—— a shattering roar split apart the night and a glittering black mass of blinding light and chrome plated steel exploded through the huge plate glass front window and lunged airborne into the pit . . . then another even greater explosion of glass and crashing light as the massive black car broke through the mirrored wall behind the bar and disappeared into the secret smoky depths of the kitchen. A woman screamed . . . the lights went out . . . and there was nothing . . . jagged mirror shards dropping . . . clink . . . clink . . . clink . . . on glimmering piles of broken glass, and through the blinking crimson dust, two sleek black Cadillac tail fins silently signaling the end of another Thursday night performance at The Cadillac.
"Come on," she said; "we'd better get out of here before the police come."
While they and the other performers climb over the wreckage and up to the street, we should get in Fanci's old Lincoln so we can ride along with them to whatever is next.
And while we ride across town, two short articles and a brief reminiscence, published last year, will keep you entertained, and too, will shed some light on exactly who Fanci Ostenburg is.
