(Theme song, followed by the gentle chirrups of crickets. A sigh. Then, Rumba's narrator voice with a tinny golden age of radio affectation)
Rumba: There was Rachel, underneath the streetlamp, checking her tan. I shuddered. Would I never give up? I got up off the curb and went inside to get some clothes on. The old folks, it seemed, were starting to sweat it. Besides, the mosquitoes had already devoured my goose flesh.
(A screen door slams. The sound of a voice having a telephone conversation. Rumba starts monologue up in the middle of sleuth's ranting.)
Sleuth: (in background) How many fingers should we cut off this time? Two, four, nine?
Rumba: The Sleuth was closing in on a suspect, a grocery grabber. Nine fingers on some old croaker's social security check. Security. (Snort) I've seen more security in a bus station crapper. Some stall with the two-week old newspaper, stinking wet and walked on. Pictures of the old, the strange and the stupid.
(footsteps on a wooden floored hallway. A door opening and shutting-- all while Rumba gives narration.)
Something reachin up inside 'em with a locking grip on their wherewithal, kicking at the dark like a jigged frog. Minds like cooked smoke and a heart that stops at the refrigerator door. What did I owe them? Get off the bed.
(Meow, cat hits floor. Hiss. Opening of closet door. Wire coat hangers clicking)
These threads, they make me look like a narc that pinches off dimebags. Soon as I get a new line of work, I'll go talk to that old stitch, Vinnie Taylor. He'll give me a good deal. I've seen his suits out walking themselves cause they're so ashamed of their owners. (Struggling to get clothes on) Least these hide my compunction. Here, play with your ball. (Meow) The shadows will hide the holes in this suit.
(Scene change to bar. Clinking glasses, obnoxious drunks and big band-era rumba plays.)
Rumba: The Rusty Bucket was homeroom to the school of hard knocks, which didn't mean you couldn't meet a classy dame there. She had hips and lips and most of her fingers. She had eyelashes that pushed me off the barstool and into a fat man named Helmat who threatened to use my scotum for his hair transplant. She also had a prominent browridge that housed an over-developed frontal lobe. I didn't know her name. The conversation hadn't got that clever yet.
Dame: So what do you do for a living, Mister?
Rumba: Schmumble, merbil...
Dame: How do you pay the rent?
Rumba: (shouting) Ask the man in the burlap hat! (Shocked gasps, a dull murmur.)
Hired Stooge: Rumba.
Rumba (N): He gave me a look that slid down his nose and plummeted like a June beetle into my highball. (speaking to Stooge) What river has recently diverted the flow of silt to this locale?
Stooge: Are you a gambling man, Rumba?
Rumba: I was born in Vegas.
Stooge: Then calculate the odds of you getting out of here alive. (Organ chord or some such dramatic pulse)
(End of episode 1)
The Tooth-shattering Adventures of Johnny Rumba by Morray Eel Amsterdam Episode Two (Theme song. Then, low murmur of bar sounds.)
Stooge: Then, calculate the odds of getting out of this place alive. (Pause) Whataya got to say to dat? (Pregnant Pause) That's it, man. You blew my big line. I'm ruined. I'll never make it now. I'm finished. Give me my hat, I'll eat it.
Rumba: Don't eat your hat, kid. It may smell like potatoes, but it's still just a sack. Look, you're not a bad actor, really, you just got a bad writer. That's all.
Stooge: Naw. You mean it?
Rumba: Sure. Who're you workin for?
Stooge: I can't say, really, I mean, he'll kill me or sic a dog on me, or worse.
Rumba: You're working for the Mad Dog, eh?
Stooge: Gosh. How'd you guess? Are you like the Amazing Kreskin? You read my mind. (Flabbergasted rambling)
Rumba: Look, kid, I'm good at reading people. Say, hear we go, "Pull in case of emergency." (Pulls cord, Stooge begins to shout like an alarm)
Dame: (imitating Rumba) I guess we'd better make like a watch and get the clock out of here.
Rumba: Great idea, but it looks like you read my line here.
Dame: (shuffling of papers) Oh, I guess I did. It was a terrible line at any rate.
Rumba: Yeah, you're right. How about this? (imitating dame) What could I ever do to repay you?
Dame: That's a fair trade. Now I won't have to say it in Episode Three.
Rumba: Fine, call it even.
Dame and Rumba: (simultaneously) Now I can kill you!
Dame: And if I ever catch you coming into my club again, I swear I'll feed your wingtips to the sharks in the bay!
Rumba: Don't worry, you'll never see me in these parts. (walks out the door of the club, street sounds.) Whew. I barely got out of that one. Now, to find the dog.
End of Episode Two