out of mind

He was dead before she heard the thump on the floor. That's my guess. No ID. Only thing in his pockets is this slip of paper with...here it is...get this, Charlie...'avoid Spinoza at all costs.' Looks like the ink pen exploded after that. The Grand Tour started three blocks away, not in a straight line of course, diving off the rim of a wine goblet spread eagle, somersaulting over a series of shot glasses after breaking a window out of the Simmons' place. Mrs. Simmons said he was red-eyed. Let's see. I wrote it down. Wait. Oh, here it is - no biggy. He called her Mrs. cinnamon. 'Twirled his hands when he said it.' Warm wine gestures. Actually demanded champagne iced in a wicker basket and complained her ice cube trays were empty in the freezer. Quite attractive woman. Beautiful elfin eyes. Walnut-brown hair. Told her he wanted chignon champagne whatever that is. Then he waltzed in the unlocked back door here, two in the morning out of the chill of the night, and went in search of slamming cupboard doors to hook up with a cooking sherry IV. Muddy footprints right out of a cheap detective dime novel on the counter where he tried to curl up like handcuffed Houdini in the cupboard with the bottle I guess.

Stumbling into the other room looking for a night cap I figure that trembling parrot up on the ceiling fan startled him more than he scared it. Down boy! That's not the way you call birds? Maybe tongue clicking will drop it. I guess it'll come down eventually. Maybe it's a chignon bird. No? Well, it sure the hell ain't a magpie. Anyway she heard the thud as she descended the stairs wearing nothing but a white robe, her hair bobbing in the back. I wish I could remember what they call that bobbing hair girls wear. Look under the sheet. What a wicked smile, eyes wide open, ready for his closeup. Must've been amused at that final blurred vision of ruffling blue and orange feathers as he slipped on a banana peel into the unknown. Get him the hell out of here.