I parked my beautiful new Bolus Impacta on the shoulder and approached the kids. The one with the grenade launcher looked askance at me. I could tell just by looking at him that he knew something. I handed him my card. "I'm Sissy-boy Johnson. I'm a private investigator. I'm looking for this man." I handed him the blurry picture of my target, an elderly man in a suit holding a tiny Dalmatian. "He might not look like this at all, of course. Have you seen him?"

The kids gathered around me, fondling their bagels menacingly. The small one with the pelican head poked at me with his beak. "Maybe," said Grenade Launcher. "It ain't too smart to be seein' his kind in the first place, and it's downright deadly to be talkin' about it afterwards." Grenade Launcher paused. Pelican Head twitched a little bit, as if giving him some kind of secret signal. "Tell you what," Grenade Launcher resumed. "I don't think you know what you're gettin' yourself into by lookin' for this guy. Maybe I'll tell you some things you'll need to know. But first, you gotta help us choreograph this number, okay?"

My time in the theater, although grossing several years, netted only about half an hour or so; nevertheless, it served me in good stead. The kids were quite pleased with the results, so apparently they knew even less about choreography than I did. And then Grenade Launcher gave me his secret eldritch knowledge. I now know two things: that the Dalmatian can be safely ignored for the moment, and that I'm going to have a hell of a time finding enough quality time roaches to even get close to my target. Life's a bitch.