eyes were so blue,” Bart said, sighing again. “What would you call that shade of blue? Azure?”
Jez gritted his teeth. “Bart, you met her for a few minutes, and you haven’t stopped talking about her for over an hour—”
Bartwent on, oblivious. “Maybe aquamarine?”
Jez rolled his eyes at Connor. “There really aren’t enough free yabbies in the world to make me want to listen to this.” He reached his hand across the bar and squeezed Bart’s shoulder. “Hey, play another record. Please! ”
“Actually,” said Connor, “that’s not such a bad idea!” He glanced over at the jukebox in thecorner of the bar. The old Wurlitzer had been pounding out thrash-shanty ever since they had arrived. After a time, the music felt like a severe assault on the eardrums.
Connor slipped down from his barstool and walked over to the jukebox. He took a coin from his pocket and surveyed the music choices. There had to be something better than this racket! But as he flipped throughthe pages, it became clear that The Dirty Dolphin had just about every thrash-shanty anthem ever laid down, and not much else.
At last, he saw a tune he quite liked—“Cape Cod Girls.” It was one of his sister, Grace’s, favorites. Song B17. Connor slipped his coin into the slot, raised his finger, and punched in B, then 1.… But before he had the chance to punch the 7,a long white finger crowned with a bruised nail jabbed the 9.
“Hey!” Connor cried. His words were drowned out as the same thrash-shanty began blaring. Not again! Connor turned around, his face as dark as thunder.
He was facing a tall, thin boy, not much older than himself, dressed in worn black leather. The boy’s lank hair was as dark as his clothesand hung low over his face, obscuring half of it. The half that was visible was pale and waxy, with a smattering of acne and a small purple scar. On his pale lips, a nasty cold sore had taken up residence. The boy looked positively vampiric, but as he opened his mouth, Connor was assailed by the stench of garlic.
“What’s wrong?” said the boy. “Don’t you like my taste in music?”
Connor shook his head. “It stinks,” he said. “As much as you. That was my money. It was my turn to choose.”
The other boy grinned. “Should have been quicker, then, shouldn’t you?”
Connor had had enough. He reached for his rapier, which hung in its sheath at his waist. Drawing the sword out into the light, he smiled at the boy. “I thinkI’m quick enough, thanks.”
The boy seemed unfazed by the sight of the sword. He reached his own hand into his pants pocket and removed a switchblade, opening it up as casually as if it were a cigarette lighter.
Connor shook his head, amused. “Going to fight me with that, are you?”
The boy’s one visible eye looked into Connor’s with disdain. “Oh,I’m not going to fight you at all.” He clicked his fingers. Suddenly, two men appeared at his side. To call these guys “hulks” was to do them a disservice—they were huge. They, too, were dressed in worn leather. Each brandished a razor-sharp rapier.
“Yes, Master Moonshine?” said one.
“You called, Master Moonshine?” said the other.
The boy frowned.“I told you to drop the ‘master,’ remember?” He turned back to Connor. “These two will fight you.” He raised his switchblade, extending the merciless point to Connor’s neck. “ I’ll just swing in at the end to finish you off.” Connor winced. Moonshine smiled and stepped back, allowing his goons clear access to Connor. “Make it swift but painful,” he said to them.
Connorstood in front of the jukebox, his mind racing. How come these big guys were commanded by this runt? And, more important, how was he going to get away from here with all his vital organs intact?
He didn’t have to worry for long.
“Step away from the jukebox!” boomed a voice. “That’s right, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, I’m talking to you!”
Connorsmiled. Bart to the
Jez gritted his teeth. “Bart, you met her for a few minutes, and you haven’t stopped talking about her for over an hour—”
Bartwent on, oblivious. “Maybe aquamarine?”
Jez rolled his eyes at Connor. “There really aren’t enough free yabbies in the world to make me want to listen to this.” He reached his hand across the bar and squeezed Bart’s shoulder. “Hey, play another record. Please! ”
“Actually,” said Connor, “that’s not such a bad idea!” He glanced over at the jukebox in thecorner of the bar. The old Wurlitzer had been pounding out thrash-shanty ever since they had arrived. After a time, the music felt like a severe assault on the eardrums.
Connor slipped down from his barstool and walked over to the jukebox. He took a coin from his pocket and surveyed the music choices. There had to be something better than this racket! But as he flipped throughthe pages, it became clear that The Dirty Dolphin had just about every thrash-shanty anthem ever laid down, and not much else.
At last, he saw a tune he quite liked—“Cape Cod Girls.” It was one of his sister, Grace’s, favorites. Song B17. Connor slipped his coin into the slot, raised his finger, and punched in B, then 1.… But before he had the chance to punch the 7,a long white finger crowned with a bruised nail jabbed the 9.
“Hey!” Connor cried. His words were drowned out as the same thrash-shanty began blaring. Not again! Connor turned around, his face as dark as thunder.
He was facing a tall, thin boy, not much older than himself, dressed in worn black leather. The boy’s lank hair was as dark as his clothesand hung low over his face, obscuring half of it. The half that was visible was pale and waxy, with a smattering of acne and a small purple scar. On his pale lips, a nasty cold sore had taken up residence. The boy looked positively vampiric, but as he opened his mouth, Connor was assailed by the stench of garlic.
“What’s wrong?” said the boy. “Don’t you like my taste in music?”
Connor shook his head. “It stinks,” he said. “As much as you. That was my money. It was my turn to choose.”
The other boy grinned. “Should have been quicker, then, shouldn’t you?”
Connor had had enough. He reached for his rapier, which hung in its sheath at his waist. Drawing the sword out into the light, he smiled at the boy. “I thinkI’m quick enough, thanks.”
The boy seemed unfazed by the sight of the sword. He reached his own hand into his pants pocket and removed a switchblade, opening it up as casually as if it were a cigarette lighter.
Connor shook his head, amused. “Going to fight me with that, are you?”
The boy’s one visible eye looked into Connor’s with disdain. “Oh,I’m not going to fight you at all.” He clicked his fingers. Suddenly, two men appeared at his side. To call these guys “hulks” was to do them a disservice—they were huge. They, too, were dressed in worn leather. Each brandished a razor-sharp rapier.
“Yes, Master Moonshine?” said one.
“You called, Master Moonshine?” said the other.
The boy frowned.“I told you to drop the ‘master,’ remember?” He turned back to Connor. “These two will fight you.” He raised his switchblade, extending the merciless point to Connor’s neck. “ I’ll just swing in at the end to finish you off.” Connor winced. Moonshine smiled and stepped back, allowing his goons clear access to Connor. “Make it swift but painful,” he said to them.
Connorstood in front of the jukebox, his mind racing. How come these big guys were commanded by this runt? And, more important, how was he going to get away from here with all his vital organs intact?
He didn’t have to worry for long.
“Step away from the jukebox!” boomed a voice. “That’s right, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, I’m talking to you!”
Connorsmiled. Bart to the
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