61 Grand opera in the luxury class

The beauty with snow-white tresses encountered violence last when she stared at a National Guard troop’s bayonet fixed to a loaded M-16. The soldier was following orders, but he shook in his boots and probably wished he’d enrolled in junior college instead of taking this break from school. Anti-war demonstrators were having a whole lot more fun than he was. He couldn’t wait to try smoking grass, and to let his hair grow. And to meet girls like this one who screamed at him a blade length away.
“Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh, NLF is gonna win!”
That was forty years ago. What a time, she sighed. Pouncing bicyclists, prismatic memories.
The Frisco Ninja noticed she’d drifted off into a daydream. Quickly, he whispered into the cell phone.
“Boss! Heat is on! Wish to assist baby Drew!”
“Alain, no! Just observe. Those are orders.”
“Is the Frisco Ninja being insubordinate?” _____ _____ asked coyly.
“Everything’s okay. The little Guss baby has his enemies, I have mine,” Ross Valley replied. “Let’s see how he does with them, before I consider having him tangle with ours.”
“Ours?” _____ _____’s famous eyebrow arched.
Despite resisting the concept of another try and being married five times, Ross tingled. Maybe at worst the old timers up the hill would be pleasantly scandalized. More likely, they’d be happy for him, and glad for the neighborhood. A few sidled up to him at parties in the hills then declared, “Finally got yourself a keeper . . . and a delightful girl she is. The genuine article.”
“Good grief!” _____ _____ noticed pauses for effect, and pointed a fast shake of her finger at the man who’d emerged operatically from a large new Audi just a few spaces from Bat Disease.
“What’s wrong?”
Ross Valley was pulled in two directions. On the cell phone he heard what might have been scuffling.
“Alain! What are you doing?”
“Just watching, boss. Obey order! Baby Drew roll sideways! Two bicycle boys – gray haired old men! – fall flat on own weasel faces!”
Ross nodded, and turned to _____ _____. “What is the matter?”
“Look at that guy. He looks like a Patek-Philippe ad in the Wall Street Journal.”
“Yes. Him. He’s the one down the street from me, at the moment competing with our Mister Disease for the biggest pile of rocks in Kent Woodlands.”
“Does he have angry children, too?”
“All I know about him now is that he’s building Kent Woodland’s most conspicuous curio.”
“Let’s accept that invitation on the refrigerator, and find out more.”
“Boss!” The voice from the cell phone was not faint.


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