A Dame, A Bean Shooter And A Brodie

I was in my favorite dive with a baby and an All The Way, when a twist waltzed in with a lincoln and offered to grab the tab.  "What's the story, morning glory?"  I puffed out with my gasper dangling.  

She ordered a coffee and slammed her purse on the table.  Turns out she was making time with a skin tickler who played nights at the Vanguard.  He was a real crumb who would beat his gums about any jelly bean who floated through the joint.  Looks like this canary sang one to many lullabies, and was gumming up the works for some big shots uptown. 

His loose lips put the kibosh on a deal, and now some patsy was waiting on the hotsquat in San Quentin.  Word was a couple of torpedos were taking aim, and he'd be wearing a Chicago overcoat before too long.

  

My dame steps into the story because she was bleeding the egg for running with some moll on the east side.  She had pictures and got a cool sawbuck a week to sit on 'em.  With this cat on ice her lettuce was starting to wilt.  His cave was clear, and he hadn't sat a set in two weeks.  Looks like everyone in town was after this genius. 

"I had enough candy toots, lets say we make it to a gin mill for some giggle juice and talk things over ."  We danced across the street to Mickey's and grabbed a quiet car in the back.

"So your butter and egg man is on the lamb, and you want me to get the bread mill rolling again, what's in it for me?"

"I don't know, what's in it for you?" she said real calm like blowin' smoke from her cherry lips.

This kitten had the bulge, and she was sittin' pretty, real kip in her hat and vail, her fingers lousy with rocks.  She wanted me to give in because she was a dish, and I was some Joe behind the grind.  Well maybe I was...

and maybe I would...