Page 63 of Shadow Ticket

“His natural modesty,” Dieter explains, “though the Soviets are unlikely to admit it, they’ve taken a deep interest in the paranormal, especially its potential role in modern warfare. There’s a narkomat set up specifically, including a secret lab run by Stalin’s chief cryptography genius, Gleb Bokii—”

“Narkomat,” Hicks puzzling, “that’s…a place you go drop in a few coins, open a little door, there’s a reefer, maybe a line of coke…”

“No. No, actually it’s the Russian abbreviation for NARodnyi KOMissariAT, people’s ministry. The recent climate of apportation in Budapest has drawn their attention, and someone has determined that among the resulting influx of con artists and self-deluded, our own Zoltán von Kiss may be one of very few who’s the genuine article.”

“And so to discourage any attempts to bring him east,” Schnucki concludes, “me and the boys here have been keeping an eye out.”

“So you’re not really—”

“Well…depending what you mean by ‘really’…”

Into the follow spot now steps a juvenile host in a lounge suit of some pale aqua shade, necktie with a good deal of burgundy and yellow splashed around in a nonlinear way, “And now! once again, as wurst comes to wurst comes to wurst, it’s time to please welcome back the Teutonic! Neutronic! Drei! Im! Weggla!”

Fanfare, wild applause, and here they come, the band bouncing into brass-heavy march time as one by one the trio step up to introduce themselves—

I’m Schnucki!

I’m Dieter!

I’m Heinz!

So glad you could be here, to-night—

Still up-to-those-old monk-ey-shines,

Always good for a laugh, and, a light…

[Schnucki] Now if you smell something funny, and—

[Dieter] It isn’t the smokes—

[Heinz] It’s probably us with—

[All together] Some more crazy jokes!

Folks,

Folks,

just hope we remem-ber, our lines,

Ja, I’m Schnucki!

I’m Dieter!

I’m Heinz!

No, wait, I’m Heinz, and, and you’re—

They fall to bickering, with the band oompahing along, about who’s which, bravos and squeals from the room, which adores them, as the sleekly combed trio, knees turned inward, demurely pretend to cower behind their hats.

The act, Zoltán explains, depends on the abrupt changes of temperature which accompany any apport event. Without many pauses between, the comical threesome brew coffee, cook strings of sausages, light cigarettes, and hotfoot the shoes of those they feel are not paying close enoughattention, breaking now and then into song and dance, along with quick changes of costume. The finale features a Baked Alaska over which they have first poured brandy, then, nudging and giggling, faking amazement, watched it asport away, waving it bon voyage and waiting breathlessly for it to burst into flames, ignited by the heat of passage, onto the dessert plate of some randomly selected audience member.

“Another first-rate performance, gentlemen,” Zoli lifting his hat respectfully. “How long are you boys in town for this time?”

“That’ll depend on your latest visitor,” Schnucki losing some of his playful expression.

“Az Isten faszára—who is it now?”