The Time---1934
The Cast of Characters--(in order of appearance)
Christopher (Babyface) Kirkpatrick
"Fat Lou" Perlman
Juju (Mad Dog) Timberlake
JC (Twinkletoes) Chasez
Joey (Muscles) Fatone
Lance Bass, Cub Reporter
...and a Supporting Cast of---real actors, today, working for scale, because it's all about the art, baby.
* * * * * * * * *
Muscles didn't like it. He didn't like it at all. Here they were at some swank ballroom downtown, rubbing elbows with the "upper crust" who looked plenty crusty to Muscles all right, and he was rubbing his car keys nervously in his pocket. This was not his scene at all.
And the boss? Ever since that phone call to Jimmy the Weasel a few hours ago, he had been brooding and lost in thought.
"Hey!" Muscles said, waving his hand up and down in front of JC's face. "Anybody home? Don't leave me all alone out here. Scary."
JC looked up. "What?"
"You want another drink, boss? I can wave over one of those little waiters for ya. They're everywhere, except when you want 'em..."
"Nah, forget about it. And I'm sorry I'm such lousy company tonight. I hate these things, wish I didn't have to come, but you know---some times ya just gotta put in an appearance."
"Press the flesh, grease the wheels," Fatone nodded. "I get ya... You know what's weird, boss?"
"What?' JC asked, still somewhat distracted by his own thoughts.
"How you fit in to all this. I mean, it's like there's the society circle, and the mob circle, and there's this little gray area where the two rings overlap each other--"
"And that's where I am. And most everyone else here, too."
"Yeah. Like, your mom being such a great lady, and your dad being such a---"
"Fine businessman," JC said firmly. "A legitimate businessman."
"Uh, yeah," Fatone said. "A fine, legitimate businessman. And you know, it's not so bad here. Nice little table, with the linen tablecloth, white as an angel's wing, look at that, and the candles and flowers--"
"Great orchestra," JC put in. "The musicians are excellent."
"Yeah, I mean, we could go ask some girls to dance, probably be pretty nice."
"Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself?"
"I'm just sayin' that you don't have to be so miserable."
"Who's miserable? Not me. Listen, Muscles, why don't YOU get up and go ask some girl to dance? Don't let me cramp your style."
Fatone sniffed. "Are you kiddin'? I haven't seen one thing I'd like to touch with a thirty-foot pole. I'm sorry, but society dames are slim pickins if you ask me. Any girl down at Trixie's Cathouse is ten times better- looking than *Anything* in here."
"Muscles!" JC was amused. "Don't say things like that..."
"Well, it's true, and you know it---oh my freakin---would you look at what the cat just drug in--No, don't!"
"What?" and before Muscles could stop him, JC Chasez had turned around and caught a eyeful. "That isn't--"
But it was. The Honorable Judge Foster was now entering the ballroom. At his side, was a smaller, dark-haired man, impeccably dressed in black tie, no less elegant than the judge himself.
"You can close your mouth now," Muscles said sourly.
"But--but---"
"Boss, remember, we put a guard on the HOUSE. Two in front and two in back. All's ye told them was to not let Mad Dog in. You didn't tell them to not let Kirkpatrick *out*."
"And boy is he out," JC said. "Get a load of him. Foster must have had that imported from...Italy, unless I miss my guess, and had it---"
"Had it what?"
"Beautifully tailored to fit," JC was turning his head to the side. "Look at how the fabric drapes..."
It was times like these, that made Fatone wonder about Twinkletoes. He was just glad none of the boys was around to hear. "Boss! " Joey leaned over urgently. "Please. Stop with the staring."
"I'm not---Aw, shit. He's coming over, act like we don't see him."
Muscles rolled his eyes. "All right, and he's not allowed to sit at our lunch table anymore either..." Joey made his voice soft and petulant. "I just HATE him!"
JC was looking down at his folded hands on the table, but Muscles grimly watched as Babyface swaggered on over. He stopped at their table, and casually fished a cigarette and lighter out of his pocket. He waited until JC looked up, and said brightly, "Fancy meeting you here. Mind if I-- smoke?" He raised an eyebrow, and to Muscles at least, it was obvious that Kirkpatrick was mocking, teasing, toying with his boss.
"You wanna scram, you little alley-cat? Apparently, they'll let anything in here," Joey spat.
"Apparently," Chris agreed, with a pointed look back at Joey.
"Hey, I'm with *him* "
"And I'm with HIM," Chris jerked his thumb carelessly over his shoulder, in the general direction of the judge. "Of course, he's telling everyone that I'm his nephew Beau from Atlanta, and the accent's a pain to keep up with, but--" he shrugged easily, and JC was feeling all kinds of hot.
"Babyface--" he began in a low voice.
"Ye-es, sah, are you addressin ME?" Chris drawled. "I'm afraid I cain't stay and chat, my dear old uncle wants me back yondah?. So's he can grope me undah the table, if you get my meanin'..." Chris was amusing himself, if no one else, and without a backwards glance, he turned, and sauntered casually away.
"Say the word, boss, and I'll snap him over my knee like a twig. So help me." Muscles intoned. But to his surprise, JC was looking after Chris with a reluctant smile twisting his lips. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a tiny memo pad, ripped off a piece of paper, and finally taking his eyes off Babyface's receding back, he jotted something down. He folded the paper over, and slipped it to Joey.
"Go take that to the bandleader," he ordered, as he stood, and followed Babyface over to the judge's table.
