There I was — beered up in a Hell's Kitchen bar on Christmas Eve sitting between Mr. Weedwacker and a young lady even more wacked. Both of whom had put their weapons out of site, but not out of my mind.

On the jukebox was Claire Robinson's "Lets All Go To Rudy's"

"I don't know about this place," said the big dude. "It isn't quite what I expected."

"I know what I'm doing. This is 'The Place'. Did you see the name on the door?"

"Rudy's?" He looked around. "There ain't even any floozies in here."

I could have told him it was the wrong time of day for floozies, but I kept my big mouth shut, for a change.

"The jukebox has rock on it instead of Christmas songs."

"It's my favorite bar," I volunteered. Not volunteering that it was the only bar I could afford to drink in.

"Did you see the Pig guarding the door?" asked Molly like that was proof of something.

The Pig in front of Rudy's is a ceramic statue that is kind of a symbol for something I never figured out. But all the cute women who pass it, take their picture with it.

"It was just some kind of a statue." replied HiTone. "It didn't say a word to me. It wasn't even checking IDs or doing body cavity searches."

"I know that disappoints you."

"You disappoint me, Moll."

"You're doubting me? After I've got us this far? We've completed six transistions already."

“Merry Christmas,” said a mellifluous voice.

I looked up. I didn’t have to look up very far, because our newest arrival was a short dapper citizen in some kind of tux. The tux was too expensive and well cut to belong to a waiter, which was what all of the bar's tux-wearers wore theirs for. The new guy was very short. Like up to the tall guy’s armpit.

I wondered if his 'Merry Christmas' meant he was reading Molly's panties, or if he was just in a holiday mood.

“Have I missed anything?” he asked.

'Not if you can read her panties,' I thought, but didn’t say out loud, trying as usual to act like a gentleman, even if I’m not. It's a problem I have, always being in the middle two sides of my brain fighting with each other over philosophy, morals, and which side of me was manic and which depressive.

"Have we screwed the pooch, yet?" asked the little guy.

“Meet the pooch," said HiTone, nodding at me.

"He's got what I need," Molly said, putting her hand on mine.. I like touchy-feely woman, when they aren't picking my pocket.

The tall guy was not convinced. "Our number 7 is this old winehead.”

“Beerhead,” I said, defending myself automatically. I mean, anybody who’d drink the wine in Rudy’s has to be a tourist who went the wrong way from Times Square, or a bonehead far goner than I am. And the beer is cheaper, anyway. The little dude raised an eyebrow at the blonde.

She nodded. “I was just using Paddy's powerbook. I wanted to check if my rap was mixed.”

Geez, she remembered my name. That was really impressive since I rarely remember it, myownself, after 10pm.

"It's beginning to snow out there. Gonna be bad. Real bad."

"Bad? Bad is good. Just what we'll be needing."

"Did you scope out this dimension?" asked the little dude. "Man, it sucks worse than the gumby one."

The big dude shook his head. "Yeah, it's like a metaphysical desert. No Toontown. No talking sponges. They don't even believe in the Easter Bunny here."

"I do," I said, hoping to be funny.

"Have you seen him?" asked Molly.

"Only on tv." Actually, I didn't believe in anything but death and taxes. I'd avoided taxes by going underground years ago. And I had some plans about cheating death that I can only divulge to people buying me beers. So I guess I don't believe in anything at all.

“How’d your rap come out?” asked the new guy, sliding next in to her, pushing her more into me, which seems to irritate the tall guy. "Did they screw up the mix?"

"It was fine. I hope the rest of the Chuggalugga Christmas turned out as well."

“Did they screw up my mix from the last session?” asked the small dapper one.

“I don’t know. I'll check.”

"They probably mixed it to mud, or lost the tracks."

This was not a guy with most positive attitude I'd ever encountered.

Molly took it for granted that she could continue to use my computer. And I had no objection. If I was sure I wouldn't get caught in the cross-fire I could appreciate the excitement.

Even without the guns, Molly alone made this the most exciting thing to happen to me since an actress named Willie Jean got bombed and insisted I drink shots out of her belly button to prove it was concave it was.

We were in the biggest booth in the joint, but I felt a little boxed in, especially by the big pachuco. On the other hand, uh thigh, Molly was pressed up against me. You’d think an old guy like me would not get excited be a little elbow tit. Well, you’d be wrong.

Molly made the introductions. “Velvet Vinnie.”

We smiled at each other as I wondered if the short guy was packing some exotic weapon, but the slight bulge in his well-tailored suit made me guess he only had a small piece in a shoulder holster.

“This is Paddy. He’s letting us use his Mac. It's the Mac.”

I noticed the “us” but didn’t say anything.

“If she's wrong...” started HiTone.

“Don't make it a big deal. They’re just Christmas songs,” said Vinnie slowly, as he watched his download like an addict watches his horse cook, “fun to play on Christmas Eve, if we live through it.”

"Tonight is Christmas Eve, Vinnie."

“They ain’t just Christmas songs, and you know it,” said the big mean mutha.

“But he don’t.”

“He does now,” added Molly.

"See, I knew we'd screw up," said little Mr. Cheerful.

I must have looked confused. Probably because I was confused. I give good confused. After smart-ass, I’m best at confused.

Next: Most Wonderful Time For A Beer