Billy Club
By John Greiner
"Oh, how I adore Rossini," Gilda said.
I couldn't give a damn, having always been more passionate about Donizetti.
Gilda didn't notice the cop twirling his striped baton on the corner. I had been in Venice when the opera house burned to the ground, so I knew that it was always best to keep an eye on these oddballs.
"Look," I said.
"I'm trying to listen," she said.
"To who? Me or Rossini?"
"Rossini. He plays so lovely in my head."
"You can listen to all of the Puccini in your head that you want," I said sharply. "But take a look over there."
"That's just Billy Club. He's a failed majorette."
There wasn't anything more apparent then that fact. I hated it when Gilda treated me like a fool, but at least she didn't play me. She knew that it was me and only me that could hook her up with 78s; Cortis, Caruso and Piero Pauli.
"That boy's got no timing, or sense of pizzazz." I gave a half-smile. Opera gives you a feel for drama and if it isn't in the acting it's in the held note. Billy Club didn't have the tightest grip, or loose wrist. He couldn't clutch, clench, or even do a tweet, twirl and twist.
"If it weren't for these failed majorettes, then we'd have no one around to serve and protect," Gilda moved close to me. "You know, I heard that he just got promoted to detective on the Riot Squad."
I'd never heard of Billy Club in the first place, so you can imagine my shock when Gilda told me of his advancement through the ranks.
"If he's in the Riot Squad, then what is he doing around here?"
Gilda was on top of me by this point which caught the cop's attention and was a detriment to clean presentation of his routine. His baton hit the ground.
"Maybe he knows something that you don't." Gilda gave me a kiss.
Billy couldn't help but stare. After a moment he began to finger his badge.
In America, after coitus, it is customary to have a smoke. That at least is the way that I like to play it in the movie in my head. Very classic. I know that it is no longer fashionable, but I also realize that the Surgeon General is not an opera aficionado. Billy was just standing there silent and then he pulled out a smoke and lit it. It seemed very out of character for him, he being a man without a sense of taste for the theatrical and also, since in theory, as well as practice, I was the one having the fun. I could see that he was thrilled to jump my bit.
Billy Club walked over.
"Hey, Billy Boy." Gilda was too sweet for her own good.
"You a Dominican friar?" He asked me.
"Franciscan," I shot back. "How about you copper?"
"Don't play Jimmy Cagney, buddy. You're too tall." Billy brought his baton down hard on my head.
Billy's baton had pink streamers. I hadn't noticed them before. I would have imagined that even if you were a bright eyed and brutal police chief with a vision of clarity in the midst of chaos, the streamers would be an incredible distraction when you were trying to twirl. Billy, being a mere detective caught up in pink streamers and having no real grip, must have been in a perpetual state of mental anguish. I wanted to tell Billy that I felt his pain, but by that time I had hit the ground hard and couldn't even pull out a diminished Edward G. Robinson bit. Gilda got an awkward laugh out. I gave a choked sob. Billy thought it was the funniest thing in the world.
"Your a credit to your profession," Gilda said to Billy Club.
"Thank you ma'am," Billy replied. "Weren't you a drum major?" Billy spat at me.
"Sorry, brother, you got the wrong guy," I said, pulling myself up. "I only made it to Second Lieutenant."
"You'd never make it on the force." He brought his baton down across my back.
I had a rataplan going in my head. Blood poured down my face, covering my eyes, I could see a thousand unsuccessful majorettes in blue coming my way.
There wasn't much more for me to do then appreciate the old face down in the street while I could. Gilda started whistling William Tell, which gave me a whole new appreciation of Rossini as visions of Clayton Moore swam in my head. That was something that Donizetti could never pull off.