't be helped. The Military Police had Park Ave. barricaded. Looked like they were busting a radical group." George lied. His lie seemed to unnerve his source even more.

"Anyway, what else do you have for me?" George asked taking out a beat up pencil and notepad. Jean looked uneasy still, but spoke softly.

"H'ar you famili-air wit zee JFK Mahrk insaedent huff lest mounth?" He asked.

"Yes, I am indeed," George replied eagerly, getting his pencil ready.

At this point the music that had been playing when George entered stopped and a woman walked out on stage. This drew both George and Jean's attention. She was a lovely, young blond girl of maybe twenty five years, wearing a long pink skirt that reached near to her ankles, a black corset with pink ribbing, and a pink shawl. On her neck, and George only noticed this later, she wore a pink choker with a thick square shaped wire clasp.

George attempted to get Jean's attention, but his source was transfixed. Oh well, at least he could enjoy the show. Soft piano began to play and the woman began to sing. She had a very timid voice and rang her hands with what seemed to be stage fright. Her thin voice was, however, very melodic.

Dearest Friends, dear Gentlemen,

Listen to my song.

Life in this city's been hard for you.

Life has made you strong.

Let me lift the mood, with my attitude.

Here she shed her naivete and frightened facade and broke out into a more confident voice. Suddenly she bent her knees and playfully pushed her hands into her lap, now adding animation to her song.

Hey fellas, the time is right

Get ready. Tonight's the night.

Boy's what you're hoping for will come true

Let me be good to you.

You tough guys,

You're feelin' all alone.

You rough guys,

the best of you cheaters and bums

all are my chums.

So dream on and drink your beer.

Get cozy. Your baby's here.

You won't be misunderstood.

Let me be good to you.

Here she went behind the curtain, and didn't reemerge for a few seconds until the height of a very dramatic drum flair. As she reentered, she had shed her shawl and was flanked by two dancers in blue merry-widows.

Hey fellas, I'll take of all my cloths.

Here she tore off her skirt, revealing her corset to be a black and pink merry-widow and a very, very low cut pink lace thong.

Hey fellas, there's nothin' I won't do,

just for you.

The song then entered into an instrumental and the girls came together center stage reaching their arms behind each other's backs and placing their hands on what George knew where their neighbor's ass. As the girl to the singer's left did this they both turned to each other and smiled. They then began to Cancan a few times, then turned away from the audience and bent over, waving their thonged derrieres up-and-left and up-and-right to the music.

George broke his trance as the girl began to sing again, flanked by her back up dancers, to attempt to get some work done.

"Jean, snap out of it. What about he JFK Mark incident?"

Jean, however, would not budge. He squinted his beady, little eyes at the stage area and mumbled something incoherent in what might very well have been another language. George returned to the stage to see what Jean was trying to discern, because it wasn't lust behind that look, but confusion.

Your baby's gonna come through

Let me be good to you...

Out of the corner of his eye, George saw a man get up and charge the stage. Without knowing why, he jumped up and rushed to intercede. The two back up dancers had fled and as the main girl had tried to flee, but the drunken man caught her wrist. He said something slurred to her, but George didn't hear through the adrenalin rush. He wrapped his arm around the man's neck, kicked out the knee the man had his weight on and pulled back, throwing him off the stage and onto the floor. He crashed down on his back and hit his head hard on the floor knocking him out.

When he saw the man drift out of consciousness, he snapped back into reality. He looked down at the prostrate girl and extended a hand to her. As he did the black bouncer came up from behind him and got him in a head lock. Again the words the bouncer spoke were obscured by panic. The girl recognized what was happening, swiftly got to her feet, and plead to the bouncer.

"Terrence, please. He saved me from him." she said pointing at the man on the floor, "Leave him be. He did your job."

Terrence backed off and George collapsed at her feet, coughing. This time the girl extended her hand to him, and this time he grasped it, and she lifted him up with a labored sigh, put his arm around her neck, and led him to her dressing room. She sat him down on the stool in front of the mirror where her cosmetics were laid out.

"Are you okay?" she asked concerned. By this time George had regained his color and composure.

"Yes. . . Yes, I'm fine." He breathed a long sigh. The girl began to smile. George did not return it. No doubt Jean had run off as soon as the incident had flared up. Would he make contact again, was the main question. His story was in jeopardy thanks to his indiscretion.

"Thank you so much," the girls said, slipping into a pink robe, "May I ask the name of my Prince Charming?"

"Prince Charming?" George asked, perplexed. The girl laughed.

"My mother used to tell me a fairy tale when I was a little girl. A princess from a far away land fell under a curse by an evil witch who put her into an enchanted sleep. After a hundred years a noble prince came to her rescue and awoke her from her sleep." The girl told the tale with ethereal candor. George was enchanted.

"Well then, your prince's name is George Buchheim. May I ask the name of my damsel in distress?" His damsel laughed.

"You can call me Angel." she said sultrily.

"Is that your real name or your stage name?"

"A nickname. My name is Kelly Blackmore."

"A pleasure to meet you, Kelly Blackmore." George extended a hand to her. She shook it and laughed.

"The pleasure is all mine. After all, you did just save my life."

To be continued . . . . .