“May I have your attention. I want to thank you all for coming to this special production of
The women at table number five ordered another round of blue cabooses.
“I’m having so much fun,” said Maria. “This was a great idea.”
“Where’s Serge?” asked Rebecca.
“He’ll show up sooner or later,” said Teresa. “If I know him, there’s no way he’ll miss this.”
“…And finally,” Tanner announced, “the reason all of us are here. The author of classics we’ve come to know and love — let’s give a big hand for the one and only Ralph Krunkleton!…Ralph, stand up!”
Ralph stood self-consciously and waved to the applause. Baltimore went by the windows.
A half hour later, Frankie Chan was wrapping up his big finale, the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre in hand shadows. The ovation was deafening. Frankie went back to the booth and bummed a cigarette.
“You hear that applause?” he said. “We should have been doing this from the start!”
“Who’s up?”
“Dee Dee,” said Spider.
Dee Dee Lowenstein took the stage and launched an uncanny rendition of “South American Way.”
Serge walked up the center aisle of the dining car in a burgundy smoking jacket. “It’s murder, I tell you! This man has been poisoned! Nobody leave the room!”
Dee Dee stopped singing and someone turned off her boom box. The audience began taking notes. Some filmed with camcorders. Serge pulled the script from his back pocket. “Wait a minute. There’s no Carmen Miranda in this scene.” He went back to the sleeping car.
Someone turned the music back on, and Dee Dee brought the house down with a medley from Carmen’s Hollywood years.
The applause was off the meter. Dee Dee headed back to the rounded booth. The Washington Monument went by. “What a great room!”
“Preston, you’re up.”
The Great Mez-mo took the stage. “I need some volunteers.”
Nobody responded. “You gals,” said Preston, pointing at table number five. “Come on up here.”
The women declined, but the audience was behind Preston: “Get up there!”
A few minutes later, Paige was scraping invisible poop off her shoe, Teresa said she swam out to naval carrier escorts, Sam quacked, and Rebecca begged Preston for his autograph.
Preston walked up to Maria.
“Are you a lesbian?”
“No,” Maria said, trancelike.
He handed her a blow-up doll. “Then pretend this is one of the Baldwins.”
The crowd roared.
Three hours later, Books, Booze and Broads were still in the dining car. They barely held a quorum.
“Where did the time go?” said Paige.
“Better yet, where did Rebecca and Sam go?” said Maria.
“I can guess where Sam is,” said Teresa. “But Rebecca must have had some kind of luck we don’t know about.”
The Great Mez-mo closed the door behind him in his sleeping compartment. Rebecca looked around in wonderment. “I can’t believe I’m actually in Brad Pitt’s room!”
The next compartment:
“
35
Ivan and Zigzag listened to Jimmy Cliff on the stereo of an orange ’72 Dodge Charger. Zigzag rocked slowly with the rhythm, but Ivan wasn’t convinced.
“What’s so great about this music? It just makes me antsy.”
“You need to learn how to relax,
It was after midnight. Ivan changed lanes, passing some farm equipment infarcting the southbound side of Interstate 95. They drove under a big green sign. Richmond, 1/4 mile. Ivan took the exit ramp; Zigzag unfolded a map and navigated through the city to the train station. They skidded up to the curb and ran through slush to the Amtrak window.
“Two tickets to Miami,
“It’s sold out,” said the clerk.
“What about cancellations?” asked Ivan. “Standby?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said the ticket man, pointing down the tracks. “It just left.”
“Why didn’t you tell us in the first place?”
The pair dashed out of the depot and jumped back in the Charger.
Zigzag pulled the map from under his seat and flicked a lighter to see.
“What now?” asked Ivan.
“We might be able to get on in Fayetteville, or maybe Charleston.”
“You heard the man. It’s sold out.”
