"Tosspots"

Another strange but true tale of la vie de la bohème by Dan Leo

Illustrations and additional dialogue by rhoda penmarq, exclusively for quinnmartinmarq™ productions.

This episode brought to you the Husky Boy™ Tobacco Co.

"Many doctors recommend Husky Boy cigarettes with our patented 'Benzo-Tip™' filters for that mid-day pick-me-up we all need on occasion!" – Horace P. Sternwall, author of A Gal with a Gun Named Sal: a "Rip Tyde, Private Detective" Mystery

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"Do be careful, Livingston," said Mrs. Lovechild. "I shall try," said Livingston. She adjusted his muffler around his neck. "No fights," she said. "Again, I'll try," said Livingston. She turned to Harry. "Please keep an eye on Livingston, Mr. Peachnut," she said. "I, um," said Harry. "It's Beachcroft, Mother, not Peachnut," said Livingston. "Oh, I  beg your pardon, Mr. Peachcraft," said Mrs. Livingston. "Do those Wellingtons fit you?" "Yes," said Harry. His old Thom McAn brogans were still drying on the hearth, and he had been supplied with these sturdy rubber boots. "My late husband used to wear them, trolling the marshes hunting duck and pheasant with his beloved Purdey shotgun. He was a real man." "Let's go, Harry," said Livingston. "It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Poshworth," said Gwendolyn to Harry. "You too, Miss Lovechild," said Harry. "Please do come and visit us again." "I would like that," said Harry. "Here, old man," said Ralston to Harry, and he handed him a heavy implement covered in black leather and shaped like an elongated teardrop, with a looped thong at the narrow end. "What's this?" said Harry. "It's a cosh, a sap, a blackjack if you will, with a tensile stainless steel handle and a head of molded lead, the whole encased in the finest Moroccan leather. Use it if you have to." "I really don't think," said Harry. "Take it," said Ralston. "If you're going out on the town with Livingston, just take it. Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it." "Go ahead, chum," said Livingston, "take it. Me, I have my trusty old brass knuckles," he patted a side pocket of his mackinaw, "just in case." "I really don't," said Harry. "Look," said Ralston, "just put it in your pocket." "Yes," said Gwendolyn, "put it in your pocket, Mr. Peachfast. You never know." "Well," said Harry. "It's just a precaution, Mr. Beachbum," said Mrs. Lovechild.  "Well, all right," said Harry, and he slipped the blackjack into his coat pocket. "Thank you, Mr., uh, Lovechild," he said to Ralston. "Just give it back to Livingston when you bring him home," said Ralston. "If you bring him home." "I, uh," said Harry. "All right, let's bust a move," said Livingston. "'Night all, and don't wait up for us." "Oh, we shan't," said Ralston. Livingston opened the door, letting in a powerful gust of snow and freezing wind. "Goodbye!" said Gwendolyn. "Um," said Harry. "And good luck," said Ralston. "Uh," said Harry. "It was delightful meeting you, Mr. Peachfrost," said Mrs. Lovechild. "Uh, um," said Harry. "Let's shake a leg, Harry," said Livingston. "We're letting the blizzard in. You first." Harry stepped through the doorway and Livingston followed him, closing the door behind them. Even up here in the entranceway the snow was drifted almost to the tops of Harry's boots, and the hillock of snow sloped smoothly down to the sidewalk. "The steps are somewhere under this nonsense, so mind how you go," shouted Livingston over the howling wind. "Grab hold of the railing and slow and easy does it." They managed to get down to the sidewalk without falling, and now the snow was above Harry's knees. "Livingston," he shouted, "if you don't mind my saying so, on second thought, I think it's insane to go out in this blizzard. I think I'll just try to make my way home. It's not really that far." "Balderdash," said Livingston. "Don't crap out on me now, Harry. We have not even started to have fun." "Well –"  "Let's go, first stop is just right up the street." "First stop?" "Yes, only the first. But, God willing, it won't be the last." Livingston put his arm in Harry's and pulled, and Harry allowed himself to be pulled, holding his hat down on his head with his free hand. Fortunately the woolen mittens he had borrowed were thick and warm, almost like small boxing gloves. They trudged on, slowly and awkwardly, arm in arm through the drifted snow, through the thick snow falling and blowing all around them. What am I doing? thought Harry. Where is my willpower? Am I not a grown man? A professional author? Why do I let myself be led about by this madman? All I want is to be back on my barstool at Bob's, drinking my bock until it is time to stagger out and go around the corner to my tiny apartment and to bed. Why is this asking too much? "What are you thinking about, old man?" Livingston shouted into Harry's ear. "Oh," said Harry, shouting back over the howling blizzard, "I was just thinking how, uh, bracing it is to walk in the snow." "Yes, I suppose it is," yelled Livingston, "but, you know, a little of it goes a long way. Fortunately, we have reached our first rest stop and refueling station." "Really?" "Yes, right here," said Livingston, and he pointed to a plaque under a stone lion next to the front steps of a large old brick house. The plaque was crusted with snow, but its engraved legend was still somewhat visible. The Noble Society  of  Convivial Tosspots est. 1832 "That's the official name," said Livingston, "but everybody just calls it the Tosspot Club. Members only of course, but don't worry, you're with me. Come on, pal, you're gonna dig this joint the most." What could Harry do? But then it occurred to him that all of this evening could be written off as research, for stories and novels not yet written. What did he have to lose? Except for possibly his life? "All right," said Harry. "Let's do it." The stoop of the house had apparently been shoveled sometime this day, and so the snow was only about a foot deep on the steps. Harry and Livingston ascended to the entrance area successfully. There were two tall and elaborately carved double doors, on one of them a brass knocker shaped like a man's grotesque grinning rictus, and Livingston took hold of it and knocked, stoutly, five times. "Now we wait," he said. "But ne t'en fais pas, it'll be worth it." Harry hoped it wouldn't be too long of a wait.  He shoved his mittened hands into his coat pockets, and in the right pocket he felt the hard heavy sturdiness of Ralston's cosh.  Would he need it?  And if he needed it, would he have the courage to use it? Or would he instead turn and run?  Either way, mutatis mutandis, it could be good material for a story.  If he lived to write it.