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playlet which the old man was supposed to participate in. There just wouldn’t be enough time to find someone else to replace Black.
    Phil Faxon said he could fill in with twenty minutes of radio and film sound-track imitations, but O. J. patted his hand and diplomatically said he didn’t want to spoil Phil’s evening by asking him to get up and perform again.
    “I know what I could do!” Barry Richmond grinned, his black-framed glasses glinting in the artificial light.
    “We all know what you can do, Norman!” Al Kilgore answered. “Go back to the motel and wash out the shower!”
    “No, really,” Barry insisted, “there’s one thing that bugs me. Nobody ever gets my title right! Every time I set up the lights or build the stage platform for a banquet show, what happens? Somebody puts my name in the program wrong.”
    He wasn’t being all that serious, but O. J. couldn’t politely refuse the gambit, so he asked Barry what the trouble was.
    “The last program referred to me as ‘Lighting Designer, The Hon. Barry A. Richmond.’”
    “What’s wrong with that, Hon?” Natie cooed in a grotesque parody of flirtatiousness.
    “As president of Montmartre, I insist on correct protocol—”
    “Barry,” Tye Morrow interrupted, with some severity, “you’ve been complaining about this for three years now, and still nobody knows what you’re talking about.”
    “And I don’t want to know,” Kilgore laughed.
    “I don’t blame you,” Barry agreed, “I don’t know what I’m talking about myself.”
    “Hear, hear,” Natie chimed in. “All in favor of Barry not explaining what he’s talking about, say ‘Aye.’”
    A nearly unanimous chorus.
    “Nay?”
    “ Nay .” Every eye turned in the direction of the murmured sound.
    “Toby,” Dutchy yelped, “are you outta your bird?”
    “Barry’s always talking about his correct titles,” Toby protested. “I want to hear what they are, finally. All of them.”
    “ All of them?” Barry gawked.
    Toby nodded.
    “Okay,” Barry sighed, rooting through his briefcase, “here goes...”
    At those magic words, nearly everybody got up.
    “RACK ’EM!”
    “Who wants another refill?”
    “I gotta take a leak.”
    O. J., Barry, Toby, and I stayed, but everyone else moved in all possible directions at once. The bustle of bodies roused Frank Butler, who’d been snoring for some time.
    “Hey, boy, what’s up? Meeting over?”
    “Not yet.” I shook my head. “Just a recess.”
    “Recess, hell!” Barry objected. “This is for the minutes.” He consulted a paper withdrawn from his briefcase. “My complete title is—His Excellency Sir Barry Alan Richmond, Knight Bachelor, Night Errant, Order Cross Lorraine, Order of the Brutish Umpire; President of the Serene Republic of Montmartre and her Dependencies; Supreme Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, Defender of the Faith and God’s Middle Finger on Earth—”
    The last one fetched a whoop from Toby, but Barry went on, obliviously. “Chief Magistrate, Emperor of Montmartre Possessions in India, China and the Ottoman Empire, Co-Prince of the Valleys and Suzerainties of Andorra, Doge of Little Italy, No-Account of Monte Cristo, High Muckamuck, Thane of Cawdor, Grand Bastard of Flanders, High Priest of the Effluent Society and Most Grand and Exalted Ruler of the Ancient and Worshipful Guild of Gongfemors—”
    “What in holy mouthwash is that ?” Butler growled.
    “Latin for sewer cleaners. Bey of Prigs, Dey of Reckoning, Chief of State of the Montmartre Community/Commonwealth and Greater North American Co-Prosperity Sphere—”
    Toby, who’d kicked the whole thing off in the first place, shook his head, rose, and, squeezing past Butler, hurried in the direction of the men’s room.
    “But there’s more!” Barry called after his retreating back. “Grand Panjandrum and Seneschal of Montmartre, Protector of the Hairy Ainus and three South American tribes—”
    “Huh?” It was O. J.
    “I