The Case of the Larcenous Lark

The case of a larcenus lock. It's late Wednesday night in New York, and an Arnie Kessler's very private gambling club on East 69th Street, tall, handsome, gray-haired George Watkins stands at the end of the dice table, shaking the dice cup in his manicured hand, and makes his roll.

My cover. Lives your number right all? Once again, Watkins shakes the cup. Come on, little five. And makes his roll. Seven. Watkins smiles Riley shrugs lightly puts down the cup and pushes through the crowd.

He finds the door to Kessler's private office open and walks in. Kessler is seated at the desk. Oh, Watkins. Sit down. Thanks. How did you go tonight? Well, for you, fine. I'm clean. Tough luck.

I'll bound a change. How's my credit? Strange little limit. I'm afraid I'll have to close the book on you. That's all I wanted to know. Good evening, Kessley. You're down for 35 grand, Watkins. That's a lot of groceries.

I understand. I'm a realist, Kessley. I don't fool myself. No false pride. So I have to face the fact. The moment I'm no big shot, I'm flat and bum investment. I'm surprised you carried me this far.

Oh, you'll pay off. I'm glad you're so sure. It's my business to be sure. In that case, a little more credit. No, let's not overdo a good thing, Chum. Gotta draw the line somewhere, you know.

You just pay that 35 and you can have all the credit you like. All right. I'll get it. You bet you were Watkins. You bet. Medrex, here you are. Just sign these papers now. Run along.

Just a minute Watkins. We had to get this. How do you like this phrase? Dada dee Da-da-da-da-da-da-da. You're right, it's corny. Maybe it's better like this. Now, now it's better before... Rex, please, I mean I've gotta be going.