not_hathor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
not_hathor) wrote2009-05-17 07:11 pm
not_hathor) wrote2009-05-17 07:11 pm
Entry tags:
FIC POST: RGB/The Shadow -- "A Piece of the Night" Chapter One
See previous posts for Warnings, Ratings, Disclaimers, etc.
New York City – 1985
Ghostbusters Central
“So, what's on the docket for today, Miss Janine? Photo ops with the Mayor? An invite to the Playboy Mansion? Celebrity judge for the 'Miss Manhattan Beauty Competition? ” The speaker, a brown-haired thirty-something male clad in a distinctive brown jumpsuit trimmed with green collar and cuffs that not quite incidentally matched the color of his eyes, leaned across the receptionist's paper cluttered desk with an exaggerated leer and tried to sneak a peek at the dog eared Appointments Book in the center of her desktop.
“You wish, Doctor Vee,” the feisty red head retorted, smacking her erstwhile employer across the back of his hand with a wooden twelve inch ruler. “We got what sounds like a class three repeater up in the Village, possible poltergeist activity at Houston and Second, a guy who claims his wife's black velvet Elvis painting is crooning 'Love Me Tender' to her while he's at work, oh yeah, an' a lady from the Cranston Foundation wants to consult at two thirty this afternoon....”
“The Cranston Foundation?” Peter stopped rubbing his hand and straightened up, frowning thoughtfully. “Here or there, Janine?”
“She's coming here.” Janine squinted through her horn rims trying to decipher her own scribbled handwriting, “A Miss Dee Sham-plainez. She sounds classy, so you guys maybe should clean up your act a bit before this afternoon.”
“So, what's the Cranston Foundation when its home?” Winston Zeddemore interjected, walking over from the front of the converted firehouse where he'd been doing 'pre-flight' on the company's pursuit vehicle prior to the day's activities, whatever they might be. “Sounds like one of those private Old Money organizations that likes to hand out cash to 'deserving charities' and underwrite the public television children's workshop.”
“You could say that,” Peter replied, still frowning. “They award grants to 'innovative inventors and entrepreneurs specializing in the study and utilization of unconventional arts and science technology for the advancement of human knowledge and enhancement of spiritual understanding' – and that's a direct quote from the letter of congratulation.”
Winston gave a low whistle of astonishment. “That's some mission statement! Covers a heck of a lot of territory.”
“I'll say. And the check that came with it last year covered most of our building repairs and the upgrade on the containment unit after Ghozur and the Key Master blew it all to kingdom come. Much as I hate to admit it, Janine's got a point --”
“Oh, gee, thanks, Doctor Venkman!”
“-- we might want to spiffy up a bit. Zed, you run upstairs and warn the mad scientists to keep the explosions down to, oh, say, Def Con Two, while Janine an' me tidy up down here.”
“What about Black Velvet Elvis and the other calls?” the receptionist demanded.
“I'll grab Ray and make a quick run,” Winston offered over his shoulder as he headed up the stairs toward the third floor laboratory. “That should cut down on the damage, and we'll take Slimer with us – keep him outa your hair for a while.”
“Good thinking!” Peter called after him. “Tell Egon he needs to balance his Klein bottles and fine tune the grid for a white glove inspection.”
“You think that's what it is, Doctor V? Some kind of 'we gave you money, now impress us with what you did with it' audit or something?”
The parapsychologist shrugged. “Don't know. Hope not. That grant went a long ways towards getting the business up and running again after Ghozur and the EPA fines pretty much flattened us. I'd hate to think of what would happen if the Cranstons wanted their money back.”
***********************
Winston and Ray came sliding down the fire pole, followed by the little green Class Five spirit that had attached itself to the Ghostbusters in general and Ray Stanz in particular in the aftermath of the Ghozur incident a little over a year ago. Ray had nick named the disgusting little spud 'Slimer', and despite Peter's protests the team had pretty much adopted the slimy pest as a sort of mascot du jour. Ray was practically bouncing with enthusiasm over the days' proposed busts as Janine handed over the addresses.
“A possessed Elvis painting? How cool it that?” the irrepressible younger man exclaimed.
“Save it for the spooks, Tex,” Peter advised fondly. “Zed, you got the call sheet?”
“Right here, my man.... you guys want we should bring back lunch, too?”
“Sure, just don't cut it too close.”
“Gotcha. C'mon, li'l guy, let's roll.”
At last, the converted ambulance with a complement of one spook and two spook catchers backed out of the bay, and Peter took the time to look around for the final member of his team. Egon Spengler was not the most sociable of men, preferring the company of a good Euclidian enigma or an intricate experiment to that of his fellow human beings, but when it came to incomprehensible yet impressive sounding scientific jargon, the introverted blond physicist was without peer. If, as seemed quite likely, this impending visit from a representative of the eclectically generous Cranston Foundation was a harbinger of the need to justify the receipt and expenditure of their grant monies, Peter wanted his big guns loaded, primed and ready to blow any second-guessing penny-pinching objections away, so to speak.
“Got your brass polish handy, Spengs?”
The tall scientist favored him with a look that spoke louder than words, to the effect of ‘what in the name of Albert Einstein are you babbling about this time, Peter? Of course I’m prepared to blind the unwashed heathens with scientific razzle-dazzle double-talk that will actually be at least ninety eight percent factual.’ Egon had been present that day nearly a year ago when he and Janine, having almost driven each other to the point of committing murder/suicide trying to reconstruct the company’s accounting files out of the ‘permanently fried by the power surge of a containment unit in catastrophic meltdown’ computer hard drive and the ‘shredded into confetti and scattered to the four winds’ remnants of the paper copies, had engaged in a hysterics-driven bout of ‘rock, paper, scissors’ over who was going to break the bad news to Ray that, yes, it looked like he WAS going to lose the house his parents left to him that currently had three mortgages attached to it, because their insurance company had flat out denied their claim using the ‘Act of God’ clause; and while the EPA agent who’d replaced the discredited and soon-to-be incarcerated Walter Peck was sympathetic to their plight, the man’s hands were tied. The fines “Ghostbusters, Incorporated” had been levied for operating an unlicensed and unregulated noxious substance storage facility were – hefty, to say the least.
The unexpected knock at the door had postponed any drastic action, and the three members of the team had quickly pulled themselves together in order to present a united front to whatever unwelcome news impended. The tall grey-haired gentleman who entered strongly resembled the late British actor Dana Andrews in both appearance and aristocratic attitude, and introduced himself as Bartholomew K. Jonas, acting on behalf of the Board of Directors of The Cranston Foundation. Did he have the honor of addressing the distinguished Drs. Egon Z. Spengler and Peter C. Venkman, founding members of the company, and of course this lovely lady could be none other than the very efficient Ms. Janine Melnitz, administrative professional extraordinaire?
Janine was clearly impressed, especially when Mr. Jonas went the extra mile and bowed over her hand. Peter raised a skeptical eyebrow, and Egon remained impassive even as the tips of his ears turned pink.
“I do hope nothing untoward has befallen Dr. Stanz and Mr. Zeddemore?” the gentleman inquired.
“No, not at all,” Peter replied cautiously. “I believe Winston is occupied with family matters today and Ray is consulting with a colleague in regards to an academic endeavor....” Not like he was going to explain to this guy that Winston had basically swallowed his pride and asked his father Big Ed Zeddemore for a part-time construction gig in order to pay off the company's outstanding electricity bill, or that Ray was splitting his days between doing paid-under-the table research for 'Bats' Ravenswood over in Columbia University's Folklore and Anthropology department and running the occult bookstore his Aunt Lois had invested in as a means of supporting her favorite nephew's interests and vocation. In fact Egon had been on his way over to the book store to take over from Ray so the younger man could run down an obscure grimoire for their academic colleague and friend rumored to be in an antique shop over in Queens, when the furious whispers of 'you do it', 'I'm not gonna do it', 'well, I'm not gonna do it either' , 'some one's got to!', 'not me, you can't make me!' from behind the slagged remains of the filing cabinets had caught his attention...
“Well, I had hoped that all of you would be present for this,” Mr. Jonas had said with a slight smile and a twinkle in his eye for Janine, “but it seems I must needs bow to the call of duty, and, if you will forgive a blunt assessment of your current circumstances”(he cast a discerning eye around the fire hall, taking in the scorch marks on the walls and the gaping hole that punched through the building's three floors from cellar to ceiling and beyond), “it appears to me that any delay in the proceedings may prove disastrous in the very near future. Therefore,” the elderly aristocrat withdrew a white business envelope from the inside pocket of his London Fog trench coat and handed it to the startled psychologist, “it is my great pleasure and honor to present to 'Ghostbusters, Incorporated' the enclosed Cranston Foundation grant cheque for the sum of.....”
“Peter.. Peter... Earth to Doctor Venkman!” The pleasant memories of that glorious day were rudely interrupted by the nasal Brooklyn twang of the voice of reality in the form of the company receptionist.
“Come on, Doctor Vee! stop lolly gagging and give me a hand with straightening up the lockers.”
Peter scowled, then heaved a huge put upon sigh. 'Janine, some one with your professional qualifications and experience would have little to no difficulty finding a job in, say, ---”
“Stuff it, Doctor Vee!”
“You see how she talks to me, Egon? I get no respect around here..”
************************.
By the time the reconstructed and converted Cadillac ambulance carrying Ray and Winston (but no Slimer) rolled back through the fire hall's garage doors from the morning's activities, the main reception area was as spic and span as it had ever been, even in the days when it had been a operational New York City Fire Department station. As the slime dripping trap carrying Ghostbusters climbed out of the vehicle, Janine swooped down the hall like a vulture, flapping giant-sized garbage bags at the startled men.
“Boots off! Now! I mean it, Ray! I didn't spend half an hour ON MY KNEES scrubbing this floor just so you bozos could drip ecto slime all over – Don't you DARE set that trap down there, Winston E. Zeddemore! I'm warning you---”
Ray flinched, Winston ducked his head, and from the second floor landing Peter shrugged and rolled his eyes sympathetically. “Did.you guys get lunch?” he called.
Winston pointed with an elbow at the pair of large brown carry out bags from Chang Li's Mongolian Bar and Grill, trying to keep from dropping the three traps while Ray carefully toed off his boots onto the plastic draped pavement of the garage floor. Peter grinned. Normally, Mongolian grills didn't offer carry out, but Chang had considered them preferred customers ever since that first winter when they'd exorcised a nasty youkai enryou from the upper dining room that was causing the egg fu yong to spontaneously combust if a diner was foolish enough to add soy sauce. At first Egon had been certain it was merely an oddball chemical reaction, but had reversed his opinion with all due haste when the infuriated spirit had come boiling (literally!) out of the stock pot and tried to strangle him with ectoplasmically enhanced ramen noodles. Now bootless and in his stocking feet and having received the 'mostly slime-free' nod of approval from their secretary turned mess hall drill sergeant, Ray padded around the front of Ecto One and took his turn at holding the fuming, dripping, specter laden receptacles whilst Winston repeated the procedure, finishing by holding an empty garbage bag open beneath the dangling traps and pulling it up around the cords and twisting the plastic closed for (hopefully!) drip free carrying down to the containment unit.
“The Village Class Three and two poltergeists from Second and Houston, Janine,” the gray jump suited Ghostbuster pronounced.
“What about the Black Velvet Elvis?” Peter wanted to know. Ray's shoulders slumped with dejection.
“That would have been so cool,” the occult engineer mourned.
“Turned out to be the back upstairs neighbor,” Winston explained with a wry grin. “Guy's a would be Elvis impersonator. He was practicing for an off Broadway Tribute audition and you know how the plumbing in those old brownstones can carry sound sometimes. Dude was embarrassed as all get out when we told him he had an hidden audience during all those late morning rehearsals.”
“So. No bust, heh? Oh well; win some, lose some.”
“It was really kinda sweet, though, Peter.” Ray had shaken off his funk and was once again the cheerful, sees-silver-linings guy that they all knew and loved. “Eric, the Elvis guy, started practicing while we were there, which was how we found out where the singing was coming from since it wasn't a ghost. He's pretty good, too. In fact, Joe, I mean, Mister Rhuzinsky, liked it so much that he hired Eric to come sing at his and Alma's 40th anniversary party next month, and paid us two hundred bucks cash even though we didn't bust any ghosts, and Eric gave us free tickets to the Elvis Tribute.--oh, and we're invited to Joe and Alma's party, too....”
Janine got that gooey eyed look, the one that usually meant she was about to throw some not very subtle comments about Romance in Egon's direction next time she saw him – which would be in about ten minutes, once he and Ray put this morning's ghost toasties to bed in the containment unit. Peter gave a 'what can you do?' sigh. At least the morning run hadn't been a total waste; with two actual paying customers and three spooks? An easy nine to twelve thousand big ones, plus three happy campers (Joe, Alma and Eric), two hundred smackers and a ton of good will? Priceless.
Gave him a warm happy feeling of his own. Now all they had to do was weather the coming visit by the lady from the Cranston Foundation. On the other hand, it would be five to one, and if push came to shove, he'd bet on his team to come up aces any day of the week.
“Janine? Take a break and bring the carry out up to the kitchen with you.” Peter ignored the muttered 'what am I, a waitress, too, on top of everything? I don't get paid enough....' from the receptionist and headed for the kitchen himself. Once Ray and Winston had showered and cleaned up, the five of them would sit around the table and brainstorm possible strategies over egg fu yong and pork fried rice and dim sum until they had a plan – or Slimer came home and cleared the table in his own unmentionably gross way. UGH! Maybe if they were really lucky and the gods were smiling on them for once, the gross little spud would stay where ever it was that Ray and Winston had lost him (probably near 'Luigi's Pizzeria') until after the 'classy lady' from the Cranston Foundation had come and gone.
Now THAT was a thought to hang onto. The brown haired Ghostbuster grinned in anticipation and started pulling every one's favorite drinks from the fridge.
“Hey! Who drank the last diet Dr. Pepper????”
TBC....
New York City – 1985
Ghostbusters Central
“So, what's on the docket for today, Miss Janine? Photo ops with the Mayor? An invite to the Playboy Mansion? Celebrity judge for the 'Miss Manhattan Beauty Competition? ” The speaker, a brown-haired thirty-something male clad in a distinctive brown jumpsuit trimmed with green collar and cuffs that not quite incidentally matched the color of his eyes, leaned across the receptionist's paper cluttered desk with an exaggerated leer and tried to sneak a peek at the dog eared Appointments Book in the center of her desktop.
“You wish, Doctor Vee,” the feisty red head retorted, smacking her erstwhile employer across the back of his hand with a wooden twelve inch ruler. “We got what sounds like a class three repeater up in the Village, possible poltergeist activity at Houston and Second, a guy who claims his wife's black velvet Elvis painting is crooning 'Love Me Tender' to her while he's at work, oh yeah, an' a lady from the Cranston Foundation wants to consult at two thirty this afternoon....”
“The Cranston Foundation?” Peter stopped rubbing his hand and straightened up, frowning thoughtfully. “Here or there, Janine?”
“She's coming here.” Janine squinted through her horn rims trying to decipher her own scribbled handwriting, “A Miss Dee Sham-plainez. She sounds classy, so you guys maybe should clean up your act a bit before this afternoon.”
“So, what's the Cranston Foundation when its home?” Winston Zeddemore interjected, walking over from the front of the converted firehouse where he'd been doing 'pre-flight' on the company's pursuit vehicle prior to the day's activities, whatever they might be. “Sounds like one of those private Old Money organizations that likes to hand out cash to 'deserving charities' and underwrite the public television children's workshop.”
“You could say that,” Peter replied, still frowning. “They award grants to 'innovative inventors and entrepreneurs specializing in the study and utilization of unconventional arts and science technology for the advancement of human knowledge and enhancement of spiritual understanding' – and that's a direct quote from the letter of congratulation.”
Winston gave a low whistle of astonishment. “That's some mission statement! Covers a heck of a lot of territory.”
“I'll say. And the check that came with it last year covered most of our building repairs and the upgrade on the containment unit after Ghozur and the Key Master blew it all to kingdom come. Much as I hate to admit it, Janine's got a point --”
“Oh, gee, thanks, Doctor Venkman!”
“-- we might want to spiffy up a bit. Zed, you run upstairs and warn the mad scientists to keep the explosions down to, oh, say, Def Con Two, while Janine an' me tidy up down here.”
“What about Black Velvet Elvis and the other calls?” the receptionist demanded.
“I'll grab Ray and make a quick run,” Winston offered over his shoulder as he headed up the stairs toward the third floor laboratory. “That should cut down on the damage, and we'll take Slimer with us – keep him outa your hair for a while.”
“Good thinking!” Peter called after him. “Tell Egon he needs to balance his Klein bottles and fine tune the grid for a white glove inspection.”
“You think that's what it is, Doctor V? Some kind of 'we gave you money, now impress us with what you did with it' audit or something?”
The parapsychologist shrugged. “Don't know. Hope not. That grant went a long ways towards getting the business up and running again after Ghozur and the EPA fines pretty much flattened us. I'd hate to think of what would happen if the Cranstons wanted their money back.”
***********************
Winston and Ray came sliding down the fire pole, followed by the little green Class Five spirit that had attached itself to the Ghostbusters in general and Ray Stanz in particular in the aftermath of the Ghozur incident a little over a year ago. Ray had nick named the disgusting little spud 'Slimer', and despite Peter's protests the team had pretty much adopted the slimy pest as a sort of mascot du jour. Ray was practically bouncing with enthusiasm over the days' proposed busts as Janine handed over the addresses.
“A possessed Elvis painting? How cool it that?” the irrepressible younger man exclaimed.
“Save it for the spooks, Tex,” Peter advised fondly. “Zed, you got the call sheet?”
“Right here, my man.... you guys want we should bring back lunch, too?”
“Sure, just don't cut it too close.”
“Gotcha. C'mon, li'l guy, let's roll.”
At last, the converted ambulance with a complement of one spook and two spook catchers backed out of the bay, and Peter took the time to look around for the final member of his team. Egon Spengler was not the most sociable of men, preferring the company of a good Euclidian enigma or an intricate experiment to that of his fellow human beings, but when it came to incomprehensible yet impressive sounding scientific jargon, the introverted blond physicist was without peer. If, as seemed quite likely, this impending visit from a representative of the eclectically generous Cranston Foundation was a harbinger of the need to justify the receipt and expenditure of their grant monies, Peter wanted his big guns loaded, primed and ready to blow any second-guessing penny-pinching objections away, so to speak.
“Got your brass polish handy, Spengs?”
The tall scientist favored him with a look that spoke louder than words, to the effect of ‘what in the name of Albert Einstein are you babbling about this time, Peter? Of course I’m prepared to blind the unwashed heathens with scientific razzle-dazzle double-talk that will actually be at least ninety eight percent factual.’ Egon had been present that day nearly a year ago when he and Janine, having almost driven each other to the point of committing murder/suicide trying to reconstruct the company’s accounting files out of the ‘permanently fried by the power surge of a containment unit in catastrophic meltdown’ computer hard drive and the ‘shredded into confetti and scattered to the four winds’ remnants of the paper copies, had engaged in a hysterics-driven bout of ‘rock, paper, scissors’ over who was going to break the bad news to Ray that, yes, it looked like he WAS going to lose the house his parents left to him that currently had three mortgages attached to it, because their insurance company had flat out denied their claim using the ‘Act of God’ clause; and while the EPA agent who’d replaced the discredited and soon-to-be incarcerated Walter Peck was sympathetic to their plight, the man’s hands were tied. The fines “Ghostbusters, Incorporated” had been levied for operating an unlicensed and unregulated noxious substance storage facility were – hefty, to say the least.
The unexpected knock at the door had postponed any drastic action, and the three members of the team had quickly pulled themselves together in order to present a united front to whatever unwelcome news impended. The tall grey-haired gentleman who entered strongly resembled the late British actor Dana Andrews in both appearance and aristocratic attitude, and introduced himself as Bartholomew K. Jonas, acting on behalf of the Board of Directors of The Cranston Foundation. Did he have the honor of addressing the distinguished Drs. Egon Z. Spengler and Peter C. Venkman, founding members of the company, and of course this lovely lady could be none other than the very efficient Ms. Janine Melnitz, administrative professional extraordinaire?
Janine was clearly impressed, especially when Mr. Jonas went the extra mile and bowed over her hand. Peter raised a skeptical eyebrow, and Egon remained impassive even as the tips of his ears turned pink.
“I do hope nothing untoward has befallen Dr. Stanz and Mr. Zeddemore?” the gentleman inquired.
“No, not at all,” Peter replied cautiously. “I believe Winston is occupied with family matters today and Ray is consulting with a colleague in regards to an academic endeavor....” Not like he was going to explain to this guy that Winston had basically swallowed his pride and asked his father Big Ed Zeddemore for a part-time construction gig in order to pay off the company's outstanding electricity bill, or that Ray was splitting his days between doing paid-under-the table research for 'Bats' Ravenswood over in Columbia University's Folklore and Anthropology department and running the occult bookstore his Aunt Lois had invested in as a means of supporting her favorite nephew's interests and vocation. In fact Egon had been on his way over to the book store to take over from Ray so the younger man could run down an obscure grimoire for their academic colleague and friend rumored to be in an antique shop over in Queens, when the furious whispers of 'you do it', 'I'm not gonna do it', 'well, I'm not gonna do it either' , 'some one's got to!', 'not me, you can't make me!' from behind the slagged remains of the filing cabinets had caught his attention...
“Well, I had hoped that all of you would be present for this,” Mr. Jonas had said with a slight smile and a twinkle in his eye for Janine, “but it seems I must needs bow to the call of duty, and, if you will forgive a blunt assessment of your current circumstances”(he cast a discerning eye around the fire hall, taking in the scorch marks on the walls and the gaping hole that punched through the building's three floors from cellar to ceiling and beyond), “it appears to me that any delay in the proceedings may prove disastrous in the very near future. Therefore,” the elderly aristocrat withdrew a white business envelope from the inside pocket of his London Fog trench coat and handed it to the startled psychologist, “it is my great pleasure and honor to present to 'Ghostbusters, Incorporated' the enclosed Cranston Foundation grant cheque for the sum of.....”
“Peter.. Peter... Earth to Doctor Venkman!” The pleasant memories of that glorious day were rudely interrupted by the nasal Brooklyn twang of the voice of reality in the form of the company receptionist.
“Come on, Doctor Vee! stop lolly gagging and give me a hand with straightening up the lockers.”
Peter scowled, then heaved a huge put upon sigh. 'Janine, some one with your professional qualifications and experience would have little to no difficulty finding a job in, say, ---”
“Stuff it, Doctor Vee!”
“You see how she talks to me, Egon? I get no respect around here..”
************************.
By the time the reconstructed and converted Cadillac ambulance carrying Ray and Winston (but no Slimer) rolled back through the fire hall's garage doors from the morning's activities, the main reception area was as spic and span as it had ever been, even in the days when it had been a operational New York City Fire Department station. As the slime dripping trap carrying Ghostbusters climbed out of the vehicle, Janine swooped down the hall like a vulture, flapping giant-sized garbage bags at the startled men.
“Boots off! Now! I mean it, Ray! I didn't spend half an hour ON MY KNEES scrubbing this floor just so you bozos could drip ecto slime all over – Don't you DARE set that trap down there, Winston E. Zeddemore! I'm warning you---”
Ray flinched, Winston ducked his head, and from the second floor landing Peter shrugged and rolled his eyes sympathetically. “Did.you guys get lunch?” he called.
Winston pointed with an elbow at the pair of large brown carry out bags from Chang Li's Mongolian Bar and Grill, trying to keep from dropping the three traps while Ray carefully toed off his boots onto the plastic draped pavement of the garage floor. Peter grinned. Normally, Mongolian grills didn't offer carry out, but Chang had considered them preferred customers ever since that first winter when they'd exorcised a nasty youkai enryou from the upper dining room that was causing the egg fu yong to spontaneously combust if a diner was foolish enough to add soy sauce. At first Egon had been certain it was merely an oddball chemical reaction, but had reversed his opinion with all due haste when the infuriated spirit had come boiling (literally!) out of the stock pot and tried to strangle him with ectoplasmically enhanced ramen noodles. Now bootless and in his stocking feet and having received the 'mostly slime-free' nod of approval from their secretary turned mess hall drill sergeant, Ray padded around the front of Ecto One and took his turn at holding the fuming, dripping, specter laden receptacles whilst Winston repeated the procedure, finishing by holding an empty garbage bag open beneath the dangling traps and pulling it up around the cords and twisting the plastic closed for (hopefully!) drip free carrying down to the containment unit.
“The Village Class Three and two poltergeists from Second and Houston, Janine,” the gray jump suited Ghostbuster pronounced.
“What about the Black Velvet Elvis?” Peter wanted to know. Ray's shoulders slumped with dejection.
“That would have been so cool,” the occult engineer mourned.
“Turned out to be the back upstairs neighbor,” Winston explained with a wry grin. “Guy's a would be Elvis impersonator. He was practicing for an off Broadway Tribute audition and you know how the plumbing in those old brownstones can carry sound sometimes. Dude was embarrassed as all get out when we told him he had an hidden audience during all those late morning rehearsals.”
“So. No bust, heh? Oh well; win some, lose some.”
“It was really kinda sweet, though, Peter.” Ray had shaken off his funk and was once again the cheerful, sees-silver-linings guy that they all knew and loved. “Eric, the Elvis guy, started practicing while we were there, which was how we found out where the singing was coming from since it wasn't a ghost. He's pretty good, too. In fact, Joe, I mean, Mister Rhuzinsky, liked it so much that he hired Eric to come sing at his and Alma's 40th anniversary party next month, and paid us two hundred bucks cash even though we didn't bust any ghosts, and Eric gave us free tickets to the Elvis Tribute.--oh, and we're invited to Joe and Alma's party, too....”
Janine got that gooey eyed look, the one that usually meant she was about to throw some not very subtle comments about Romance in Egon's direction next time she saw him – which would be in about ten minutes, once he and Ray put this morning's ghost toasties to bed in the containment unit. Peter gave a 'what can you do?' sigh. At least the morning run hadn't been a total waste; with two actual paying customers and three spooks? An easy nine to twelve thousand big ones, plus three happy campers (Joe, Alma and Eric), two hundred smackers and a ton of good will? Priceless.
Gave him a warm happy feeling of his own. Now all they had to do was weather the coming visit by the lady from the Cranston Foundation. On the other hand, it would be five to one, and if push came to shove, he'd bet on his team to come up aces any day of the week.
“Janine? Take a break and bring the carry out up to the kitchen with you.” Peter ignored the muttered 'what am I, a waitress, too, on top of everything? I don't get paid enough....' from the receptionist and headed for the kitchen himself. Once Ray and Winston had showered and cleaned up, the five of them would sit around the table and brainstorm possible strategies over egg fu yong and pork fried rice and dim sum until they had a plan – or Slimer came home and cleared the table in his own unmentionably gross way. UGH! Maybe if they were really lucky and the gods were smiling on them for once, the gross little spud would stay where ever it was that Ray and Winston had lost him (probably near 'Luigi's Pizzeria') until after the 'classy lady' from the Cranston Foundation had come and gone.
Now THAT was a thought to hang onto. The brown haired Ghostbuster grinned in anticipation and started pulling every one's favorite drinks from the fridge.
“Hey! Who drank the last diet Dr. Pepper????”
TBC....