Sixteen-year-old Jenny Aldershot sitting on a wall overlooking the Charles River, her blonde hair blowing in the wind. He tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it a crack. The music was louder now. He opened the door fully and stepped inside, and then he almost ran right out into the street again because the place was full of cops!
Beautiful young women wearing garter belts, panties, seamed silk stockings, and high heels --which was just what Detective O'Brien had been wearing earlier tonight. Dancing with men in business suits. As he started for the door again, someone clapped a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a short-roly-poly man who looked a lot like both Tony the Bear Orso and Charlie Bonano. "Help ya?" the man said.
"I'm looking for a telephone," Michael said. "This is a private party," the man said.
"I'm sorry," Michael said. "I thought this was a restaurant." "It _is a restaurant, but it's also a private party. Dinn you see the sign in the door? The sign says `Closed.`" "I'm sorry, I didn't see it."
"It says `Closed` whether you seen it or not." "All I want to do is make a phone call, it won't take a ..." "Are you a cop?" the man asked. "No," Michael said. The man looked at him. "What are you then?" "An orange-grower."
"My grandfather grew grapes," the man said. "I'm Frankie Zeppelin." He extended his hand to Michael. "What's your name?" "Donald Trump," Michael said. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Trump," Frankie said, and shook hands with him. "Come on, I'll get you a drink. What do you drink, Mr. Trump?" "You can call me Don," Michael said.
"Well, that's very nice of you, Don.
147 And you can call me Mr. Zepparino. What do you drink, Don?" "If you have a little scotch ..."
"We have a little everything," Frankie said, and grinned as if he'd made a terrific joke. Putting his arm around Michael's shoulders, he led him toward the bar. "You look familiar," he said. "Do I know you?" "I don't think so." "Are you from the neighborhood?"
"I'm from Minnesota," Michael said at once, just in case Frankie had seen the earlier news broadcast. "A lot of the girls here come from Minnesota," Frankie said. "These very dumb blonde girls with blue eyes, they must drink a lot of milk out there in Minnesota."
"Yes, it's called the Land of the Lakes," Michael said.
"I thought it musta been," Frankie said. "Kid," he said to the bartender, "pour Donny here some scotch." The bartender picked up a bottle of Dewar's Black Label, and poured generously into a tall glass. "Anything with that?" he asked. "Just a little soda," Michael said.
"Hello?" a voice said over the loudspeaker system. "Hello? Can you hear me? Hello? One, two, three, testing, can you hear me? Hello, hello, hello, hell ..."
"We can _hear you already!" Frankie shouted. Michael looked over to where a man wearing brown shoes and what looked like his blue confirmation suit was standing behind a microphone set up near a big copper espresso machine. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I want to wish you first, one and all, a very merry ... is this thing on?" "It's _on already!" Frankie yelled.
"Hello?" the man at the microphone said. "Can you hear me?" He began tapping the microphone. "Hello? If you can hear me, please raise your hands please. Hello? Can you hear me?" Frankie threw up both his hands. All around the hall, people were putting their hands up. "Looks like a police raid in here," the man at the microphone said, which not too many people found funny, including Michael.
A redheaded woman wearing a black
149 negligee over a black teddy and black garters and black silk stockings and black high-heeled patent leather shoes came over to the bar, said, "Hello, Frankie," and extended her glass to the bartender. "Just vodka," she said. "I think I can safely say, at this our annual Christmas party here," the man at the microphone said, "that this year was a better year than any year preceding it. And I think I can say without fear of contradiction that next year is
Beautiful young women wearing garter belts, panties, seamed silk stockings, and high heels --which was just what Detective O'Brien had been wearing earlier tonight. Dancing with men in business suits. As he started for the door again, someone clapped a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a short-roly-poly man who looked a lot like both Tony the Bear Orso and Charlie Bonano. "Help ya?" the man said.
"I'm looking for a telephone," Michael said. "This is a private party," the man said.
"I'm sorry," Michael said. "I thought this was a restaurant." "It _is a restaurant, but it's also a private party. Dinn you see the sign in the door? The sign says `Closed.`" "I'm sorry, I didn't see it."
"It says `Closed` whether you seen it or not." "All I want to do is make a phone call, it won't take a ..." "Are you a cop?" the man asked. "No," Michael said. The man looked at him. "What are you then?" "An orange-grower."
"My grandfather grew grapes," the man said. "I'm Frankie Zeppelin." He extended his hand to Michael. "What's your name?" "Donald Trump," Michael said. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Trump," Frankie said, and shook hands with him. "Come on, I'll get you a drink. What do you drink, Mr. Trump?" "You can call me Don," Michael said.
"Well, that's very nice of you, Don.
147 And you can call me Mr. Zepparino. What do you drink, Don?" "If you have a little scotch ..."
"We have a little everything," Frankie said, and grinned as if he'd made a terrific joke. Putting his arm around Michael's shoulders, he led him toward the bar. "You look familiar," he said. "Do I know you?" "I don't think so." "Are you from the neighborhood?"
"I'm from Minnesota," Michael said at once, just in case Frankie had seen the earlier news broadcast. "A lot of the girls here come from Minnesota," Frankie said. "These very dumb blonde girls with blue eyes, they must drink a lot of milk out there in Minnesota."
"Yes, it's called the Land of the Lakes," Michael said.
"I thought it musta been," Frankie said. "Kid," he said to the bartender, "pour Donny here some scotch." The bartender picked up a bottle of Dewar's Black Label, and poured generously into a tall glass. "Anything with that?" he asked. "Just a little soda," Michael said.
"Hello?" a voice said over the loudspeaker system. "Hello? Can you hear me? Hello? One, two, three, testing, can you hear me? Hello, hello, hello, hell ..."
"We can _hear you already!" Frankie shouted. Michael looked over to where a man wearing brown shoes and what looked like his blue confirmation suit was standing behind a microphone set up near a big copper espresso machine. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I want to wish you first, one and all, a very merry ... is this thing on?" "It's _on already!" Frankie yelled.
"Hello?" the man at the microphone said. "Can you hear me?" He began tapping the microphone. "Hello? If you can hear me, please raise your hands please. Hello? Can you hear me?" Frankie threw up both his hands. All around the hall, people were putting their hands up. "Looks like a police raid in here," the man at the microphone said, which not too many people found funny, including Michael.
A redheaded woman wearing a black
149 negligee over a black teddy and black garters and black silk stockings and black high-heeled patent leather shoes came over to the bar, said, "Hello, Frankie," and extended her glass to the bartender. "Just vodka," she said. "I think I can safely say, at this our annual Christmas party here," the man at the microphone said, "that this year was a better year than any year preceding it. And I think I can say without fear of contradiction that next year is
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