Brandy and Bullets by Jessica Fletcher

bit—then dress and head out for the evening.
    We took a cab to the comedy club because Seth decided the neighborhood in which it was located, on the fringe of Boston’s notorious “Combat Zone,” wasn’t a safe place to park his Toyota. It was a good thing Carson had reserved a table for us, because when we arrived, there was a block-long line outside Tickletoes.
    We were spirited to a table directly in front of the tiny stage and microphone. I glanced about. There were a few people our age, but not many. You could tell who they were without having to see their faces because they were dressed like us—suits and ties for the men, dresses on the women. Everyone else wore a uniform of sorts—jeans, sweaters, and an astounding number of baseball hats, most of them worn backward.
    “Never will understand wearin’ hats indoors,” Seth muttered as a young waitress delivered our drinks. “Bad manners.”
    “It’s the style,” I said.
    “Ayuh, I know that. Still doesn’t excuse bad manners.”
    “Cheers,” I said. We clinked rims.
    “Jessica!”
    I looked up at a smiling Carson James. Seth started to stand, but James placed a hand on his shoulder. “No need for formality, my good man,” he said. There was a third chair at the table, which James took. He looked much as he had the last time I’d seen him. Carson James was very tall, and very thin. The elongation of his face was exaggerated by a pointy, black Vandyke beard hanging like a black icicle from his chin. Hair on his head was sparse, a few wet black strands pasted from front to back. He wore steel-rimmed glasses, which framed unusually small eyes, little black beads that seemed incapable of resting on anything.
    I introduced Seth to Carson, and they shook hands. “A medical doctor,” James said loudly. “My medical career was thwarted in midstream. Lack of money”
    “I’m sorry,” Seth said.
    “And, I’ll be candid, a lifelong abhorrence of blood. Mine, or anyone else’s.”
    We laughed. “A distinct disadvantage,” said Seth.
    “Do you use hypnosis in your practice?” James asked Seth.
    “Ayuh. Now and then. Help a smoker kick the habit, help an insomniac get some sleep.” I was pleased that Seth didn’t dismiss Carson’s specialty. He’s always been skeptical of hypnosis, despite using it in special situations. But then he added, “Don’t have much faith in it, ’cept for certain types of people.”
    “I’m excited to finally see you perform, Carson,” I said quickly. “All these years gone by.”
    “I’ll make it an extra special evening for you, dear lady.” He kissed my hand. “Time for me to be backstage. I hope you enjoy the show, Doctor.”
    “I’m sure I will,” Seth said.
    It occurred to me that dragging Seth along might not have been my best idea. He was not a man who enjoyed nightclubs and comedians. Add hypnosis to that mix and it was unlikely he’d find the experience uplifting. But too late for that now. Even if he hated it, he’d be gracious about it, one of many traits I’ve always admired in my friend.
    We declined a second drink as the house lights dimmed, a single spotlight illuminated the microphone, and a cherubic young man wearing “the uniform” bounced on to the stage. “Hey, hey, how are we tonight?” he boomed. The audience erupted in whistles and applause. “Welcome to Tickletoes. Have we got a lineup for you tonight.” He ran off some names before saying, “And Boston’s own mesmerizing Carson James is with us.”
    “Awright!!”
    “Lets get it on!”
    The enthusiasm was catching. I couldn’t help but laugh. Poor Seth. The best he could manage was to avoid grimacing.
    Carson James was the featured attraction that night, which meant sitting through a half-dozen young men and women telling jokes. A few were funny; all were dirty, although I suspected their generation of fans found nothing salacious about them.
    Finally, the MC announced Carson, who ambled to the mike and waved to the