Slim Sal and the Umbrella Lady 

Around the corner from Mean Streets headquarter lives my old pal Slim Sal. She knows a lotta people and has the inside story on where to get all kinds of contraband and kooky produce, if you know what I mean.

I was standing on the street late one afternoon talking to Wally the Dog Whisperer, when Slim Sal appeared behind my left ear and whispered, ‘Pssst. I know where we can get some old-style hand-made umbrellas.’

Wally shook his head at us. ‘I’m outta here,’ he said. ‘It sounds like somethin’ shady going down and I don’t want no part of it.’

‘Aww, don’t be like that, Wally. This is legit,’ Sal said.

‘Hey, I wasn’t born yesterday,’ said Wally. ‘Besides, I got things to do, dogs to walk. Keep yourselves nice, ladies.’

‘So long, Wal. See you round,’ I said.

Slim Sal was running some coir mulch from my garden bed through her hands. ‘Nice stuff. Who’s your supplier?’ she asked.

‘Forget about that now. Tell me about these fo’drizzles you found,’ I said.

Slim Sal looked around, furtive-like. ‘So. These umbrellas are the real deal. They’re hand-crafted by a dame known as Alicia Mora-Hyde. She operates out of a joint out at Brendale.’

‘Brendale? You nuts? We gonna need passports.’

‘Hey, you want a unique hand-made umbrella, you gotta step outside the hood,’ said Sal as she slapped my cheeks back and forth.

‘Okay, okay, I’m on board. Who else is in on this caper?’ I asked.

‘Coupla dames I know. And my sister. We’ll take the car next Saturday morning, lookin’ like we’re going on a picnic. Head out quiet-like, driving real slow.’

‘We should get to Brendale by Sunday then,’ I said.

Slim Sal twisted my earlobe between her fingers. ‘No more wise remarks, you kooky broad. And keep this under wraps. Alicia’s opening the shop special for us. Private viewing. We don’t want every two-bit dame heading out there, cluttering up the warehouse and driving Alicia nuts. Capeesh?’

‘Whatever you say, Sal. My lips are sealed,’ I said.

‘Good. I’ll see you Saturday then, nine sharp.’ She mooched off up the street, staying in the shadows.

On Saturday morning, I stood out front of Mean Streets headquarters wearing navy coveralls, red pumps, a beret and round tortoiseshell shades. I felt this would help me blend into the background. At nine on the dot, Sal’s wagon cruised up to the driveway and the door popped open to let me in.

‘Mean Streets, this is my sister Betty Lou, and my pals Tallulah and Gilda,’ said Slim Sal.

Pleasantries were exchanged and we settled in for the long ride out to Brendale. We talked about the favourite umbrellas we’d had in our lives and what a handy weapon they made. None of us were keen on the Russian-style poison umbrella, no sir. We preferred their use as a blunt object in a tight corner, if you know what I mean, along with the secondary benefits of rain shelter and sun-shade.

After many hours, we arrived in Brendale, and pulled up at a small warehouse in a light-industrial area. Sal checked the rear-view to make sure no-one had tailed us. I sauntered out of the carpark to the street and checked up and down. No cars, no nosy spooks, so I moseyed back to meet Alicia.

Alicia was a neat little lady of a certain age, and she’d lived quite a life. She showed us around her joint and we sized up the goods. They were good, real good. They looked like they’d been made for Lauren Bacall circa 1947 but in full technicolour. We made Alicia get out all her stock and picked through them like hyenas at a meerkat convention, but she didn’t seem to mind. We all bought about two or three apiece, and they weren’t cheap but they were worth it.

We piled back in the automobile for the return trip to the Westside, hoping like hell we didn’t get a flat and have to stay the night in some seedy flea-pit in Brendale. The sun was setting as we reached Mean Streets Headquarters.

‘You got time to come over for a goat curry?’ asked Slim Sal.

I lowered my shades and raised my eyebrows. ‘Where’d you get the goat, Sal? You obtain it by nefarious means?’

‘Aww, don’t be like that,’ she said. ‘It’s legit. Really.’

‘Hey, I love a goat curry as much as the next showgirl, but Mr Mean Streets will be wondering if I’m in the back of a car boot by now. I’d better go. So long, gals. Hope to see you twirling your fo’drizzles on the streets some time.’ I saluted them.

‘Adios, chica,’ they replied.

I watched their wagon drive off down the road, and popped my new umbrella up like I was doing Singin' in the Rain on Bandstand. ‘Adios senoras,’ I whispered.

So, if you got time to pack a picnic and head out to Brendale, drop by Mora-Igra Umbrellas. Just don’t tell Alicia who sent you.