Ambient 06 - Going, Going, Gone

to whisper, her voice always carried. I turned in what had become an unexpectedly popular direction. That was it, listeners. I saw them, and I was sunk.
    »Check the ensembles,« Trish told Candy. »These girls can shop.«
    The little one – five four, near as I could tell – was severely mod, and radiated cuteness. Hair Sassooned, eyes raccooned. The white go-gos were strictly 1967 but I wasn’t going to argue with the Nancy Sinatra look. Her mini kept riding up over the shoreline but that gave her something to do with her hands. Most inviting indeed, but that night it was hard not to savour the lure of the economy size. At first I thought Little Mod’s gal Friday was tall as Sterling, maybe six four. Then I realized she was taller.
    »What’s that on her hip?« Borden asked.
    »Looks like a whip,« Trish said. »Gerard’s understudy?«
    »Nobody told me,« Candy said.
    Big Girl’s queenly strut distracted the audience and even the band, but they kept playing. As she and Little Mod crossed stage front Lou swallowed his lines but recovered nicely and nobody really noticed. For the first time in her life Nico demonstrated a facial expression. I guided my mouth towards charming Miss Darling’s ear. »Candy, my brother sister. Is that a him?«
    She shouted into my own receiver. »Goodness, no. She’s real.«
    »Seriously?«
    »The hands,« she said, glancing at her own, frowning.
    »Muchas thankas, my angel.«
    Where she wasn’t black, Big Girl was blonde. She drew her crowning glory up in thick golden ropes tied in a topknot. Over her birthday buxotica she wore beatgirl tights, though hers covered arms as well as legs. She hid her hands in fingerless gloves and her stems in boots of shiny shiny leather. No question she was blessed in the torso department. The plastic shell she’d squeezed herself into clung to her soft centre like frozen chocolate. Knobs big as desk erasers tipped her rocket launchers. Sunnyside up, she was unsinkable, and miraculous to behold, but I favour mine over easy. When Little Mod aimed for the stairs, Big Girl followed and I caught the full rear view in Cinerama. You could stack a week’s dishes on that shelf.
    »My brothers. My sisters,« I mumbled, feeling that the window for action was a narrow one indeed. »The pink ray’s nailed me. Please excuse.«
    »Don’t waste valuable resources, Walter,« Trish said.
    »Rugmuffins,« Borden muttered, giving them the fisheye as they headed downstairs. »Tag team, I’d guess.«
    »You’ll be sorry if you try,« she said. »Those praying mantises will bite your head off.«
    »Tiny tiny,« I shouted as I left. »Tiny whips of leather.« Once I’d barrelled back down to the first floor I swivelled in every direction, trying to pick them out in the crowd until I caught them in my beam. Wasn’t hard to spot the big one, archons willing. The ladies looked like they were still fishing, and hadn’t seen that I was ready to take the bait. I was just circling in for the thrill when some Long Island desk jockey who’d mistaken the place for an Automat came out of nowhere and made a move on Little Mod.
    »You got a pencil?« I heard him ask her. She shook her head. »I need to write down your phone number.«
    The little one looked at him like he was a dead cat. For the first time I noticed she was packing some kind of transistor in her hand. New model, I supposed, all black and shiny as Big Girl’s boots. She had turned around to see what delayed her little friend. El Dopo, figuring out that he wasn’t getting anywhere with his original target, now turned his attentions to the secondary, with as much charm and success. »How’s the weather up there?«
    I was close enough now to hear the full script. »Exit,« the big one told him. She had the voice of an eight-year-old but the lung power of a nursery. »Presence undesired.«
    »Excuse me?« he said, pulling a Bennett and going all smirky. Just as I was ready to cut in on this dance my gut told me I should hesitate, and I did.
    »Fly the coop,« Little Mod said. »Offer service elsewhere.«
    »You’re the ones look like you’re selling,« I heard him say, obviously taking the wrong turnoff. »What is this, sugar? Only dykes need apply?«
    Big Girl raised her little voice. Half the room turned to look, and then the same half of the room turned deaf mute. »Motherfuck you,« she broadcast. I looked around for Max’s bouncers, but they’d evidently taken the hen’s teeth route. The