Steely Dan Mysteries: The Jive Cat Heist (Part 3)
Donald Fagen tossed Mcdonald a matte black Glock without hesitation. “You’ll need this, dragon hunter,” Fagen said to the stumbling vocalist. Mcdonald snapped out of his drunken stupor and snatched the gun in mid flight. In under 14 seconds he field dressed the weapon and loaded it with a fresh magazine.
“The old man’s still got that flavor, Don,” Becker snickered, withdrawing his own sidearm.
“Holster that hogleg, Walter my dear, ’cause the Saturday social up in Cottontown is feelin’ lonely tonight,” Fagen started to sing, waving his boney forefinger with a pendulum’s sway. “It’s time this swashbuckling loner played the showtunes on his own 78s.”
“What’s the scoop, Don Fagen? Is a sweet lookin’ girl for a h — ” Fagen cut Mcdonald off before he could complete his bouncing sentence, “We write the lyrics round this funky blue city. You just keep the light on for the southern belle down on Old Poughkeepsie avenue.” The bearded mass of middle-aged vibration gave the two men a nod and kneeled to kiss Fagen’s wing-tipped patent leathers.
Fagen and Becker turned their backs to Mcdonald for a quick powwow. After a few minutes of gesturing wildly, they simultaneously pivoted and smoked a second Newport. One puff and another pair hit the pavement.
“It’s the Jive Cat gang again,” Becker started, “and they’ve nicked the Golden Cup of Glendale. You play your part in this saucy charade and you’ll get that promised palace up on 85th and Main. It’s all vaguebooking and shoeshots these days and the kids in town are looking for a chance to claim the score.”
Fagen snuffed out the smoldering embers from his discarded cigarette and added, “We need you on backup, Mikey. Again. Gravy Joe is behind this crime, smug countenance front and center. He’s smoking tissue down with Freddy and Delilah but we don’t know why the cup is his ultimate prize. Head down to the Bay of Pigs for endless waves of ether and a 2 for 1 on oysters and refrains. Poke around for powdered leads and don’t disappoint, lest the diamond speckled eels of Frisco bring a pair of spades to dinner.”
“You got it, Steely Dan. I spent the last of my dough on that helicopter rental and my limo has an empty tank. Have some gas money a friend in need could bum?” Mcdonald inquired, brushing off some dirt and lint from his shimmering shirt.
“No.” Fagen curtly replied, kicking him squarely in the belly.
Mcdonald let out a ghostly ‘Oooooooooooooooohhhhhhh yyyeeeaaahhhh sweeeettttt juuuuunnnneeeee’ and headed off at a quick trot toward the city docks.
“What’s our destination?” Becker questioned his lithe, jazzy friend.
“We’ll head to Gino’s for a slice and see if anyone has a fix on Joe and his Jive Cat crew. Then we need to make a quick stop at the studio and record an idea for a tune called ‘Donny Kickin Freaks In The Belly’ or something like that,” Fagen said, reaching for the keys to a hitherto unmentioned car he had hidden in the foliage behind the museum.
Becker tossed a live grenade at the museum doors and disappeared into the bushes with Fagen. The grenade erupted in a ball of flames and fury as the detectives raced a ’68 Caddy through the blossoming cloud of plaster and glass, heading for the city and a date with syncopated justice.
PART 4 is HERE!
