Bogie Man

I settled into the office chair which filed its usual complaint and I opened the bottom draw of my desk, my fist aid draw rather than a place for my trousseau. It contained a quart of bourbon and a few glasses that look as if they had been introduced to water but shortly after made their excuses and never returned. I poured a stiff one and tried it for size. It seemed remarkably fluid and a little small so I tried again. I pulled the phone towards me in case anyone rang. Nobody ever rings! I had the odd hour to kill. One, three, five, you get the picture. Things have been a little slack recently.

The latest LRB lay on my desk like the letter from a maiden aunt, without the cheque. I started to thumb through the pages. Not too many pictures and no sports section.
There was a piece by this broad called Diski. Seems someone was singing about a guy, Bogie, a real charmer. All the usual stuff; Hollywood, Cagney, Raft, and the broads, none of them from Norfolk, it was laid end to end by this canary Kanfer. Bogie made his dough, drank his scotch, and had his women. The last one, Bacall, was a real piece of work, classy. I ploughed on with the story and the bourbon. Seems like she wasn't the last one, she was beaten to the drawers by Verita, the hairdresser. He must have liked her style a lot, Verita! By this time the bottle was nearly done and so was I. The last sentence...

"Then again it might shake your world more to learn that Bogie…"

It stopped. I looked for what I might learn about this Bogie guy on the next page and the next. Nada! Back and forth through the paper, like a hop-head looking to score, but still I found nada. By the time I got to the funny ads by funny people, and I mean funny, it was over. I had been suckered by this Diski broad.

I hung around a club where I guessed she might take the waters. Sure enough, there she was, pretty as a picture but non too steady heading towards me on the sidewalk. I always come to the assistance of a damsel in distress and high heels. I took her arm and steered her into the alleyway.
"OK Sister, shake my world. Tell me the last thing I need to know about Bogie?"

She smiled and tried to kiss me. I asked her again but she was partying with the fairies somewhere and I wasn't going to get a look in. I'm no angel but I am not the guy to slap a broad around. I put her in a cab, gave the driver a twenty and told him to pour her home, gently.

So my desk is as empty as before, my calendar has spare dates, if you are interested, and the telephone is a silent as brick in a bucket of water. I reached down to reacquaint myself with the liquid trousseau. The post comes through the office door. I thumb through the bills and there at the bottom of the pile is the latest LRB. Do I want to be suckered again? No, but I need to know. I may be a man with a thirst but sometimes that thirst is not just for bourbon. I turned the pages. There it was - the remaining part of the sentence - three little words...

...wore a wig!

Would you look at that? Bogie had a syrup, no wonder he was sweet on Verita.