conservatory walk. Shewas no longer the old familiar Aunt Gretchen. Her eyes were glazed andher face was drawn and weary.
Bag Ears looked up politely and asked, "Who's the fat sack?"
I was hoping Aunt Gretchen hadn't heard the question because she wouldfail to understand that while his words were uncouth, he had a heart ofgold and meant well. And I don't think she _did_ hear him. She didn'teven hear Joy, who replied,
"That's the dame that owns the joint."
Aunt Gretchen fixed her accusing eyes upon me to the exclusion ofeveryone else. Her button of a chin quivered. "Please understand,Homer--I'm not criticizing. Things have gotten past that stage. I'vemerely come to report that the house is filling up with an astoundingassortment of characters. Johnson resigned a half-hour ago. But beforehe left, he suggested a man who could handle the situation far betterthan he himself. A man named Frank Buck."
"But, my dear aunt," I protested. "There must be some mistake. I did notinvite any unusual people to this reception. I issued only threeinvitations. I invited Willie Shank, who could not come because of adispute with the police over the ownership of a car he was drivingyesterday; John Smith, who could not come because this is the day hereports to the parole board, and my good friend Bag Ears Mulligan."
"How did you happen to overlook Red Nose Tessie?" Joy asked.
"The poor woman is emotional. She does not enjoy wedding receptions. Sheweeps."
"So does Aunt Gretchen," Joy observed.
Aunt Gretchen was indeed weeping--quietly, under the blanket of reservewith which the Nicholases cover their emotions. I was about to comforther when she turned and fled. I started to run after her but decidedagainst it and returned to Joy.
"Perhaps," I said, "we had better investigate this strange turn ofevents. Possibly our reception has been crashed by some undesirablepersons."
"Impossible," Joy replied. "But it might be fun to look them over. Shallwe have a quick one first--just to stiffen the old spine a bit?"
It sounded like a good suggestion so we stiffened our spines with whatwas left in the bottle, and quitted the conservatory.
* * * * *
Back in the house, one thing became swiftly apparent. We had guests whowere utter strangers to me. But it was Bag Ears who summed up thesituation with the briefest possible statement. "Jees!" he ejaculated."It's a crooks' convention!"
"You can identify some of these intruders?"
"If you mean do I know 'em, the answer is without a doubt, pal. Somehow,the whole Cement Mixer Zinsky mob has infiltered into the joint."
"Cement Mixer Zinsky," Joy murmured. "Another of those odd names."
"It's on account of he invented something. Zinsky was the first gee tothink up a very novel way of getting rid of people that crowd you. Hegot the idea to mix up a tub of cement--place the unwanted character'sfeet in same and then throw the whole thing into the lake. Result--nomore crowding by that guy."
"He was the first one who thought of it? A sort of trail blazer."
"Of course Cement Mixer is a big shot now and his boys take care ofthings like that. But sometimes he goes along to mix the cement--just tokeep his hand in you might say."
"A sentimentalist no doubt."
"No doubt," Bag Ears agreed.
I patted Joy's hand and said, "Don't be alarmed, darling. I will takecare of everything."
The situation was definitely obnoxious to me. Tolerance of one's fellowmen is one thing, but this was something entirely different. Thesepeople had come uninvited to our festive board and were of the criminalelement, pure and unadulterated by any instincts of honesty or decency.And it made me angry to see them wading into Aunt Gretchen's liquorsupply as though the stuff came out of a pump.
They were easy to count, these hoodlums, segregated as they were. Themore respectable of the guests who had not already left, were clusteredtogether in one corner of the living room, possibly as a gesture towardself-protection. None of these elite were making any effort to approachthe buffet or the portable bar at the other side of the room. And inthus refraining, they showed a superior brand of intelligence. Underpresent circumstances any attempt to reach the refreshments would havebeen as dangerous as crossing the Hialeah race track on crutches.
In fact, as I surveyed the scene, one brave lady made a half-heartedattempt to cross over and spear a sandwich off the corner of the buffet.She was promptly shoved out of range by a lean, hungry-looking customerin a pink shirt, who snarled, "Scram, Three Chins! You're overfed now."
Unhooking Joy's dear fingers from my arm, I said, "You will pardon me,but it is time for action. Bag Ears will see that you are not harmed."
I started toward the buffet, or rather toward the crowd of male andfemale hoodlums who completely blocked it from my sight. But Bag Earssnatched me by the sleeve and whispered,
"For cri-yi, Homer! Don't be a fool! This mob is loaded wid hardware.They don't horse around none. Start slugging and they'll dress you inred polka dots. Better call in some law."
I shook my head firmly and pulled Bag Ears' hand from my sleeve. But,his attention now turned in another direction, he held on even harderand muttered,
"Jeeps! I'm seeing things!"
I glanced around and saw him staring wide-eyed at the entrance hall, hisbattered mouth ajar. I followed his eyes but could see nothing unusual.Only the hall itself, through an arched doorway, and the lower sectionof the staircase that gave access to the second floor of the house. Itappeared to be the least-troubled spot in view. I frowned at Bag Ears.
"Maybe I've gone nuts," he said, "but I'll swear I just saw a facepeeking down around them stairs."
"Whose face?"
"Hands McCaffery's face! That's whose!"
"And who is Hands McCaffery?"
Bag Ears looked at me with stark unbelief. "You mean you don't know?Maybe your mom didn't give you the facts of life! Chum, they's tworeally tough monkeys in this town. One of them is Cement Mixer Zinskyand the other is Hands McCaffery. At the moment they're slugging it outto see which one gets to levy a head tax on the juke boxes in thissection. It's a sweet take and neither boy will be satisfied with lessthan all. Seeing them both in one place is like seeing Truman and thatmusic critic sit down at the piano together. And I know damn well thatHands is up on them stairs!"
"You are obviously overwrought. If I have this type of person sized upcorrectly, none of them would be dallying on the stairs. If this Handsperson were here, he'd be at the buffet fighting for a helping ofpickled beets and a gin wash. Pardon me--I have work to do."
But there was another interruption. I froze in sudden alarm when Irealized Joy was no longer at my side. Just as I made this discovery,there was an upsurge of commotion at the bar; a commotion that went headand shoulders over the minor ones going on constantly. A short angryscream came to my ears, then a bull-voiced roar of agony.
* * * * *
The crowd at the buffet surged back and I saw a bucktoothed hooliganbent double, both hands gripping his ankle. Thick moans came from hislips.
And standing close to him was my Joy. But a new Joy. A different Joythan I had ever seen. A glorious Joy, with her head thrown back, herteeth showing, and the light of battle in her eyes. She was holding aplate of jello in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other and wasshouting in outraged dignity.
"Watch who you're shoving, you jug-headed gorilla! And keep your mittsout of the herring! Eat like a man or go back to the zoo!"
With that she placed an accurate kick against the offending character'sother shine-bone and aimed the beer bottle at his skull.
Joy turned and smiled gayly. "He pushed me," she said. "It's the mostwonderful wedding reception I ever attended. Have a pickle."
But surprise was piling upon surprise. Again I froze as a new phase ofthis horrible affair presented itself.
Uncle Peter.
Clad in apron and cap, he was behind the bar serving out drinks. Thisshook me to the core. It was a little like
seeing Barney Baruch hit athree-bagger in Yankee Stadium and slide into third base.
But there he was, taking orders and dishing out drinks with an attitudeas solemn and impersonal as an owl on a tree branch.
Also, he had an assistant--his blonde bombshell. She was fully dressednow and I was struck by the peculiar manner in which this peculiar teamfunctioned.
Uncle Peter would mix a drink, glance at his wrist watch as he servedit, then turn and whisper some sort of information to the girl. Shenoted it down in a small book and the routine was repeated.
At this exact moment, I felt a sharp dig in the ribs. This brought myattention back to Joy, who had done the