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The Magician and the Showgirl.

(2 minute read.)

It's what-and-who I know that you don't.

As a kid, did you ever watch 'Streets of San Francisco'?

I did… thoroughly enjoying the subtle interplay of young Michael Douglas with seasoned Karl Malden. All a bit zen, but hey! …it was the seventies.

Over the years, I've lost count of those 'must see' often cheesy cop shows I've endured and enjoyed.

Rockford still stands sublime… 'at the tone leave your name and number'… that neat little fake business card machine in the glove locker of the Firebird… and that all-time-idiot Lt Chapman. Neat stuff.

With 'amazingly similar' formulaic plots between the various different shows, one specific element is of relevance here…

The scene where the good guy (you know, the one with that awful sports jacket and mid-length tie), in his relentless quest for truth and justice encounters the font-of-all-knowledge barman… almost invariably a tightwad sleazo who'll not say a damn thing unless a ten-spot is thrust into his palm.

Taking as read that clients display sartorial elegance of an appropriate standard, and I certainly don't shine glasses, there are similarities…

I'm an informant.
I get paid for what I know.
Knowledge. I-n-f-o-r-m-a-t-i-o-n.

Vital stuff… highly important, whether combating evil in a surburban corner of the cosmos or simply trying to build a better business.

Sure, it's unlikely I'll hit you for fifty bucks just in spilling when the blonde with the long legs last stopped-by, or the home address of Marty the Fish… but the principle's the same.

I get paid for divulging my secrets.

Please understand one thing…

Your money isn't fueling my son's Harley fund. No.

Instead it's repaying the (possibly years of) time and (too often hard) work required for me to be able to provide the help you're seeking.


[And… last thing I heard, Marty and the lithe-limbed lady had paired-off and headed-out to Vegas. Beyond that, my lips are sealed.]

Notes… »