I found myself, a previously sane person, in a Catholic schoolgirl outfit, gripping an automatic weapon in a smoky room, in an unlikely standoff with a crazed raccoon. Trouble followed Dino everywhere like an incontinent little dog, and now that it had arrived yet again, he lay draped uselessly across the bar like some hastily flung overcoat, with an adorably loopy smile on his face. Damn those pink parasols, I thought affectionately, realizing too late that, combined with my lullaby and the Mai Tai, it had created a perfect storm of bad timing.
"Dino! A little HELP!" I shrieked, but Dino just sighed dreamily and mumbled something about shells. "Stewart! Charles!" The chimps who covered the door were nowhere to be found either. Good Lord, they'd hear it for letting this furry nutjob in. I was on my own. The party had been going so well, too, even though the clown, arriving early, had decided to pass a little time by sampling every bottle at the bar in alphabetical order. He didn't make it past Cointreau before a few things became uncomfortably clear. First, he was certainly not a happy drunk: and secondly, in very little time his balloon animals had begun to assume embarrassingly inappropriate poses. Dino cleverly enticed him out into the alley by singing a loungy version of the alphabet song and juggling bottles that began with "D", leaving the clown in a stinking stuporific slumber. The children had rolled around like marbles, cheering and shrieking with delight, thinking it was a great finale. Actually, it was.
Now the room erupted in a different kind of chaos. Screaming fat babies hurtled past my ankles and I swear that lecherous raccoon was checking me out, and just as I was about to open fire with cold hard Pez to teach the vermin some manners, Dino finally came to, stretched languidly, cued the band to play "Girl from Ipanema" and with Bogartish cool strolled right up and offered him a drink. Who needs arms and ammo when you've got charm? It was easily Dino's best weapon.
Dino's already filled you in on what happened next. But what I still couldn't grasp is what the F.B.I. could possibly be thinking, sending a mere raccoon in for something as sophisticated as mime recovery. We already had the best mime surveillance team available on hand. Well, underfoot actually. Those were no ordinary legless babies cavorting floor-bound, but a highly trained secret squad with a keen sense for boxless mime detection. I was suspicious of this alleged raccoon's real motives. And when he flashed that card, I knew for sure. We had trouble, and I don't mean maybe. I knew with a sinking sense of dread that there was a whole contingent of these "Aunt Rose" FBI renegades, graduates of the highly secretive Mohawk U, and they were treacherous. Not particularly smart...I mean, what self-respecting spy calls himself Aunt Rose?...but treacherous nonetheless. And they sure weren't looking for no mimes. But just as I was about to warn Dino of the impending threat, he raised an eyebrow, twirled my pigtail and murmured with an impressive Spanish accent, "Ola, Seester Mary of ze Holy Underpants. Now, we tango." The band began to play, right on cue.
How could I resist? After all, there's nothing more deadly than a man with charm.
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