The guy was on the perimeter of the crowd, off to my left. Through the crowd, something-someone-was moving, causing a wave in the sea of straw hats and Sears amp; Roebuck chapeaus, with the single-mindedness of a shark.

This, I knew, was trouble. I started moving through the crowd myself, even as Huey continued.

“Ladies an’ ge’men, I’m here to tell you that Prince Franklin Roosevelt, Knight of the Nourmahal, enjoyin’ himself on that million-dollar yacht with the Astors and royalty, lettin’ the farmers starve…why Prince Franklin, he was born with the sugar tit in his mouth. Been sucklin’ ever since. He’s worn out a dozen of ’em…now he’s grabbin’ for more.”

“Fascist!” the guy hollered.

I could see him better now, and I could see something else. Someone else.

Knocking people out of his way like bowling pins now, ignoring their cries of “Hey!” “Watch it, bub!” and the like, a squat, swarthy figure in a dark, baggy gangster’s suit was zeroing in on the heckler.

I picked up speed, earning a “Watch it!” or two, myself.

But Joe Messina-thick-necked fireplug of a man that he was, with a round face as free of thought or morality as a newborn baby’s-was already on the heckler, a skinny redneck in white shirt and red suspenders. The heckler was saying, “You backwoods Hit,” and never got to the “ler,” because that’s where Messina’s blackjack stopped the sentence.

The man’s howl was short and loud, when Messina laid that blackjack across the side of his head, but by the time the crowd had looked in that direction, Messina was hustling the guy off, behind a nearby tent.

Over the loudspeakers, Huey was in the process of explaining the difference between a hoot owl and a scrootch owl.