Free Pipsqueak by Brian M. Wiprud Page B

did look great.
    “Gawth!” Dudley was waving us toward his table on the second tier with the gusto of a crewman on a carrier flight deck. “Angie!”
    “Congratulations, you guys!” Angie chimed in.
    “You big palooka!” I jabbed Dudley in the shoulder. He looked dapper in a fifties suit with shoulder pads big enough to disqualify him from the NFL. A sizable pink flowered tie covered his chest. He stood behind Carmela’s seat, hands on her shoulders and grinning like Teddy Roosevelt at a Sunday picnic. (That is, he was holding her shoulders with the thumb and forefinger lifted and safe from contamination. Dudley is quick to point out the thumb and forefinger’s complicity in viral transmissions.)
    Carmela, of course, sported her usual hangdog expression.
    Angie and I exchanged a glance. We were merely reiterating past thoughts along the lines of “How the hell does Dudley get all puppy-lovey for Carmela?” It’s not that she’s just gaunt, stooped, ashen, and beetle-browed. The killer is that she has all the personality of a brooding log. And she’d gone easy on the primping this festive eve: green sack-cut dress, poppit necklace, unshaven legs, and black flats. Well, there was a bow in her hair, one of those clip-on plastic thingies, and it must have been Dudley that got her the corsage. But both accessories looked ridiculously droopy and out of place, the way they’d look if you put them on a borzoi.
    Angie made a stab at girlish camaraderie. “So, Carmela, let’s see how the ring looks?” The bride-to-be dropped her hand on the table like a bad banana and blushed ever so slightly.
    “Wow,” Angie said, and touched Carmela’s shoulder. “You must be so excited.”
    “Yes,” Carmela grunted.
    I easily resisted the temptation to give the lucky girl a peck on the cheek. As an alternative, I waved. “Congrats. Got yourself a fine man in Dudley.”
    “Yes.”
    I pulled a chair out for Angie and hailed a waiter. “I guess this calls for a toast, hmm?”
    “A toast indeed!” Dudley trumpeted, resuming his seat.
    Angie launched into conversation by explaining the fine points of the ring she’d put together for them.
    I ordered the cheapest bottle of champagne in the cellar and proceeded to reexamine our surroundings at the tier tables. Many of the same sorts as in the gallery by the bar, though not the hard-core types, by my reckoning. There were a few Mom ’n’ Pops in the tiers too, looking ready to revive golden ballroom memories. So I took to scanning the railing and gallery beyond, noticing irregulars. For example, there was some rumpled fellow in a cardigan wearing a skimmer and sucking on a pipe. He was all of twenty-something and trying desperately to look like Bing Crosby at fifty. Next to him was another youngster in a greasy pompadour and black bowling shirt. On the back were two red dice and the words
Lucky’s Speed Shop
. Bing and Bowler surveyed the crowd like a pair of vultures. On the other side was a spoofy flapper chick in a gelled hairdo with big black feathers fanned out in back like a turkey tail. Tiny black-frame glasses circled her eyes. In one hand, a cigarette holder that could double as a yardstick; in the other, a martini that could double as a birdbath. From what I could see of it, her dress was a cascade of black feathers. Perhaps she’d just auditioned for some Broadway musical version of
H. R. Pufnstuf
.
    From the mannerisms of these and most of the rest of the gallery people, I got the impression that they were the hard-cores. They didn’t act like this was a costume ball. Even while being sociable among themselves, they continually lapsed into serious postures of folded arms, confidential whispers, and meaningful glances. It was as though this gathering of wine and song had some grave import to them: less Benny Goodman, more Brahms.
    The lights dimmed and the champagne arrived. Curtains parted at the back of the dance floor, and applause drowned out the pop of our