“Here’s a better one,” the self-appointed custodian of the small phonograph announced, having shuffled a number of records hastily through her hands.
She interrupted the bleats coming from it, and after a brief hiatus, it resumed at a quicker tempo, with a sound like twigs being snapped coursing rhythmically through it.
“Doo wacka-doo, doo wacka-doo,Doo wacka-doo-wacka-doo-wacka-doo.”
The redhead’s convolutions became almost serpentine.
The Black Bargain.
The Black Bargain.
