Last night me and Ghoulardi are tossin' back martinis at Gib Shanley's, Tom glides in quietly, lookin' for action like Patton into Germany. Pours himself a cognac.
"So Dot," he says to me, loud enough for the room to hear. Elliot Ness peeks over from the punch bowl. Every dead Democrat in the room is suddenly drinking faster.
"Yes dear?" I say with my bedroom eyes. But Tom's all business. Gets louder.
"Since when do Democrats take money from the poor and give it to the rich??" Uh. Oh.
Ghoulardi yells, "Fight!" Across the room, Ralph Perk downs his shot of Four Roses, makes a run for the door. Tom gets between Perk and the door. A momentary stare. BOOM, Johnson's fist goes through Perk's face like it ain't even there, Perk hits Gib's liquor cabinet on the way down, glass is everywhere.
Silence. Johnson adjusts his lapels, dusting off splashes of cognac. Calmly, he continues. "Who wants some more?" Then he holds this up.
John Coyne tries to save the day. "Listen, Tom, I know what you're thinkin'..." Johnson ain't havin' it.
"SHUT. THE FUCK. UP." I start takin' notes. The Queen of All Cleveland Journalism loves her a throwdown. Johnson does his best Clint Eastwood growl, whispery, menacing. "Every one of you two bit hacks... better dial up whatever seance afterlife gizmos you got.... and send this down the wire." Five minutes later, every dead Democrat from Cleveland is piled in a corner like cord wood, glass, beer, 100 year old scotch, Dom Perignon, you name it, sprayed all over the joint. Johnson walks out without even wrinkling his tie.
Me and Ghoulardi had to console Gib with an all night threesome over the loss of his entire liquor stash. My scoop is getting better by the day.
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