Characters in The Wedding Gig

“There’s a piano in the other room. I’ll have my men wheel it in when we’re done putting up our decorations.” Biff was already lugging his drum-kit up on to the little stage. “I thought you were the caterers,” she repeated in a distraught way. “Mr.

Anyone who cracked any jokes about inland barges might wind up with a third breather-hole, somewhat above the other two. I kept looking at Billy-Boy Williams while I talked, but you could read nothing on the cat’s face.

Charlie, the trombone player, was wah-wahing away into a mute and Biff was loosening up his wrists. The caterers had arrived at 4:20 and Miss Gibson (that was the thin lady’s name; she made a business out of such affairs) almost threw herself on them.

Scollay asked rudely. “My name is Demetrius,” the fellow said. “Demetrius Katzenos. I come from the Greek.” Motion on the floor came to a dead stop. Jacket buttons were freed, and hands stole out of sight under lapels. I saw Manny looking nervous. Hell, I didn’t feel so calm myself.

“—two roasts of pork and a capon and Mr. Scollay will be just furious if—” She saw one of her men pausing to light a cigarette just below a dangling streamer of crepe and shrieked, “HENRY!” The man jumped as if he had been shot. I escaped to the bandstand.

Manny had a big grin on his face when he put his trumpet down, and I clapped him on the back as we left the bandstand. There was a lonely-looking girl in a green evening gown who had been giving me the eye all night.

But, thinking it over, I was glad I didn’t. Because maybe that was what she was afraid of. • • • Of course now everyone knows about Maureen Romano and her husband Rico, who survives her as the taxpayers’ guest in the Illinois State Penitentiary.

Mike Scollay.” I knew the name. Mike Scollay was a small-time racketeer from Shytown who paid for his beer and skittles by running booze in from Canada. The high-tension stuff that started out where the men wear skirts and play bagpipes. When they aren’t tending the vats, that is.

Charlie, the trombone player, was wah-wahing away into a mute and Biff was loosening up his wrists. The caterers had arrived at 4:20 and Miss Gibson (that was the thin lady’s name; she made a business out of such affairs) almost threw herself on them.

But, thinking it over, I was glad I didn’t. Because maybe that was what she was afraid of. • • • Of course now everyone knows about Maureen Romano and her husband Rico, who survives her as the taxpayers’ guest in the Illinois State Penitentiary.

The guy burst out, “I didn’t want to come, Mr. Scollay! The Greek, he has my wife. He say he kill her if I doan give you his message!” “What message?” Scollay growled. The thunderclouds were back on his forehead. “He say—” The guy paused with an agonized expression.

All of us guys were sweating rivers and Tommy Englander, the guy who ran the place, kept sending up rye as smooth as a varnished plank. Englander was a good joe to work for, and he liked our sound. Of course that made him aces in my book.