ah race track on crutches.

In fact, as I surveyed the scene, one brave lady made a half-hearted
attempt to cross over and spear a sandwich off the corner of the buffet.
She was promptly shoved out of range by a lean, hungry-looking customer
in a pink shirt, who snarled, "Scram, Three Chins! You're overfed now."

Unhooking Joy's dear fingers from my arm, I said, "You will pardon me,
but it is time for action. Bag Ears will see that you are not harmed."

I started toward the buffet, or rather toward the crowd of male and
female hoodlums who completely blocked it from my sight. But Bag Ears
snatched me by the sleeve and whispered,

"For cri-yi, Homer! Don't be a fool! This mob is loaded wid hardware.
They don't horse around none. Start slugging and they'll dress you in
red polka dots. Better call in some law."

I shook my head firmly and pulled Bag Ears' hand from my sleeve. But,
his attention now turned in another direction, he held on even harder
and muttered,

"Jeeps! I'm seeing things!"

I glanced around and saw him staring wide-eyed at the entrance hall, his
battered mouth ajar. I followed his eyes but could see nothing unusual.
Only the hall itself, through an arched doorway, and the lower section
of the staircase that gave access to the second floor of the house. It
appeared to be the least-troubled spot in view. I frowned at Bag Ears.

"Maybe I've gone nuts," he said, "but I'll swear I just saw a face
peeking down around them stairs."

"Whose face?"

"Hands McCaffery's face! That's whose!"

"And who is Hands McCaffery?"

Bag Ears looked at me with stark unbelief. "You mean you don't know?
Maybe your mom didn't give you the facts of life! Chum, they's two
really tough monkeys in this town. One of them is Cement Mixer Zinsky
and the other is Hands McCaffery. At the moment they're slugging it out
to see which one gets to levy a head tax on the juke boxes in this
section. It's a sweet take and neither boy will be satisfied with less
than all. Seeing them both in one place is like seeing Truman and that
music critic sit down at the piano together. And I know damn well that
Hands is up on them stairs!"

"You are obviously overwrought. If I have this type of person sized up
correctly, none of them would be dallying on the stairs. If this Hands
person were here, he'd be at the buffet fighting for a helping of
pickled beets and a gin wash. Pardon me--I have work to do."

But there was another interruption.