The Red-Hot Mama

Being a private investigator means two things. You can be sure you'll run into trouble, and you can never be sure you'll get out of it. Not much you can do about it, I guess, except, like Julie always says.

Walk softly, please, Troy. Aah! Julie Summers, my girl Friday, is a tower of strength. My counselor, friend, cohort, and advisor. She also cramps my style somewhat. For Julie is a doll in her own rights, and she thinks of me as her own exclusive property, which is okay most of the time.

But there are occasions when a guy likes to cut loose, you know what I mean? Take for instance the case of the Red Hot Mama. The lady in question was one Melody Jones. She was a dancer, an exotic dancer to be exact.

And no matter where she played Melody Jones, London's Red Hot Mama really laid him in the aisles. At the Acme Burlesque Theatre, Melody Jones literally and figuratively brought the house down.

The show really went off for the bang, assisted by the detonation of the homemade bomb somewhere up in the gallery. Luckily it was mostly noise and smoke, but it effectively busted up the rest of the show.

And for days afterwards, despite Melody's popularity and, undoubtedly, talent, the crowd stayed away in droves. There were no casualties at the theatre, but Melody's fans were badly shaken by the explosion, to say the least.

24 hours later, the girls in my office pouring out, not bumps and grinds, for the tale of woe. At the B.G. Theatre in Paris, the fire-sprickters came and endorsed the audience. At the Roxy, Clementa, and Cheers, the praise did catch fire.