62 One tremendous swing of the flyswatter

“Boss, got to shore up cover!” the Frisco Ninja whispered. He proceeded then to flog his persona en face de la mature beauty and Uncle Joe. He pretended to be chatting with his advisor at the University of California.
“I thought you’d be in Stockholm by now, or is it Oslo this year? Oh, that’s right. Fast talking Mohair Sam at the University of London closed quickly with that well-publicized mouth of his. Well . . . as they say in Lausanne, better luck l’annee prochaine.”
He babbled mindlessly about the transcendental aesthetic, the ding an sich, the architectonic.
The white-haired sensualist cocked her head, as if she was trying to interpolate and interpose, perhaps come closer to the seedy young scholar that way. Uncle Joe scowled.
“I hope to take a philosopher-worthy stroll this afternoon . . .” was an aside gentle yet pointed with smugness.
Frisco pretended to press End on his cell phone.
When both table-mates looked away with similar exhausted expressions, he surreptitiously whispered, “Okay, boss. Disguise reloaded! No sweat!” His eyes hadn’t once left the melee.
“Ow!” he shouted. It was reflex, seeing baby Drew knock five bicyclists backwards with one tremendous swing of the flyswatter.

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