GAVARRE BENJAMIN: The Farce of Lawyer Silky McGee.

 

 

THE FARCE OF LAWYER SILKY McGEE

By Benjamin Gavarre A Great Depression Farce freely adapted from The Farce of Master Pathelin (15th Century Anonymous).

The Farce of Lawyer Silky McGee. © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International

CHARACTERS

• SILKY McGEE: A broke Night Court shyster, disbarred ambulance chaser, and silver-tongued hustler. He wears polished rags with the posture of a Supreme Court Justice.
  
  
• BIG MARTHA: His common-law wife. A tough-as-nails South Side dame, jealous, pragmatic, and heavy-handed, yet an impeccable accomplice when a con is in motion.
  
  
• CASIMIR "GREENBACK" LUXOR: A border-hopping textile smuggler from the Detroit riverfront. Vain, greedy, and gluttonous; he fancies himself a slick operator.
  
  
• ZIPPY THE NEWSIE: A street-smart pushcart boy, newsie, and runner for the South Side numbers racket and Irish Sweepstakes. Sharp as a tack.
  
  
• JUDGE "SLEEPY" JALOPY: A Night Court magistrate. A sweaty, near-sighted, corrupt bureaucrat running on stale coffee and misery.
  
  
• THE ANNOUNCER: A fast-talking 1930s radio barker (may be played by the same actor as Judge Jalopy).
  
  

PROLOGUE: The Windy City Hustle

(The theater is pitch black. We hear the harsh, crackling static of an antique Zenith radio tuning through stations: a snippet of FDR’s fireside chat, a wailing jazz saxophone, and a distant police siren. Suddenly, a single, sharp spotlight hits center stage. An ANNOUNCER stands behind a vintage chrome standing microphone, wearing a trench coat and a tipped fedora. He speaks with the fast, punchy, carnival-barker rhythm of a 1930s radio broadcaster).

ANNOUNCER: (Tapping the microphone, echoing slightly) Testing, testing... Ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters of the breadline, welcome to Chicago, 1933! The Windy City! Where the skyscrapers touch the heavens, the wind cuts like a switchblade, and the pockets are as empty as a politician’s promise! The stock market took a swan dive off the Board of Trade building four years ago, and we’ve been chewing on boiled shoe leather ever since!

(He leans into the mic, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper).

ANNOUNCER: But let me tell you a little secret about the Great Depression, folks. When the banks dry up and the greenbacks disappear, only two things keep a man afloat in this town: a sharp tongue and a sharper suit of clothes. Because in the courts of Chicago, you aren't innocent until proven guilty—you're guilty until you show up wearing imported wool! Walk into Night Court in tattered overalls, and the Judge gives you thirty days in the cooler. Walk in wearing a double-breasted cashmere suit, and His Honor asks you for a cigar!

(He unclips the microphone from the stand, steps right up to the edge of the stage, and points into the front rows).

ANNOUNCER: Speaking of fine threads... look at the swell crowd we got here tonight! You there, sir. Yes, you in the front row. That’s a mighty sharp jacket you’ve got on. English cut, ain't it? Keep it buttoned tight, pal. And the lady next to him, keep a firm grip on that handbag! Because where we're going, a coat like that could bail out half of Cook County Jail!

(He walks back to center stage, raising his voice to a theatrical boom).

ANNOUNCER: Tonight, we take you out of the glitz of the Gold Coast and drop you straight into a fourth-floor walk-up on South State Street. Meet Counselor Silky McGee: a courthouse shyster with no license, no morals, and no soles on his shoes—but blessed with a gift of gab that could talk a starving bulldog off a meat wagon. Button your overcoats, guard your wallets, and don't believe a single word you hear. The hustle is on!

(The radio static blares loudly, blending into the screech of the El Train. The spotlight snaps off. A brassy, low-down Chicago jazz trumpet kicks in as the curtain rises).

ACT ONE: Clothes Make the Counselor

(Interior of a cramped, peeling tenement apartment on South State Street, Chicago, 1933. Through a cracked windowpane patched with newspaper, the tracks of the El Train rattle periodically, and a neon sign next door flashes an eerie red light: "DR. SMITH – SECRET DISEASES CURED IN DISCRETION." BIG MARTHA sits on a creaky iron cot, wearing a faded housedress and hair curlers, stoically darning a sock over a dead lightbulb. SILKY McGEE, lean as a greyhound and twice as proud, stands before a cracked mirror using black shoe polish to paint over the holes in the elbows of his threadbare jacket).

MARTHA: (Tugging the thread violently and sighing at the audience) Take a good look at him, folks! The Clarence Darrow of Skid Row! The great mouthpiece of South State Street! He’s been painting his elbows with boot black for twenty minutes because his jacket has more ventilation than a screen door. Who on earth are you gonna defend in Night Court looking like a Hooverville scarecrow, Silky? If you step up to the bench in those shiny trousers, the bailiff’s gonna book you for vagrancy before you can say "not guilty"!

SILKY: (Striking a dignified courtroom pose, smoothing his mustache with a dab of spit) Temper your objections, Martha my dove! Jurisprudence does not reside in the trousers; it resides in the cerebral cortex of the advocate. Who got cross-eyed Louie acquitted when the cops caught him red-handed with a truckload of bathtub gin? Yours truly! Who got the butcher off the hook for selling horsemeat as prime rib? Silky McGee!

MARTHA: That was three years ago, before the crash, when you still owned a decent pinstripe suit and people called you "Counselor"! Now they see you flapping down the sidewalk with your shoe soles tied on with baling wire, and the crooks would rather go straight to Joliet prison than hand you two bits for a bail bond! I watched you from the fire escape yesterday: four hours loitering outside the precinct, and not a single pickpocket asked for your card! Oh, but you sure found the energy to sneak into the State Street Burlesque to ogle the chorus girls shaking their tailfeathers!

SILKY: (Addressing the audience with grand theatricality) Slander! Pure neighborhood malice! I attend the burlesque house strictly to research First Amendment freedom-of-expression precedents. Besides, half the city magistrates sit in the front row—it’s called professional networking! (Turning back to her, grave and dramatic). Yet I concede your legal premise, my Queen of the Soup Kitchen. In this shallow republic, a lawyer without a fine suit is like a gangster without a violin case. The clientele demands razzle-dazzle! They demand prosperity!

MARTHA: And where are you gonna dig up prosperity, you old windbag? There ain't a plugged nickel in the sugar bowl, and the pantry holds nothing but half a sour pickle and a heel of rye bread hard enough to derail the El Train!

SILKY: (Tapping the side of his nose with a wicked grin) From the Federal Reserve of human vanity, my sweet! Downstairs, right outside the speakeasy, Casimir "Greenback" Luxor just unloaded three bales of smuggled Canadian textiles. Within the hour, this legal eagle will be draped in premier imported cashmere without parting with a single Lincoln penny.

MARTHA: On credit?! From Greenback Luxor? That loanshark wouldn't give his own mother a glass of water if her coattails were on fire!

SILKY: The man is a miser, yes, but his ego is bigger than the Merchandise Mart and his belly is always growling. With ten cents worth of flattery and the promise of a home-cooked feast, he’ll practically beg me to take the cloth. Just oil up your acting chops and follow my lead when I get back.

(He pivots with a debonair Broadway flourish, but the loose sole of his right shoe slaps loudly against the floorboards and detaches completely. Without losing an ounce of dignity, Silky picks up the leather sole, tucks it neatly into his breast pocket like a silk handkerchief, and limps out with his chin held high).

ACT TWO: The Hook and the Irish Stew

(A foggy sidewalk on South State Street. The rumble of the El Train overhead. CASIMIR "GREENBACK" LUXOR—sporting razor-sharp sideburns, tinted spectacles, and a loud silk shirt under an unbuttoned vest—is busy brushing soot off a massive bale of contraband cloth tied with hemp rope).

CASIMIR: Curse those Coast Guard sharks on the Detroit River! Every trip across the border costs me more in bribes just to bring honest luxury to the American workingman. But if I don't clear triple profit on this Canadian cashmere from the downtown swells today, my name ain't Casimir Luxor!

SILKY: (Entering with a measured, aristocratic stroll, disguising his limp and throwing his arms wide as if beholding a miracle) Well, bless my soul and habeas corpus! Do my eyes deceive me, or is that the titan of textiles himself, Mr. Casimir Luxor? Ring the bells at City Hall, style has returned to Chicago!

CASIMIR: (Suspiciously shielding his bale with both arms) Who’s asking, pal? I don't recognize your mug from the garment district.

SILKY: (Hand over his heart, deeply wounded) Not recognize me? Why, I’m Counselor Silky McGee! Your late father’s dearest friend, legal advisor, and confidant—God rest old Sammy Luxor’s noble soul! What a giant of commerce your daddy was! What an eye for quality contraband! And look at you, standing there... why, it’s like seeing old Sammy risen from the dead! The exact same Roman emperor profile, the shrewd eyes of a Wall Street baron, the dashing posture of Clark Gable!

CASIMIR: (Puffing out his chest, completely hooked by the flattery) Well, now that you mention it, Counselor... folks do say I got the old man's savvy. And his physique. He knew the rag trade inside out, my pop.

SILKY: And you have eclipsed him, my boy! Just look at the merchandise in this bale! (He strokes a bolt of blinding, emerald-green cashmere as if it were the Holy Grail). Sweet Mother of Pearl! Feel that nap! Look at that weave! Casimir, this isn't cloth—this is a Beethoven symphony woven in Montreal!

CASIMIR: Top-shelf Canadian smuggling, Mr. McGee. Moth-proof, rain-proof, and thick enough to stop a stray bullet from a drive-by. A high-powered courtroom attorney like yourself would look like a million bucks in this emerald green.

SILKY: You read my legal mind, Casimir. Tomorrow morning I’m arguing an appeal before the Circuit Court, and my tailor is booked solid. Truth be told, I wasn't planning on buying today, but for the son of my dear pal Sammy... what would you charge an old family friend for three yards of this green masterpiece?

CASIMIR: (Quickly inflating the price in his head) Tell you what, Counselor, for my father’s pal, I’ll practically rob myself: fifty bucks a yard. Three yards for a full three-piece suit comes to an even hundred and fifty simoleons. Cash on the barrelhead.

SILKY: (Gasping in mock outrage) A hundred and fifty dollars?! Casimir, you’re giving it away! You’re insulting the sheep that grew the wool! Done and done! I’ll take all three yards—but on one non-negotiable condition, in sacred memory of your father.

CASIMIR: (Narrowing his eyes) What condition? I don't take checks and I don't do layaway, Counselor.

SILKY: Layaway? Insulting! I keep my cash locked in a cast-iron safe upstairs so the pickpockets don't get it! My condition is that a proud man like you doesn't break my heart by refusing to step up to my fourth-floor apartment right now to collect your hundred and fifty bucks in crisp bills... and sit down to a steaming kettle of Martha’s genuine Dublin Irish Stew!

CASIMIR: (Swallowing hard; his stomach lets out an audible rumble) Did you say... Dublin Irish Stew?

SILKY: Made with prime lamb shoulder, Casimir! Simmered for six hours with marrow bones, pearl onions, buttered potatoes, and hot buttermilk biscuits fresh out of the oven! Take a whiff toward that fire escape! Can't you smell the rosemary and bay leaf drifting down through the fog?

CASIMIR: (Sniffing the Chicago smog, hypnotized by gluttony) Gee whiz, Counselor... my mouth is watering so hard I’m gonna drown! I haven't had a hot meal since Tuesday!

SILKY: Then it's settled! Let me carry the bolt upstairs right now so Martha can start pinning the cuffs while the gravy thickens. You lock up your handcart, give us ten minutes to set the table, and walk right up to the fourth floor—just past the neon sign that says "Secret Diseases"—to pocket your hundred and fifty clams and eat till your vest buttons pop!

CASIMIR: (Shoving the emerald-green bolt into Silky’s arms) Take it, Counselor, take it! Between gentlemen of the old school, a handshake is gold! I’ll chain up the cart and be up those stairs in ten minutes flat—keep the biscuits warm!

SILKY: (Clutching the bright green bolt to his chest) The kettle is bubbling, my dear boy! (He takes three dignified steps, shoots a triumphant, devilish wink at the audience, and sprints offstage).

ACT THREE: The Lockjaw Delirium and the Numbers Racket

Scene I

(Back in the tenement apartment. Silky bursts through the door, slams the bolt, and unrolls the three yards of blinding emerald-green cashmere across the dingy room).

SILKY: Feast your eyes on that, Martha! Three yards of Supreme Court authority! In this emerald green, the District Attorney himself will carry my briefcase!

MARTHA: (Gaping, rubbing the fabric against her cheek) Saints preserve us, it’s softer than a millionaire’s kitten! Who did you stick up, Silky?

SILKY: Nobody! The gullible smugger who owns this beauty is climbing the stairs in five minutes expecting a hundred and fifty dollars in cash and a pot of Dublin Irish Stew!

MARTHA: Are you out of your mind?! When he sees there’s no money and no stew, he’ll call the squad car!

SILKY: Quiet, I hear his heavy hooves on the landing! Shove that green cloth under the mattress, rub some soot under my eyes, and hand me that cake of shaving soap! When he knocks, open the door wailing like an Irish banshee and swear on a stack of Bibles that I’ve been lying in this cot for six weeks dying of galloping lockjaw and St. Vitus' dance! Places, my love!

(Martha stuffs the fabric under the mattress. Silky leaps into the cot with his shoes on, messes up his hair, shoves a chunk of shaving soap into his cheek, and pulls the moth-eaten blanket up to his chin. A cheerful knock sounds at the door).

CASIMIR: (From the hallway) Open up, Counselor! Bring on the lamb stew!

MARTHA: (Cracking the door open, wrapping a black shawl over her rollers, her voice trembling like a tragic stage actress) Shhh! For the love of Saint Patrick, lower your voice in a house of mourning, mister!

CASIMIR: (Pushing his way in, sniffing eagerly and rubbing his hands) Afternoon, ma'am! Casimir Luxor. I’m here to see Counselor McGee for my hundred and fifty bucks and that kettle of Irish stew I smelled from the sidewalk.

MARTHA: (Crossing herself dramatically) A hundred and fifty bucks? Irish stew? Oh, have mercy on a poor widow-to-be! How could my poor Silky buy anything from you or invite you to dinner when he hasn't left that cot in six long weeks, hovering between this miserable world and the cemetery gates?!

CASIMIR: (His smile vanishing instantly) Hold your horses, lady! Six weeks?! What kind of bunk is this? Ten minutes ago he sweet-talked three yards of emerald-green Canadian cashmere out of my hands downstairs, praised my dead father, and trotted up these stairs!

MARTHA: You’re hallucinating from the stockyard fumes, mister! Look at that poor skeleton on the mattress and tell me if he could walk down four flights of stairs! He’s got the galloping lockjaw mixed with typhoid fever and brain delirium!

SILKY: (Shooting upright in bed like a rusty jack-in-the-box, eyes rolled back, foaming white shaving lather from the corners of his mouth) Objection, Your Honor Lucifer! Habeas corpus in flagrante delicto! Call off the Pinkertons! You can't subpoena my kidneys without a federal warrant!

CASIMIR: (Jumping backward) Holy smoke! Hey, McGee, quit the play-acting! Hand over my green cashmere or my hundred and fifty simoleons!

SILKY: (Pointing a trembling finger at Casimir, speaking in a graveyard rasp) Look, Martha! It’s the ghost of J. Edgar Hoover riding a green nanny goat! He’s come to foreclose on my spleen! Nolo contendere, e pluribus unum, corned beef and cabbage! Get back to purgatory, you Detroit river rat, or I’ll file an injunction against your grandmother! (He begins convulsing and barking like a hound while blowing soap bubbles). Ruff! Arf! Eighteenth Amendment! Bllllrgggh!

MARTHA: (Wailing loudly and shoving Casimir toward the door) Look what you’ve done with your crazy talk of money! You triggered his lockjaw spasms! Now he’s in the biting stage! The County Hospital doctor warned me that anyone who breathes his vapors loses all their hair and shrivels up below the belt in twenty-four hours! Get out before we both catch the rot!

CASIMIR: (Sweating ice water, backing out into the hall while clutching his scalp and his groin in sheer panic) Mother of Mercy! Could I have been mistaken?... No, it was the exact same mustache and the same oily voice!... Or maybe this whole neighborhood is haunted by crooked lawyers!... Don't let him breathe on me, lady, I'm a newlywed! Forget the stew, I'm going downstairs to count my bales before I lose my marbles!

(Casimir bolts out the door and is heard tumbling down the wooden stairs. Silky spits the shaving soap into a tin bucket, and he and Martha burst into triumphant laughter).

Scene II

(Silky pulls the emerald-green cashmere from under the mattress. Armed with big shears and a mouthful of giant safety pins, Martha rapidly drapes and pins the fabric directly over Silky's ragged clothes into an improvised, oversized double-breasted suit).

SILKY: (Admiring himself in the cracked mirror) Magnificent! Regal! I look like the Mayor of Chicago on Saint Patrick's Day! Just remind me not to sneeze, Martha, or twenty safety pins will perforate my ribcage.

(Suddenly, frantic pounding shakes the door. ZIPPY THE NEWSIE bursts in, out of breath, wearing a flat cap and carrying a canvas newspaper sack stuffed with lottery slips).

ZIPPY: Mr. McGee! Counselor Silky! Hide me or represent me, the paddy wagon’s right behind me!

SILKY: (Instantly adopting a deep, pompous baritone and puffing out his green chest) Address the bench with proper decorum, young man. What legal tempest brings you to my chambers?

ZIPPY: (Blinking for a second at the blinding green suit, then blurting out) It’s my boss, Greenback Luxor, the fabric smuggler downstairs! He came running down from this building white as a sheet, mumbling about lockjaw ghosts, and started counting his bales! That’s when he figured out I’ve been skimming bolts of cloth off his cart all month to pay off my bets on the South Side Policy Wheel! He flagged down a beat cop and dragged me to a summons at Night Court! If you don't defend me right now, I'm going to the reformatory until I'm thirty!

SILKY: (Stroking his chin with clinical gravity) Hm. A thorny indictment of grand larceny complicated by illicit textiles. Liberty is a sacred constitutional right, Zippy my boy, but my legal genius requires lubrication. How much working capital do you have in your kick?

ZIPPY: (Pulling a crumpled roll of bills from his sock) I got forty bucks left from the silk I fenced on Maxwell Street yesterday, Counselor!

SILKY: Twenty bucks is my fee! Payable in cold hard cash the exact second the Judge bangs his gavel and sets you free. Do we have a contract?

ZIPPY: Deal! But how are you gonna get me off when Luxor caught me red-handed with the pushcart?

SILKY: (Leaning down conspiratorially) Listen closely, kid, because you are about to witness a masterclass in Chicago courtroom strategy. You run numbers for the South Side Policy Wheel and call out the Irish Sweepstakes results outside the pool hall, don't you?

ZIPPY: Sure! Best pair of lungs on State Street!

SILKY: Starting right now, the stress of poverty has scrambled your brains like a two-cent omelet. When we walk into Night Court, no matter what Judge Jalopy asks you, no matter what Casimir screams at you, and no matter what I say to you, you don't speak a single word of English. You cross your eyes, cup your hand to your ear like a radio announcer, and belt out random lottery and policy numbers at the top of your lungs!

ZIPPY: (Grinning wickedly) Just holler lottery numbers? Like a broken policy wheel?

SILKY: Precisely! If you talk sense, you go to the cooler. If you bellow sweepstakes numbers like a cuckoo clock, I’ll plead juvenile shell-shock, and Sleepy Jalopy will toss the whole case out just to stop his headache. And remember: the moment we hit the sidewalk outside, you hand over my twenty bucks. Forward march—the scales of justice await!

ACT FOUR: Back to the Bales! (Night Court Madness)

(Interior of the smoky, grimy South Side Night Court. A dented metal desk, a sluggish ceiling fan, and a crooked portrait of FDR on the wall. JUDGE "SLEEPY" JALOPY, in sweat-stained shirtsleeves with thick coke-bottle glasses, is digging wax out of his ear with the cap of a fountain pen. CASIMIR storms in, dragging ZIPPY by the collar).

CASIMIR: Justice, Your Honor! I demand the electric chair—or at least ten years on the rock pile—for this pint-sized hoodlum! I gave him a job pushing my handcart, and the ungrateful little rat has been looting three whole bales of my finest Canadian wool!

JUDGE JALOPY: (Yawning cavernously) Pipe down, mister, you’re curdling my stomach acid. If the juvenile is a sticky-fingered delinquent, we’ll put it on the docket. Hey, kid, you got counsel, or do I ship you straight to the county home?

SILKY: (Striding majestically into the courtroom, flaunting his safety-pinned emerald-green suit while holding a white handkerchief over half his cheek as if nursing a toothache) Counsel for the defense is present and ready, Your Honor! Silky McGee, Attorney-at-Law, guardian of orphaned youth and pillar of the Chicago Bar!

CASIMIR: (Spins around, sees the blinding green cloth, then spots Silky's mustache behind the handkerchief. His jaw drops to his vest) Holy jumping Jehoshaphat!... It’s YOU! The lockjaw corpse from the fourth floor! Your Honor, arrest that lawyer—he’s wearing my three yards of Canadian cashmere held together with diaper pins!

SILKY: (With icy, aristocratic disdain) Objection, Your Honor. The plaintiff has clearly been drinking wood alcohol in the alley. I have never laid eyes on this raving peddler in my life.

CASIMIR: Never laid eyes on me?! Half an hour ago you were barking like a terrier on an iron cot and spitting shaving lather so you wouldn't have to pay me my hundred and fifty bucks or feed me your wife's Irish stew! Look at his cuff, Judge, the Detroit customs tag is still dangling off his wrist!

JUDGE JALOPY: (Slamming his wooden gavel repeatedly) Order! Order in this court! Mister Luxor, get a grip on yourself! Did you come into my Night Court to prosecute this boy for stealing bales of cloth, or did you come here to babble about lamb stew and shaving soap? Let’s get back to the bales, mister! Back to the bales!

CASIMIR: (Panting, wiping sweat from his forehead while glaring daggers at Silky’s green lapels) Yes, Your Honor, forgive me... Back to the bales! As I was saying, I trusted this kid with six dozen bolts of prime fabric... only—look at the way that green wool catches the light, Judge! That’s my fifty-dollar-a-yard emerald weave! He swore on my dead father's grave that the biscuits were in the oven, and then his old lady said my hair would fall out!

JUDGE JALOPY: (Rubbing his temples in agony) Sweet suffering Moses! What in blazes do hot biscuits and baldness have to do with this boy robbing your pushcart?! Stick to the larceny charge or I’ll hold you in contempt!

CASIMIR: (Losing all mental traction, gesturing wildly between Silky and Zippy) Because they’re in cahoots, Your Honor! The newsie stole the Irish stew to hide the bales! Wait—no! The foaming lawyer ate my three yards of green cashmere on the cot while this little punk pushed my dead father down the stairs! And the woman in the curlers threatened to shrivel my manhood for a hundred and fifty dollars!

SILKY: (Shaking his head with profound clinical pity) Your Honor, it is painfully obvious that this unfortunate merchant has suffered a cerebral hemorrhage brought on by the Depression. He is projecting his own financial hallucinations onto my innocent young client. Question the boy yourself, Judge, and witness the tragedy of this false accusation.

JUDGE JALOPY: I intend to! Step up to the rail, sonny. Take that cap off. Did you or did you not pilfer merchandise from this lunatic's handcart? Answer the court!

ZIPPY: (Snapping rigid, crossing his eyes, cupping his right hand around his ear like a megaphone, and belting out in a high-pitched, nasal lottery-caller chant) Four-eleven-forty-fooooour! Red Policy Wheel pays ten to ooooone!

JUDGE JALOPY: (Jerking back in his chair) What’s that? What four-eleven? I asked you about the stolen cloth, you impudent little whelp! Speak English!

ZIPPY: (Louder, staring blankly at the ceiling fan) Irish Sweepstakes Grand Priiiiize! Thirty-four thousand five hundred and eeeeeeighty!

CASIMIR: Don't buy that act, Judge! He’s sharper than a tack! Yesterday he calculated compound interest on a dice game in his head! Talk straight, Zippy, or I’ll wring your neck right here!

ZIPPY: (Leaning two inches from Casimir’s nose, at top volume) Seven-come-eleveeeeen! Ticket number ninety-two thousand six hundred and fiiiiive!

SILKY: (Dabbing an imaginary tear with his emerald sleeve) Heartbreaking, isn't it, Your Honor? The poor orphan was dropped on his head during a raid on a South Side policy station. His fragile mind is permanently stuck on the daily lottery results. Can the great State of Illinois convict a child who thinks he’s a walking raffle ticket?

CASIMIR: (Tearing at his sideburns, completely unhinged) He’s not a raffle ticket, he’s a thief! And you’re the kingpin! Your Honor, rip the safety pins off that shyster and you’ll see he’s naked under my green cashmere! He stole my stew, he stole my wool, he barked at my kidneys, and now he’s playing the numbers! I want my hundred and fifty bucks!

ZIPPY: Double zero on the booooard! No winners todaaaaay!

JUDGE JALOPY: (Leaping to his feet and slamming both fists on the desk) That does it! Court is adjourned! This isn't a hall of justice, it’s the psychopathic ward at Bellevue! One of you is howling lottery numbers in my ear, the other is raving about radioactive lamb stew, and the defense counsel looks like a giant green pool table! The boy is acquitted by reason of total idiocy—and as for you, Mr. Luxor, if you don't clear out of my courtroom in three seconds flat, I'm locking you in the booby hatch for thirty days! Clear the room! Out!

(Judge Jalopy grabs his fountain pen and coffee mug and storms out through the chambers door, slamming it shut. Casimir lunges wildly at Silky’s jacket to rip the cloth off, but impales his fingers on the hidden safety pins).

CASIMIR: Ow! My fingers! You haven't heard the last of Casimir Luxor, you green devil! I’m getting a squad of crooked cops! I’m getting a tommy gun! I’ll have that cashmere off your back even if I have to skin you alive! (He runs out into the street, nursing his bleeding fingers and howling in rage).

ACT FIVE: The Jackpot Double-Cross

(Outside the Night Court, on the foggy, neon-lit sidewalk of South State Street. Silky McGee struts out proudly, admiring his reflection in a puddle and adjusting his emerald lapels. Zippy tiptoes out behind him, trying to slip away quietly down the alley).

SILKY: (Snagging Zippy by the back of his suspender without even looking) Hold it right there, my little songbird! Where’s the fire? You wouldn't walk out on your legal savior without settling accounts, would you?

(He spins Zippy around, beaming with paternal pride).

SILKY: Now, wasn't that the finest display of constitutional wizardry you ever witnessed? The Judge bought it hook, line, and sinker, old Greenback is halfway to the lunatic asylum, and you, my boy, are free as a jaybird! And I must say, your lottery-number performance was worthy of the Schubert Theater. Now then, business is business. The Judge is gone, the coast is clear. Reach into that sock and hand over my twenty bucks.

ZIPPY: (Instantly crossing his eyes, cupping his hand to his ear, and chanting in the exact same nasal monotone) Eighty-six thousand four hundred and thiiiiirty!

SILKY: (Chuckling and patting Zippy’s cheek) Ha, ha! Very cute, kid, very funny. Stayed in character right past the curtain call. But we’re alone on the sidewalk now. Drop the act and fork over the twenty clams; Martha’s waiting for me so we can buy some real pork chops.

ZIPPY: (Without blinking, raising the volume) One hundred and twenty thousand dollaaaaars! Check your tickets, folks!

SILKY: (His smile fading into a cold scowl) Listen to me, you ungrateful little guttersnipe... cut the comedy. I invented that routine for you twenty minutes ago in my kitchen! Don't you try playing crazy on the master who taught you the tune. Hand over my twenty dollars right now!

ZIPPY: (Taking a slow step backward toward the curb, drawing a deep breath) Combination six-eight-twooooo!

SILKY: (Losing his temper completely, grabbing Zippy by the shoulders and shaking him so violently that three safety pins pop off his green jacket with loud metallic pings) Why, you pint-sized double-crosser! Nobody hustles Silky McGee with his own hustle! You pay my legal fee this instant or I’ll drag you back inside by your ears and tell Judge Jalopy myself that you’re saner than he is! Cough up my dough!

ZIPPY: (Slipping out of Silky’s grip like a greased eel, leaping backward onto his pushcart, cupping both hands around his mouth, and roaring at the top of his lungs) JAAAAAACKPOOOOOOT! NO REFUNDS, SUCKER!

(Zippy thumbs his nose at Silky, kicks the pushcart into gear, and rockets down South State Street into the fog).

SILKY: (Clutching his head as two more safety pins pop and the left sleeve of his emerald suit drops down to his wrist) Why, that treacherous little rat! He fleeced the fleecer! Police! Officer! Arrest that newsie, he’s absconding with my retainer!

(He takes a furious lunge to chase after Zippy, but his other shoe sole rips completely off with a loud "SMACK!" Silky stumbles into the center of the puddle, hopping on one soaked sock, holding up his unraveling green trousers with one hand and his detached shoe sole with the other).

SILKY: (To the audience, caught between outrage and the tragicomic admiration of a beaten con man) There’s no professional ethics left in Chicago! You teach the youth of America a respectable trade, and they bankrupt you before dinner!

(From offstage right, Martha’s voice booms across the street: "Silky McGee! Where's the grocery money, you old fraud?!" From offstage left, a police whistle shrieks and Casimir’s voice roars: "There he is, Officer! The guy in the green blanket! Shoot the pins off him!").

SILKY: (Eyes wide in panic, wrapping the loose green fabric around himself like a toga) Heaven help the working class—here comes the wife with the rolling pin and the bootlegger with the flatfoot! Every shyster for himself!

(A frantic, double-time 1930s Chicago jazz Charleston explodes from the speakers. Silky hops offstage at top speed on one shoe, chased a split second later by Big Martha swinging a heavy wooden broomstick, and Casimir Luxor dragging a fat Chicago beat cop blowing a brass whistle. The El Train roars overhead as the stage lights black out).

CURTAIN

THE END OF THE FARCE