49 The Froggy Ninja

“Awh awh awh awh awh! Awh awh awh awh awh!” The croaking, mocking laugh. It was the most clandestine of all of Ross Valley’s secret agents, the Froggy Ninja.
“Hiya kids! Hiya hiya! Awh awh awh awh awh!”
The Patron of the Arts was too young to understand why a few men of her roundtable perhaps ten years older than she wept. The sure-of-herself woman with flowing white hair nearly did so, too. Monsignor Quinn, age sixty, keened and sobbed. Aunt Kar and Uncle Joe were uncomprehending, as were the worthless Sunday lie-abouts who’d found their way on Tuesday to the cafe from the Guss family home. The bicyclists were nonplussed, and miffed that something else drew more attention than their purportedly attractive calf muscles, their taut buttocks, their sublime slender waists, the quasi-nudity.
But baby Drew, thanks to constant historical lucubrations conducted over the rail of his baby crib, knew who this friend was. He sought the other baby’s attention.
The bicylists gathered, up from tables, stepping away from the coffee line.
Without a word, baby Drew escorted Aunt Kar to a safe corner, then joined his instinctive allies, the baby who would count perfectly and this new arrival, the Froggy Ninja.
“Boss!” the Frisco Ninja said with urgency.
“Just observe. Just observe, Alain. Just observe. Closely. This is bigger than a pack of cowardly bicyclists. But let the Sheriff know we’re in phone contact. Let’s see how the Guss scion comports himself when the chips are down. If you can get the Froggy Ninja’s attention, let him know I want him to vanish as soon as the whatever whatevers.”
“Understand!”
Uncle Joe, not stupid, and for once not stoned, looked around the entire Plip Plop Coffe Shop, sidewalk tables included, and had it figured out. It was at once exhilarating and embittering.
“I wish my name was Drew.”

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