Donald Fagen removed a Mont Blanc from his velvet vested pocket and nudged a piece of glass to the left. “You see the sign, or is the hazy dream of a gangster’s gaze reelin’ round the statue of the matador?” he said to Walter Becker, his voice barely a whisper.
“That’s Gravy Joe’s finger and thumb, disjointed and mellow. He’s a sloppy sucker, prints on the merchandise without that haunted second thought.” Becker answered back, his voice rumbling and deep as a mystic blue reward.
Fagen smiled, feline lips exposing pearly whites. Gravy Joe, leader of the Jive Cat gang, was at it again and they were gonna catch him by his bourgeois coattails. “This is ash from his tightly rolled cubans, packaged by the barkers down in East Detroit. He’s toying with our minds, LSD soundscape resonating proud and nauseous,” he joyously proclaimed, removing the dark specs that hid evidence of a tired journey to the moon and sun.
Becker placed a silky pocket square into Fagen’s waiting hand. Donald cleared away the crusty grime from his sunglasses while Becker slicked back his own graying mane. “When Mikey shows up, we’ll track Joe down at the Hemingway Lounge, silly girls with tricky names dancing for the boys in the war,” Fagen continued. The two men started humming a tune again, building up a melody and tearing down the unseen walls around them.
Outside, the sun dipped behind the skyline, fighting to stay up for a final breath. Fagen and Becker emerged from the museum and lit a pair of Newports. One puff each and the cigarettes spun onto the gravel below. A repetitive thump then crested over the distant blood-red foothills as the cool evening air turned into a sudden gale.
A bright yellow copter came to a shaky hover above the two detectives, it’s underbelly sporting a pair of burgundy bay doors. “Take a step back, my friend, and let’s watch the magic wizard on his heavenly throne,” Fagen motioned to Becker. The doors fell open and slowly lowered a dark limo into the smokey twister below.
The whirlybird vanished when the luxury limo came to rest on the rocky pavement. With a soulful shriek, the rear window shattered like a prehistoric pterodactyl had burst it’s way through a thin-shelled egg. A handsome yet disheveled man with a frosty silk shirt tumbled through the opening, landing belly first on a heap of heroin filled beer cans.
“Michael Mcdonald, checking in for duty,” the gorgeous, beard-bedecked spectacle of a man cacophonously sung in a high-pitched vibrato.
PART 3 is HERE!