Twanged Read Free Page A

saw him playing it! I stuck it in the case and never looked at it again until now!”
    “Well, this isn’t the fiddle I need for Fiddler on the Roof!” Chappy stomped his foot and sat down.
    “Fiddler on the Roof?” Duke repeated. “Did you get a part in something and not tell me?”
    “NO! For the Chappy Theatre, stupid. And I also need it for feng shui when the theatre is built.”
    “Is that a new play?”
    “NO! It’s the Chinese art of placing special objects around the home so things go better. Rearranging the furniture and such.”
    “I get it.”
    “Well, thank God. Now, you didn’t see any other fiddle in his house?”
    Duke stared into space and scrunched up his nose, the only indication he ever gave of being deep in thought. “No, man, he lived in a one-room cottage. Wow, it was small. Not too much furniture to arrange there. I didn’t see any other fiddle. Hmm,” he uttered. “Hmmmm. Hmmmmm.”
    “WHAT ARE YOU HMMMMMING ABOUT?”
    “I stole a tape recorder he’d been talking into.”
    Chappy looked at him, appalled by what he had just heard. “Why did you do that?”
    “Mine broke before I left. Maybe we should hear what he was talking about.” As he reached into his carry-on bag, Duke said, “It was really weird. I thought the old dude was just talking to himself when I was watching him from the window. But when I went inside I saw this . . .” He placed the small machine on the desk.
    “HURRY UP!” Chappy yelled.
    “Chill, man, chill,” Duke urged. He rewound the tape and pressed PLAY.
    The two men listened intently as Malachy blathered on about fiddles and storytelling. Finally they got to the good part.
    “HE GAVE IT AWAY!” Chappy moaned as he pounded his desk. “BUT TO WHOM?”
    “Play on, Brigid!” Malachy said.
    “BRIGID?” Chappy cried. “Ignore the curse? What was he talking about?”
    “Listen,” Duke said, his ear cocked. The sound of a door opening and the wind whistling came through the tinny machine. “That’s my entrance,” he noted excitedly.
    “You are an idiot,” Chappy said as he scratched his face. “Brigid. Brigid was the name of the girl he was playing with at the pub. The bartender said she’s about to become a real star.”
    Duke sighed. “Lucky duck.”
    “We’ve got to find her. Somehow we’ve got to find her. Maybe you should go back to Ireland.”
    “But I’m tired right now,” Duke complained. “And I’ve got a suitcase of dirty laundry.”
    “Tomorrow, then.” Chappy leaned over his desk and growled at his employee and fellow thespian. “Don’t forget. I’m doing this for Chappy’s Theatre by the Sea, and you know what that means.”
    “You’ll hire no directors who won’t cast both of us.”
    “That’s right, you moron. Now go do your wash. Tomorrow you’re headed back to Shamrocksville so we can find Brigid and that cursed fiddle once and for all!”
    T hat night Chappy lay in bed with the big fluffy quilt pulled up around his chin for comfort, one hand exposed just enough so the ever-present remote control could be aimed at the big-screen television opposite the king-sized bed. The cavernous boudoir was designed with every creature comfort as yet thought-up by man. Ocean breezes blew through the large window, and if nature couldn’t be depended on to lower the temperature in the room to a pleasant sixty-five degrees, an electronic cooler kicked in. The place was built to look like a castle but behave like the starship Enterprise.
    Bettina was in the bathroom, nearly a city block away, engaged in her nightly ritual of applying creams and potions, anything on the market that laid any claim whatsoever to staving off the aging process. It was at this time every night that Chappy would lie there, the remote control in his hand giving him a heady sense of power, and zap from one station to the next. Most of the images went by in a blur. His limited attention span presented a particular challenge to broadcasters. If he