Anybody Seen My Baby

Anybody Seen My Baby

“She was more than beautiful
Closer to ethereal
With a kind of down to earth flavor.
…
Anybody seen her around
Love has gone and made me blind
I've looked but I just can't find
She has gotten lost in the crowd ”

(M.Jagger/K.Richards/K.D. Lang/B. Mink)

When we last left off, a young rain-soaked, and recently scrabbled woman had just left the scene, having just noticed the waiter spitting into the dark haired American’s coffee. The man was attempting to “get to know” the mysterious woman seated next to him at the café (in between the pages of the tabloid he’s “reading”).
We pick up now, later in the afternoon, at the same café. The couple have left and the café is nearly empty. Sir Mick Jaggar has been tasked by the Queen with taking care of a “little problem”—the brown-haired American. Though he’s used to working with a group, he’s now on his own, except for his trusty sidekick- “Git” (slang term for a contemptible person). Git is an ostentatious Aston Martin. He’s on loan from the Queen’s personal security detail. Apparently, there have been no personality improvements to automobiles since that obnoxious “Kit” from the Knight Rider series. They must be related.
Mick and Git have just pulled up to the café and are searching for the dark-haired American, who had earlier attacked the Queen with fresh fruit in a very public and embarrassing incident:


“What’s this?”, the smartly dressed man supposed to himself as he inspected the small wooden square he had just fished from the sewer grate.
“X”, he mused, “Yes, I’m definitely on the right trail.”
The rains had subsided hours ago, but the runoff, still heavy, would have taken this clue far below the streets, into obscurity, had it not been caught in a large clump of newsprint choking the drain.
“Tabloids. Filthy rags. This is the first I’ve found any use for them.” He slides the tile into his pocket and removes a large plastic bag from his briefcase. Collecting the lump of pulp and lies for further inspection later at the lab, the slender gentleman marks the evidence with the initials “TBI” indicating a potential link to the now famous “Banana Incident” to which he had been tasked as Special Investigator.
Only meters from his find, he notices a small café. Perhaps someone inside may be able to provide him with some additional clues. He steps toward the small iron gate surrounding the patio and suddenly hears a voice behind him, pleading: “Um, Sir, I hate to bother you, but you really should consider securing the doors when you leave. It would be most unfortunate for an Aston Martin to go missing now, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, it would, Git. I will try and do better next time.” He presses the remote and a short blast of “God Save the Queen” announces the locking of his cheeky automobile.
Inside the café, a young American sits in the corner, typing away fervently at his computer. His hair is dirty and strangely going the “wrong way”.
He’s not the one.
A waiter stands behind the counter, polishing a coffee cup, smirking to himself and laughing surreptitiously at some remembered occurrence.
“Wait a minute!” The stately chap calls to the waiter, scrubbing intently. “That lipstick. I would recognize that shade of red anywhere.” He pauses to inspect the cup.
“It’s her. She's close.”
He quickly grabs the cup and dashes out the door toward his waiting vehicle. He slams into the glass as he tries too quickly to open the door to make an expeditious exit.
“You see THIS is why I don’t lock the door, Git, you blighter.”
“Sorry Mick.”

Tires squeal. Smoke rises. An American wipes a beakie from his eye. And a cafe loses a cup that could have brought big bucks on ebay from a guy named Brian.