A Present for Ricky

And I know many things, for I walk by night. I know many strange tales, hidden in the harps of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Yet, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak.

Tonight, it's the Whistler's Strange Story, a present for Ricky. Thoughtlights subtly change from white to a delicate blue, and the small-night club orchestra slid into three-quarter time, As the dance team began their walks, the Croydens cried in the reed, held top filling at the club for almost a year, and it was well deserved.

Drinks stood unnoticed on the table. Conversation stumped. Everyone now was watching the Croydens, or rather Marie Croyd. Slim, graceful, blue velvet Marie, smiling as she spun across the floor, poised for a moment, and floated effortlessly back to Croyd's leading arm.

The customers loved it. Thought that there was a first time look about it. Even in the way they murmured to each other as they swayed gently together in three quarter time. You're on your toes tonight, each other.

You need to tie on for a change. You have to cross me up on another turn off. Yes, the customers loved. Tried in the week. Husband and wife. Quiet maturity. And breathless beauty. And at the same time on the other side of the room, a theatrical agent named Stanley Craig appraised the Croydons a little more quick.

You like air, ain't it? Girl's good. You just need the younger partner. Your boy slows her up. You wouldn't be fixing to cut him off at the ankles, would you? What do you mean? You just might be promoting the lumber expert you just picked up as a new partner.