It is said that a camel is a horse designed by a committee.

Generally, that is true.

Sometimes, however, instead of the results being catastrophic, they are as perfect as the dazzling vision in a kaleidoscope created by glitteringly asymmetrical parts.

At 6:00 a.m. on Saturday, January 13th, such perfection was within reach from the minute the various participants arrived at Mayor Bamberger’s office until the meeting was over, when everyone went their separate ways. Extra chairs were brought in, and a side table was set with breakfast goodies.

The mayor allowed her guests a few minutes to take off their coats, grab a muffin, and pour themselves a cup of coffee. Then she rested her hip against a front corner of her desk and said, “We’re here to give new meaning to the words ‘Brain Trust,’ because I am trusting your brains to get us out of this mess.”

She looked, that morning, like essence of Chiquita.

Black slacks, black leotard top, and ballet-like black flats projected the Broadway gypsy she had once been. Heavy brass disks on a thin gold chain around her neck suggested the award-winning dramatic actress she had become. And the spiky brown hair, high cheekbones, flawlessly outlined red lips, and confident stance all shouted, “Chiquita Bamberger today!”

She let her eyes range over those who had responded to her summons. They were sitting in desk chairs, armchairs, on the sofa, and even atop a low filing cabinet under the window overlooking City Hall Park.

“Okay, Folks,” she said, her voice warm and her eyes alive with purpose, “We’ve got a city to save.”

There were eight people in the room.

Sitting behind the mayor’s chair with a blue pencil tucked behind one ear, a red pencil in one hand, and the swelling from yesterday’s encounter with an invisible wall considerably reduced, was Amos Goode. There were maps of The Big City spread out across the surface of the desk. He rarely looked up and continually jotted words or sentences in the margins of the maps.

Noah Pitt was seated on a swivel chair across from Amos. His jaw was clenched, his brow was furrowed, and he exuded kinetic energy, like a tethered hawk eager to break away and soar.

Lilly Snow was perched motionless against a file cabinet beside Burgess Meekly, who was looking particularly mouse-like, his small black eyes darting from one person to the next as if not certain who was the cat and who was the piece of cheese.

Which left Daisy Dalrymple, Jimmy Christmas, and Maid Marion.

Daisy sat on the arm roll of a sofa, her eyes glued to the mayor. Jimmy’s eyes, too, were riveted on Chiquita Bamberger, his expression eager and boyish. Whereas Maid Marion, sleek and glamorous in a flannel shirt and blue jeans with a huge pair of diamonds sparkling on her ears, was leaning casually against a door jamb with an “I’ve got all the time in the world” look on her face.

Mayor Bamberger asked, “Who wants to start?”

Daisy Dalrymple jumped to her feet. “Me! I will! I do!” So young and enthusiastic, with her short fluff of blond hair and her wide open amber eyes that everybody laughed. Well…almost everybody. Amos continued to study his maps, Noah continued to spark suppressed energy, and Mouse Meekly still seemed perplexed about who or what to trust.

Daisy took a step toward the mayor.

“I’m Daisy Dalrymple.”

Chiquita nodded. “I know who you are, I know who you work for, and I thank you for coming. Now, shoot. We don’t have much time. What do we have to know?”

Daisy told them about returning to Cadogan McClure’s office the previous evening and listening to the messages he’d left on her answering machine. She described the protests he planned for Saturday – that very morning – at 10:00 a.m., and read from the notes she had found on his desk indicating where protesters on Chestnut Avenue would assemble (one contingent on each of the four corners; two on either side of the middle of the street). She added, “I also found a scrap of paper with four words on it. I’m not sure what they mean, but it can’t be good.”

“Which four words,” the mayor asked.

Daisy took a deep, unhappy breath.

“‘Blow torch’,” she said. “And ‘Parking space’.”

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2021. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com