Dragon Tale Continued

If you haven't already done so, you have to read yesterday's post before this one.

Lord Snarly Flatulence staggered through the underbrush in something less than a good mood. He was drunk, of course, as he always was at this hour of the day, the hour preceding noon, and he carried with him the two things he considered essential to his daily endeavors, hard cider and really hard cider. Oh, and he also had a gun.

The path from the pub to Snarly's abode was often difficult to traverse as the jungle tried to eradicate it with new growth on a daily basis. This devious plot of nature to trip him up and twist him round combined with Snarly's inebriation, was causing his mood to go from less than good to black and bloody bad. What he most wanted in all he world at that moment was to shoot something, anything, so he could watch it suffer and die. This he knew from previous experience would raise his spirits to the I'm so happy I could kick a dog or beat a wench plateau which, truth be known, was about as high as his spirits ever went. After taking a swig of his really hard cider and washing it down with the lesser, Snarly weaved a step or two into the bush, stumbled and fell. Face down in the greenery, cursing and spitting something crawly from his mouth, Lord Flatulence' puffy and pimpled nose caught the scent of something he knew at once. It was the spoor of dragon he smelled and it was strong. There was surely, he thought, a dragon nearby.

(I would like to write more of this today, because I'm feeling it. But...I have a terrible back ache and I'm feeling that too. Don't you just hate it when that happens?)

Just Passing Time

So that story "Artist at Work" really sucks, eh? I agree. It's not too bad for a half, (how in the world can the word half be pronounced like it is?) but I really rushed to conclusion. Thing is, I wasn't that invested in the idea at the start and I just wanted to get it over with. Ah well, live and learn or learn and live, whichever.

I'm just back from getting my third cup of inspiration. I like the way the steam wafts from the blackness. Trouble is, the inspired ideas carried in the cup are disappearing in that soft smoke before they get to my brain. Do you think drinking faster would mean thinking faster? I hope not. The caffeine carrier is too hot to give that a go.

Let's see I've covered every issue known to man that starts with the letter F, food, family, films, friends, furry faces, folitics and the rainy feather, so I guess I will have to move on to something else. Pick a letter any letter, how about........W? Okay, let me see...I've got it! Wainscotting! What the hell is that anyway and did I spell it correctly?

(I'm not just killing time, I'm beating it to death with a dictionary.)

The greyness of the morning sky perfectly matched the hair but not the mood of our hero Sir Livingston Laughsalot, a misnomer if ever there were one. Livingston was more of a chuckle and grin guy than a belly belter outer who eschewed changing his name to Sir Chucklesalot only because of the clown implications inherent in the way that sounds. Livingston, on this day, was in search of dragons to mess around with because the whole dragon SLAYING thing gives him the willies and if you've ever had the willies, you know why Livingston gives them a wide berth.

Dragons, Livingston knew, were fun creatures at heart and a lot friendlier than Saints This-and-Thats who were all about running them through with their swords or, failing that, blasting them with their heat seeking missiles which was a clear violation of the weapons accords signed by them and seared by the dragons back in oh-twelve, gave them credit for. They would, in fact, play just about any game you could come up with if it involved flying, frying and scaring the crap out of passersby. What you needed to do, Livingston learned one day when he was too frightened to move, was exactly what he was doing then, stand your ground. If you did that and you displayed no weapons, the dragon would begin to make little feints and short runs like a puppy urging another to play. After that it was just a short jump to teaching the big green winged ladies and lads how to perform small tricks like play dead, barrel rolls and light my cigar from a hundred yards. Any dragon worth his salt could shoot a lick of flame thin as a pencil and they were not above showing off this talent if you encouraged them. Of course they could scorch an entire house if they wanted to, but in truth, they were pacifists and only fought in self defense. What they couldn't do was fly along while flaming so forget all those pictures where they are portrayed doing exactly that. I mean, come on, think about it. The fire would blow right back in their faces. The other thing you will never see happening is somebody riding on one. The dragon would shake them off easy as you would flick a bug from your arm with a fingernail. Take a close look at all the ridges on their backs and you can see they are not constructed for passengers. Besides that the down stroke of their wings is so strong it creates a vacuum that would suck any would be rider right off into space.

Livingston was in luck. One of his favorites, a dragon he had dubbed Fearful, because she was so shy at first, swooped out of the grey and landed before him. Fearful made an exaggerated dragon bow and, when seeing Laughsalot chuckle, knew the game was on. She tucked in her wings and scurried quickly into the nearby jungle. Flying is not allowed in drogon hide-and-seek unless you are playing with another dragon.

Livingston counted to the mandatory one hundred and then set off in pursuit of his pal. You would think that finding something as large as a dragon would be easy, but think about it, when was the last time you saw one? They have a way of walking lightly - perhaps using their wings to lift their great weight onto their toes without actually flying - and then folding themselves neatly into the jungle flora. To be fair, and to make their discovery a possibility, they leave behind small scorch marks on this branch and that and, of course, their distinct dragon scent lingers awhile in their wake. On this day though, while Fearful crouched in eager anticipation of springing out and startling Laughsalot into giggles, another entity prowled the jungle green and this one was not in search of fun.

Alrighty then. There you have that.

Middle Class Woes

I don't usually post other people's stuff here, but I found the following particularly notable.

The Middle Class in America Is Radically Shrinking. Here Are the Stats to Prove it
Posted Jul 15, 2010 02:25pm EDT by Michael Snyder in Recession

From The Business Insider

Editor's note: Michael Snyder is editor of theeconomiccollapseblog.com

The 22 statistics detailed here prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the middle class is being systematically wiped out of existence in America.

The rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer at a staggering rate. Once upon a time, the United States had the largest and most prosperous middle class in the history of the world, but now that is changing at a blinding pace.

So why are we witnessing such fundamental changes? Well, the globalism and "free trade" that our politicians and business leaders insisted would be so good for us have had some rather nasty side effects. It turns out that they didn't tell us that the "global economy" would mean that middle class American workers would eventually have to directly compete for jobs with people on the other side of the world where there is no minimum wage and very few regulations. The big global corporations have greatly benefited by exploiting third world labor pools over the last several decades, but middle class American workers have increasingly found things to be very tough.

Here are the statistics to prove it:

• 83 percent of all U.S. stocks are in the hands of 1 percent of the people.
• 61 percent of Americans "always or usually" live paycheck to paycheck, which was up from 49 percent in 2008 and 43 percent in 2007.
• 66 percent of the income growth between 2001 and 2007 went to the top 1% of all Americans.
• 36 percent of Americans say that they don't contribute anything to retirement savings.
• A staggering 43 percent of Americans have less than $10,000 saved up for retirement.
• 24 percent of American workers say that they have postponed their planned retirement age in the past year.
• Over 1.4 million Americans filed for personal bankruptcy in 2009, which represented a 32 percent increase over 2008.
• Only the top 5 percent of U.S. households have earned enough additional income to match the rise in housing costs since 1975.
• For the first time in U.S. history, banks own a greater share of residential housing net worth in the United States than all individual Americans put together.
• In 1950, the ratio of the average executive's paycheck to the average worker's paycheck was about 30 to 1. Since the year 2000, that ratio has exploded to between 300 to 500 to one.
• As of 2007, the bottom 80 percent of American households held about 7% of the liquid financial assets.
• The bottom 50 percent of income earners in the United States now collectively own less than 1 percent of the nation’s wealth.
• Average Wall Street bonuses for 2009 were up 17 percent when compared with 2008.
• In the United States, the average federal worker now earns 60% MORE than the average worker in the private sector.
• The top 1 percent of U.S. households own nearly twice as much of America's corporate wealth as they did just 15 years ago.
• In America today, the average time needed to find a job has risen to a record 35.2 weeks.
• More than 40 percent of Americans who actually are employed are now working in service jobs, which are often very low paying.
• or the first time in U.S. history, more than 40 million Americans are on food stamps, and the U.S. Department of Agriculture projects that number will go up to 43 million Americans in 2011.
• This is what American workers now must compete against: in China a garment worker makes approximately 86 cents an hour and in Cambodia a garment worker makes approximately 22 cents an hour.
• Approximately 21 percent of all children in the United States are living below the poverty line in 2010 - the highest rate in 20 years.
• Despite the financial crisis, the number of millionaires in the United States rose a whopping 16 percent to 7.8 million in 2009.
• The top 10 percent of Americans now earn around 50 percent of our national income.

Giant Sucking Sound

The reality is that no matter how smart, how strong, how educated or how hard working American workers are, they just cannot compete with people who are desperate to put in 10 to 12 hour days at less than a dollar an hour on the other side of the world. After all, what corporation in their right mind is going to pay an American worker 10 times more (plus benefits) to do the same job? The world is fundamentally changing. Wealth and power are rapidly becoming concentrated at the top and the big global corporations are making massive amounts of money. Meanwhile, the American middle class is being systematically wiped out of existence as U.S. workers are slowly being merged into the new "global" labor pool.

What do most Americans have to offer in the marketplace other than their labor? Not much. The truth is that most Americans are absolutely dependent on someone else giving them a job. But today, U.S. workers are "less attractive" than ever. Compared to the rest of the world, American workers are extremely expensive, and the government keeps passing more rules and regulations seemingly on a monthly basis that makes it even more difficult to conduct business in the United States.

So corporations are moving operations out of the U.S. at breathtaking speed. Since the U.S. government does not penalize them for doing so, there really is no incentive for them to stay.

What has developed is a situation where the people at the top are doing quite well, while most Americans are finding it increasingly difficult to make it. There are now about six unemployed Americans for every new job opening in the United States, and the number of "chronically unemployed" is absolutely soaring. There simply are not nearly enough jobs for everyone.

Many of those who are able to get jobs are finding that they are making less money than they used to. In fact, an increasingly large percentage of Americans are working at low wage retail and service jobs.

But you can't raise a family on what you make flipping burgers at McDonald's or on what you bring in from greeting customers down at the local Wal-Mart.

Artist at Work

Brother-in law Bill Reef and I were supposed to write this together, but he lost interest and dropped out after initiating the project. I took the bones of the story and ran with it because, what-the-hell, somebody had to do it.

Artist at Work
By Doc Walton

Harvey is dressed kind of nice, tan summer suit, soft yellow tie. He’s a little jumpy inside because he thinks he’s near a close, but he doesn’t show it because, well, he’s an artist, a con artist and he’s good at this.

“An investment now could bring you a double or triple return in a couple of years,” he says to the guy across the table.

That guy is a fit looking middle-aged man wearing a thin leather jacket that fits like a glove and probably cost him a fortune. He’s idly stirring an un-sipped cup of coffee while he ponders what the artist has told him.

“I don’t know,” he says, “it sounds good but…”

Harvey interrupts. “Look, Mark,” he says, thinking, man, what a perfect name, “I wouldn’t tell this to just anybody. It’s, you know, inside stuff, but I consider you a friend. We hit it off at the club and I figured you being a sports car nut like me, this might be something you’d take a flyer on. I mean, we’re not talking a lot of money.”

Mark the mark squirms a little in his seat and says he’s interested, he really is. Just doesn’t want to get crosswise with the SEC.

“Not to worry,” Harvey tells him, “nothing there to worry about. This is all legal. We’re just in on it early. We both know this area needs a track. I’ve talked to people from NASCAR and SCCA and they all say, how does it go, ‘build it and they will come’?”

The mark picks up his coffee, takes a sip, makes a face, reaches for the sugar.

“What you’re telling me,” he says. “is that I can get in on the ownership of a race track.”

Harvey the artist thinks, gotcha, says “You bet. Just a small percentage, of course. The developers want a local presence to present to the public, but they are not going to give up too much. Besides, I know you’re not made of money. He pauses a moment, picks up his own cup, thinks, he needs one more incentive, says, “Still, if you can swing it, the perks will be terrific… annual dividends, special events, owner’s box, the whole shooting match.”

“I’m interested,” the mark says. “I really am. I just have to think about it awhile. Can you draw up some papers for me? Something I can use to help me make up my mind.” He says this while standing and reaching for his wallet.

“No problem,” says the artist pulling out a money clip, picking up the check and waving off the mark. “I’ll get Legal to draw something up if you’re serious about this, but we’ll need an answer in a hurry. Things are going to happen fast, and if you don’t want in, I have other people I need to talk to.” Always good to let the mark think there are others in line.

The mark leaves and Harvey the artist returns to his booth. He orders more coffee and a two slices of dark toast. A woman gets up from a seat at the counter and joins him. She’s somewhere in her mid- to late-thirties but hot. Taller than average, plush red hair, deep green eyes and a sculpted chin line. When she walks to Harvey’s booth, every male eye in the diner watches her do it, and that tells you all you need to know about her figure. She’s no stranger to the artist. He looks up surprised and says, “Hello, Mo, long time no see and all that. What brings you to town? I thought you were settled down in Arizona.”

Her name is Maureen, but if you know her at all, it’s Mo. She takes a seat opposite the con man.

“I was,” she answers, “but it got a little warm there, so I thought I’d come north for awhile. Find some cooler air.”

A waitress approaches, and Mo orders Earl Grey.

She turns back to the artist and says, “What about you Harvey… it is still Harvey, right? What are you playing at these days?”

The artist says, “Yeah it’s still Harvey for now, but I prefer Harv. Don’t want to be confused with the big bunny.”

Mo laughs, gets the reference. The artist is pleased.

He says, “I’m a consultant actually. I put people with money to invest on to,” he pauses and chuckles, “uh… special situations.”

Mo looks at him and repeats “special situations,” but says nothing further.

Harvey’s toast and coffee and Mo’s Earl Grey arrive, and they spend a few seconds shuffling things around on the table. The artist is chewing on a piece of toast when Mo leans in and says, “So, is the mark going to bite or what?”

The artist damn near chokes. “What makes you think…?” he starts. “Why would you…?” And then, pulling himself together, “Is it that obvious?”

“Relax,” Mo tells him. “It’s a takes-one-to-know-one kind of thing. I’m sure you look downright earnest and genuine to most people.”

The artist thinks, I didn’t know she was this together, gets an idea. “Walk with me.” he says, “It’s a little too close in here.”

They leave the diner and neither speaks as they stroll toward the nearby Civic Center. It’s a late spring morning, warming rapidly, and they stop at a park bench facing Denver’s largest public library. The artist remains silent and Mo gets antsy. She breaks the ice.

“Okay,” she says, “the hot guy in the leather jacket, red silk shirt, sharing your booth back there…he’s the mark right?”

The artist nods. He’s got an odd look on his face like a man making a decision, but not quite there yet. He’s wary but seeing possibilities.

“C’mon Harv, give,” Mo urges.

“All right” the artist says, making up his mind. “Here’s the deal. The guy’s name is Mark Pierce. He’s a forty-four year old divorcee who owns three restaurants, lives in a Cherry Creek townhouse and drives a burgundy colored Porsche 911. The Porsche thing is important because he acts like he’s still in his thirties and fancies himself a driver.”

Mo says, “Okay…and your play is?”

The artist looks at her hard then, real hard. “Who wants to know” he says.

Mo laughs. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch” she says. “You know I’m not a cop, and I won’t steal your play. It’s just professional interest. Besides, I’m not doing anything at the moment…thought maybe I could help. Relieve the boredom so to speak. You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But…if that’s the case, why am I here?”

The artist thinks, she’s perfect. She can make this happen. He looks around to be certain they’re alone and then carefully and deliberately outlines his plan. “A few weeks ago there was an article in the Post about the possibility of a new race track –
cars, not horses – being built east of the old airport here in Denver. It takes a lot of money to build a race track… a lot of money. Investors large and small have to be found. The small-timers, like Mark, are my targets. They are way out of their element in a deal like this, because they don’t know how to follow their money. See how it gets used. For them it’s all about ego, you know, being an owner and a player.”

“I get that” Mo says. “What I don’t get is your angle.”

“It’s easy, Mo. I’m the Marketing Director. I handle the PR and the media, and I drum up excitement for the project. I find investors and I act as the liaison between those investors and the developers.”

“Who are the developers?”

The artist gives Mo another one of his hard looks, then breaks into a smile. “That’s just it, Kiddo,” he says. “There are none. The whole thing is simply a plausible rumor that I’m making look like a reality. I’m the one who put the notice in the paper to begin with. Now I make up a development corporation, call it Speer Speedway or something like that, and then,” the artist pauses and smiles again, because he likes this punch line, “and then… I deposit the checks.”

“Niiiccce,” says Mo, dragging out the word, “very nice indeed. And you’re telling me this because?”

Harvey thinks, I’m all in. Too late to change my mind. “Well, because you asked,” he says, “and it occurs to me that there will come a time when investor wants to meet developer. Who better, I’m thinking, than a beautiful, intelligent woman who looks like money in the bank? Someone who can be a perfect distraction. Can you be that distraction, Mo? Can you be a designated executive from, say, National Speedway, Inc.?”

Mo takes less than a second to consider. She likes the set-up. “For the right price, Harv” she says, “I’ll be the Queen of Sheba. Question is, what’s the right price?”

The con takes a long look at his potential partner like he’s pondering the question. What he’s really thinking is, she’s gorgeous. Fills out her blouse like a bra model and has the kind of legs most men would die to follow to hosiery’s end. She’ll be a distraction all right. I’ll have to keep my own mind on business.

“Let’s talk money later” he says. “There’ll be plenty to go around.”

On cue his cell rings and he puts it to his ear. “Great,” he says, “great. I’ll talk to my people and see how much they are willing to part with. Back at you no later than…Thursday, okay?”

He snaps the phone cover shut and laughs. “Mo,” he says, “this is cake. That was Mark. He wants in and has a couple of buddies chomping at the bit for a piece of the action as well. This, I think, calls for a celebration. What do you say to lunch? Lodo maybe, some place nice?”

Mo smiles, says, “You name it Harv. Your town, your call. I’m over at the Hilton, room 112, first floor up the escalator above the coffee shop. Do you want to pick me up or meet me?”

Lower downtown Denver has evolved with an influx of money and smart developers from a rough area of warehouses, decaying factories, bad-assed bars and homeless people into one of the cities hottest attractions. Upscale franchise shops, boutiques, trendy restaurants and a beautiful stadium for Denver’s major league baseball team have transformed the area.

Mo and the artist are seated under a large umbrella that reads “Cinzano” in bright colors at a restaurant named Pintos. They order wine before looking at their menus. Mo is dressed in pleated slacks and a silk blouse. There are pearls at her throat. She’s wearing a skosh more makeup than she had that morning. The overall effect is understated elegance.

Harvey sits mesmerized and has to force himself not to stare. He’s a fast talking artist at a loss for words. He covers his discomfort by tossing the conversational ball to his new partner. “So tell me, Mo, what have you been doing since that day I saw you at Turf Paradise?”

Mo doesn’t hesitate. She figures a job interview is in order. “Well,” she begins, “you already know my husband Tony and I owned a small copying, printing and mailing business. We actually did okay on the legit side, but the real money was in fake ID’s, passports, licenses, social security cards, what-have-you. You did a little business with us so you know what I’m talking. You also know from seeing us at the Turf club, we liked to play the ponies.”

Mo pauses a moment as a darker part of her memory comes to mind and she looks away briefly toward the old clock tower that still stands across the mall from the restaurant. When she looks back at the con man, her eyes are moist, but she carries on.

“What you probably don’t know, Harv, is that my husband died in a car accident two years ago.”

He says he didn’t and he’s sorry, but she talks right over him.

“I was still grieving and kind of a mess when a month later a couple of muscle heads show up carrying Tony’s markers. Like I needed that. It turns out that Tony, damn his sweet black heart, had been betting heavily and losing. He had taken out loans to cover those losses so I wouldn’t know. And now, when I’m thinking it can’t get worse, here come these low-lifes to collect.”

Mo sips wine, gathers her thoughts.

“Anyway, they want 50 large and I can’t come up with anything near that. In lieu of the money, the creeps tell me they will take my shop, the lease, the equipment, everything. To be fair they tell me, and so it’s all legal, they will pay me about half what it’s worth. Real sweethearts these guys. I’m also told this is a one time offer, take it or leave it. The consequences of leave it they don’t spell out, and I wasn’t up for asking. I agree to the deal because I have to. I mean, what else can I do?”

Harvey refills her wine glass, says nothing.

“As you can imagine, at first I was intimidated and scared. Later though, after I’d thought about it, I got royally pissed. I’d worked too hard to let some cheap hoods take advantage of me when I was down.”

The artist nods, says, “Do tell.”

“What I did was, I went to the company that owns and manages the property with a proposal that they give me a long term lease on my shop. I told them I had contracted to become a Fed Ex outlet and retail distribution center. The packet of materials I presented them had letters of introduction, commitment guarantees and revenue projections, all of which, of course, I had made with our equipment. With Fed Ex as a partner, I told them, I was willing to pay double the current rent for the space and I threw in a revenue sharing percentage as a kicker. The management people jumped all over the deal.”

The artist sits back, admiring the story as much as the story teller. “Go on.”

Mo takes a couple more sips of vino. Stalls, let’s Harvey wait for it. She knows she’s got his attention.

“Telling them I was cash poor at the moment, I ask for some up front money to do some necessary remodeling. I say to they could spread the amount over the first two years of the new lease with ten percent interest. I also tell them I had co-signers to secure the note. Of course, I had to bat my eyelashes a little and play the flirtatious widow here and there, but I had the money in my hands before the week was out.”

The artist applauds softly and says, “Beautiful! So you take the money, pay off the heavies and walk away. I love it.”

Mo gives the artist a patient smile and says, “Not even close. I go back to the shop and create a new lease leaving out the increased rent, the revenue sharing and the loan agreement. When the creeps come back, I give them a quitclaim deed for the shop and have them sign the phony lease, which I said I would deliver to the mall owners so they could remain incognito, and then, the best part, they give me 50k instead of the other way around! And, get this Harv, they give it to me in cash!”

The artist is truly impressed. He thinks, she’s good, she’s really good, says, “So you put the faux signature page with the new contract and send it back to the mall people.”

“Exactly. It won’t hold up, but I figure it will keep them all busy for awhile with accountants and attorneys while I do a Houdini and disappear. And that’s exactly how it played out. I cashed the mall owner’s check, emptied the store’s and my personal checking accounts, left my car in long term parking and flew to Atlanta. I got a new driver’s license with a bogus birth certificate I’d printed, rented a car and drove to Miami. I’ve been there until now, playing the horses and doing the beach.”

The artist is touched. This is too beautiful. He reaches across the table and lightly clutches Mo’s forearm. “And how” he asks, “did that make you feel?”

Mo gives him her broadest smile yet. “Liberated,” she says, “goddamn liberated!”

The oath catches Harvey completely by surprise. He bursts out laughing so loud he has to stifle it with his napkin.

After lunch they walk the downtown mall and window shop, making small talk, getting acquainted. During the meal they had settled easily on a sixty-forty split, it was Harvey’s con after all. Mo asks him where he’s staying.

“I’m over at the Cambridge,” he says. “It wreaks respectability.”

Then she asks him why he’s meeting a guy in a downtown coffee shop when the guy owns three restaurants.

The con man laughs, says, “You don’t miss much. Mark was downtown to pay speeding tickets. The coffee shop was convenient for us both. But what about you? Why were you there?”

“Couple reasons” Mo says. “First, hotels charge too much for average food. Second, too many people coming and going. Some of them are looking for other people.”

“You think someone’s looking for you?” he asks.

“Could be. Some of these hard cases have real long memories. I’d be difficult to recognize though.”

“Why? I knew you right off.”

“Sure,” Mo says. “But I was two feet from you. When I left Scottsdale, I had long brownish-blonde hair and was ten or twelve pounds lighter. Only people who knew me pretty well would make me now.”

The artist seems satisfied with that and they part shortly after, Harvey saying he’ll be in touch.

True to his word he calls less than three hours later.

“We’re on, meeting Mark at his restaurant, Romeo’s, at nine. I want to pick you up at eight though, so we can work out details. Okay by you?”

Mo says she’ll be ready.

At eight sharp they’re in the car fine tuning her character. She’s going to be a lobbyist for the developer, whose identity must remain undisclosed for the moment. She and Harvey had met at the developer’s office and had worked in tandem since then. Mo’s job is to liaise between the developer and the various city and state government offices with the intention of expediting the project, securing support and possibly obtaining public funding to augment that of private investors. Private investors though, will be at the heart of the venture, and if Harv and Mo can scare up enough of them, there will be more feathers in their caps…so to speak. Harv is working, for now, on a consultant basis, but if ultimately hired for the PR position, he will report to Mo. They agree this tweak in the cover story will give Mo a patina of power, enhancing her credibility.

When they arrive at the restaurant, Mark is walking around directing his staff and talking with patrons here and there. He stops long enough to say hello to the con man and be introduced to Mo before he has his hostess show them to a booth along the back wall of the restaurant. There they order drinks and don’t say much as they sip and look around the room. Mo’s mind is on Mark Pierce. She has felt some kind of a small, physical jolt at his appearance and is drawn to him in a way she has not felt since meeting her now-deceased husband. She can’t put her finger on what it is. I mean, she thinks, he’s balding and kind of burly, so why am I so anxious to see him again?

They have just finished their cocktails when Mark reappears and tells them to go ahead and order, he’ll join them later. He has sampled all the entries in the kitchen and isn’t hungry but promises to be back for coffee and dessert so they can talk. “Whatever you like,” he tells them, “it’s on the house.” He gives Mo a long once-over as he says this and then leaves to make the rounds of other tables.

While they are eating and making idle conversation, Mo gets that curious, but often unerring feeling that she is being watched. She begins to glance around the room suspecting, and let’s face it hoping, her gaze will find Mark looking her way. He is not, however, anywhere in evidence. The room’s other diners all seem busy with their drinks and meals, oblivious to her presence. She is about to return to her own scaloppini and Harv’s droning on about one racecar or another when her eyes alight on two men across the room in a small booth. When she looks directly at them, they turn away and busy themselves shuffling food around on their plates and talking, Mo thinks, self consciously. She can’t quite make them out, their table sits in a shadow, but she knows they were staring at her. Periodically over the next ten minutes while a waiter clears their table, Mo glances at the men and several times finds them hastily averting their eyes from hers. She is just about to mention this to Harv when Mark returns to the table and the two men are momentarily forgotten. When, after a bit, she looks their way again, the men are gone.

“So,” Mark says, “what can I bring you, more coffee, a liqueur, dessert?”

They settle on Grand Marniers and Mark joins them at the table, scooting in on Mo’s side of the booth. His thigh lightly touches hers as he does so and Mo feels a trickle of something vaguely electric race up her spine. She takes a sip from her snifter to cover her slight blush.

“Okay,” Mark says, “tell me everything I need to know to make this thing happen.”

Harvey and Mo launch into their cover story and then just wing plausible answers to Mark’s follow up questions. They promise to have all the necessary paperwork in Mark’s hands in a week to ten days. After that it will be up to Mark to seal the deal, meaning a check will be required. Harvey suggests an initial hundred thousand dollars as a reasonable show of interest and when Mark doesn’t flinch, adds that he doesn’t know for sure how much ownership the developers are willing to part with, but promises to find out if Mark decides he would like a bigger bite.

At the door to the restaurant, they shake hands and Harvey walks off to deal with the car retrieval. Mark clings to Mo’s hand a moment and asks her if she and Harvey are a couple or just a working duo. Maureen gives him a throaty little chuckle and looks him in the eyes. “Just colleagues” she says. “Why do you ask?”

“Because tomorrow,” he answers, “I’m driving to my Vail restaurant and it’s a beautiful drive and I hate going alone and I thought you might find it fun to…”

Mo cuts him off with a big smile and says, “I’m there. What time?”

Out at the curb the valet pulls up with Harvey’s car and hands him the keys. Harvey beeps for Mo just as Mark releases her hand and says, “Your hotel…nine o’clock.”

A moment later, Harvey eases the car from the front of the restaurant and out into the night’s traffic. A dark sedan with two men inside slips from the curb a half block away and tucks in behind him. It remains there at a three car interval until Harvey drops Mo at her hotel. It cruises past then, and disappears into the night.

Mo is dressed and ready and has a day bag packed when Mark picks her up the next morning. She’s told Harvey she wanted the day to herself, and he agreed saying things were moving kind of fast and some down-time might be good for both of them.

The morning is warm and sunny and Mark is driving with the top down. He likes to drive fast and he accelerates into curves just hard enough to feel the tug of the g-forces pushing them into their seat’s upright. Mo finds it exhilarating watching Mark’s confident hands on the wheel as he deftly maneuvers through curve after mountain curve. She finds herself blushing when she realizes early on that she’s wondering how those hands would feel on her own ample curves.

At one point the radar detector mounted on the dash beeps, and Mark slows until a state patrol car passes on the other side of the divided highway. They make it to Vail in under two hours. He pulls into the parking garage at Lions Head, and they walk toward the gondola loading area.

Within a couple of minutes, he points to his right. “That’s my joint.”

The restaurant sits back behind a wide deck on which there are an assortment of tables, chairs and market umbrellas. Vail Valley Vittles has, the sign in the front window proclaims, the “award-winning burgers and bratwurst.”

“Nice thing about this time of year is that we can sit outside,” Mark says. “Gets too cold for most people during the ski season, although we bring in a few fire pits and surround them with some of the chairs. I’ll show you the inside, and then I’ll get one of my gals to bring us some food.”

Mo positions herself so she is shaded by the big umbrella, and so she can watch the broad walkway where tourists stroll.

In the fashion of two people wildly attracted to each other, the day becomes a magical journey of discovery. He wants to know all there is of her and she of him. They eat, they talk and she watches him work with his staff.

He says he keeps a studio apartment in the lodge above the restaurant. In the late afternoon with the sun glowing crimson through the drapes, he takes her to bed. And the magic continues.

On the drive back to Denver there is more talk, and this time there is some honesty.

After a lingering kiss and promises for the morrow, Mo goes into the hotel and up to her room. Before she can find the light switch, a hand closes over her mouth and strong arms drag her into the room. She struggles, but to no avail.

“If you scream,” a voice says, “he will break your jaw and knock you out…understand?”
Mo nods and the hand slides slowly, tentatively from her mouth. She is led to one of the room’s two cushy chairs and told to sit. Across from her, in the other chair, a razor thin, elderly man in a dark suit flicks on a table lamp and stares at her, saying nothing.

Mo is the first to talk. “Who are you and what do you want?” she asks, although thinking she already knows.

“My name is unimportant,” the thin man says. “But for the record and because a person should know the name of the last face they will ever see, it’s Emilio. “What is important is that you owe some people money…lots of money.”

The other man, a big man, has moved a desk chair close to Mo and now sits on it blocking any avenue of escape she might consider.

“How do you figure?” she says.

“The thin man says one word, “Scottsdale.” And Mo knows she’s been made.

“Okay,” she says stalling, her mind whirling, looking for an option. “Give me a number.”

“A number she wants,” the thin man says, looking at his partner, “a number.” He turns back to Mo. “And like that you give me the money and I go away. Is that how you see it?”

“Would work for me,” Mo says, “if I had any money.”

“Let me tell you how this is going to play out, Miss I Think I Can Fuck With The Big Boys And Get Away With It. You are going to pay in one of two ways. First, if you really have no money, I make an example of you for all the other piss-ants who think they can screw with my clients…and me. You will, of course, beg me to die before it is over and, eventually, when I feel like it, you will. The second way, because I am a reasonable man, is that you pay double what you owe and then I punish you anyway. This way, though, you get to live.”

Mo has an idea. “There is no way I can pay you right now,” she says, “so you’ll probably want to kill me… but… if you give me a little time…I’m not asking for much… I know how to get the money and a lot more… more than I took.”

The thin man leans back, puts his hand out to his crony and says, “Cigarette.” The big man pulls a pack from a shirt packet, gives him one and lights it. The thin man inhales deeply, looks at Mo. “Really” he says skeptically. “Make me a believer.”

“Okay,” Mo begins, “you know I’m good at a running a con. I mean I fooled your people.”

Emilio looks hard at her. “Watch your mouth. And they’re not my people. They just hired me to get their money back…and deal with you.”

She ignores the threat. “Look, I can handle complex details and I can see them through. I’m working an angle right now that could make me walk-away rich. I’m talking A LOT of money; you get me…A LOT. If you let me go through with the con, I’ll put you in for half. How does that sound?”

The thin man snorts. It’s meant to be a laugh. “I’m going to listen to your…con. Hear what you have to say. After that, if I think you are playing me… your painful death will begin soon and take longer. If I believe you…which seems unlikely… and we go with your game…I will decide how much you get to keep, not you. Are we clear on that?”

Mo nods.

“Tell me then,” Emilio says smirking, “about your big it’s going to make me and my clients rich deal.”

Mo tells all, Harvey’s whole plan. She tells it though, as if it were hers. Harvey is never mentioned. When she’s finished, she looks nervously at the thin man who rises, says nothing, and walks to the door. The big man opens it for him and the thin man walks through. He turns and with no expression looks one last time at this clever redhead. “You will be watched…every moment,” he says to her, “from now until there is money in my hands.” The door closes and he walks away.

The next morning Mo joins Harvey in the same café where they first met and teamed up. She tells him what happened the night before.

Harvey says, “I’ve heard of this guy Emilio. He’s a local enforcer for hire, supposedly connected to the north side hoods. His reputation is he’s a slice and dice freak. Likes to carve up people before he kills them. He supposedly has a kid brother, Ernesto, who is mentally challenged but does whatever Emilio tells him… including beating people to death with his bare hands. He could be the big guy.

“These are not people to screw with, Mo. You better have a really good out.”

“That’s the problem.” Mo says. “I don’t. I would run if I thought I could get away, but I doubt I would get far. Somehow they managed to trace me to here.

“I think the only thing I can do now is go ahead with the con and give my share away. You can back out now, if you want to. I’m sure this is more than you bargained for.”

“I don’t think the con would work without me,” the artist says. “Besides, it’s my con, and we’re too close to the money to quit now. You say Emilio doesn’t know about me, so I can work angles while you’re being watched. I’m arranging for all the bogus paperwork right now and after that, well, the ball will be in Mark’s court. If he and his buddies post the money, you can buy your way free and I’ll make like smoke and vanish. Maybe after that we can meet somewhere down the road, and I’ll find you another money maker.”

Mo, thinking hard about something else, says, “Thanks, but my conning days will be over. If I get out of this in one piece, I’m going to be June Fucking Cleaver.”

What she’s thinking about is Mark…the mark. What Harvey doesn’t know and she can’t tell, is that the con is off. Mark knows all. Harvey is screwed and she’s royally fucked, most likely dead. “Look,” she says, “I have no choice but to be in this all the way. You can and should run not walk to the nearest exit. You said yourself these guys are worse than bad news. C’mon, screw the money Harvey, it’s not worth it.”

Harvey reaches across the table and takes her hands in his. She looks up at him and he holds her eyes with his own. “You told me once you felt ‘liberated’ when you pulled off the con that got you out from under your dead husband’s debts. Well that con is back now and it’s biting you in the ass. That’s how it goes sometimes.

“You can’t walk a straight line out. Once a con is in motion, you’ve got to play it as far as you can. When it’s good, you take the money and walk. When it’s bad, you keep playing it, looking for another angle. So you’re right, you are in all the way, Mo. But so am I. That leaves us only one thing to do and that’s to do this…together.”

Mo thinks, Oh crap, if he only knew, says, “Thanks Harvey, you’re a good guy.”

She spends the rest of the day lying on her hotel bed staring at the ceiling. When she gets up, she does so abruptly. She telephones Mark and arranges to see him that night. She showers, dresses and walks out to the lobby to await her date. She doesn’t care about the big man she sees rise from a lobby sofa and move to the adjoining glassed-in dining room where he continues to glance in her direction from time to time. She doesn’t care, because she has an idea.

When Mark picks her up, she instructs him to “just drive around awhile.” She tells him what happened after she left him the night before. Mark is stunned and wants to interrupt, but Mo shushes him until she gets all the way through the encounter with Emilio.

When she finishes, he drives a couple of blocks further and finally speaks. His thought is simple and clear. “Either we leave the country or we go to the police.”
Mo gives him a sad smile and explains, “Both are just temporary solutions, Mark. They will find me no matter where I go… and the police? The police have nothing. They can bring Emilio and his brother in for questioning, but they have nothing to hold them on…just yet”

“Then what are we going to do, Mo? I can’t let them hurt you.”

Mo lets the question hang there for a moment while she gathers her thoughts and decides where to start. “Just keep driving and listen to me, Mark. I have an idea that I think will work if we all play our parts right.” She pauses then. “The first thing is,” she continues, “the con has to continue.” She goes on talking and while Mark listens fascinated, amazed by his new love’s mind, she outlines her entire plan.

This time when she finishes there are no more questions. Mark drives straight to his condo and they tumble into bed. When death seems a real and imminent possibility, physical love is the strongest expression of life.

Across town Harvey the artist has ideas of his own. He lies fully dressed on his king-size bed, hands behind his head giving additional support to the bed’s fat pillows. He thinks, is she playing me? Is this guy Emilio really threatening her? Why does she want me out? Could it be the mark? She seemed all google-eyed with him at Romeo’s. Maybe she wasn’t acting. Is she playing it straight or playing an angle? He finally comes to a conclusion. He reaches for his phone to make a call, but before he can, it rings. When he hangs up the receiver, everything has changed.

When she returns to the Hilton lobby, Ernesto is startled when Mo smacks down the newspaper he was using to cover his face. She makes it short. “Tell your brother we need to talk.” She stares at him a minute, making sure he understands. He nods and she goes up to her room. Five minutes later the phone rings.

The voice on the phone says one word, “Speak.”

Mo tells it, “The deal is done. The mark is ready to hand over 100k for his earnest money. Thing is, he won’t give it to me. I told him I would bring the project’s principle developer, someone with clout enough to accept the money. That’s got to be you. And get this next part, the mark’s bringing cash because he says these are funds he doesn’t want anyone to know he has. Oh, and PLEASE, don’t bring your brother. He doesn’t fit the profile for this kind of meeting. I’ve booked a small conference room at my hotel so this looks like a legit happening. We are going to meet at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. You have to be there and play your part, so listen up.”

When she is done, Emilio says, “All right, I got it. But be careful. Don’t fuck this up.” Mo’s phone goes dead.

Her next move is to get Harvey and Mark together. Mark knows both sides of the story. Harvey doesn’t. When he learns he’s been burned, he is reluctant to face Mark. But Mo tells him it will be okay, that Mark understands. And under the existing circumstances, this looks like their only play.

At three o’clock on the next day afternoon while conference rooms are emptying all over the city to send their occupants home or to happy hour, one remains in use. Mo and Mark sit in it silently, nervously waiting for a thin, elderly, but very dangerous man to join them. On the table rests an ordinary brown briefcase. Its contents though, are far from ordinary. It contains one thousand, hundred dollar bills.

When the thin man arrives, introductions are made, bogus but very convincing. Dressed in a dark suit, dark shirt and tie, Emilio presents a surprisingly professional appearance. Mo introduces Mark as the investor. She has provided Emilio with just enough background information so he would think he's going to come off like a legitimate developer to Mark. The killer says little but avoids any hoodlum attitude or slang.

Papers are signed and hands are shaken. At this moment Mark’s phone rings. He answers, listens for a moment and then tells the others, “It’s one of my maitre de’s. I’ve got to take this.” He moves to the door and opens it.

Mo turns to the thin man and says, “Are we done, Emilio? That’s a lot of money you have there. Twice what I took off your clients. Even with the vig, I imagine you get a hefty percentage. Thirty percent? Forty? What’s your little brother get?”

Emilio says, “There are things my brother doesn’t have to know and this is one of them. He is, as you may have noticed, a little slow. But that is neither here nor there. You said there are other investors. I want their money too. This…con, as you call it, is over when I tell you it’s over.”

Mark steps aside. “And you can tell her it’s over right now,” Harvey the artist says as he enters to the room. He is holding a gun on Ernesto who walks in front of him. “You are all under arrest. This room has been wired. The big boy here and I have been listening to everything you’ve said. It’s also on tape.”

He looks first at Mo and then at the thin man. “But before you freak out, I want you to listen. I’ve got a proposition to make. First though, you better calm this lug nut down before I have to…”

What happens next happens very fast. It is not part of Mo’s plan. Ernesto takes two quick steps forward and grabs his brother by the throat. He’s enraged. “I don’t need to know,” he growls, “because I’m slow?”

Emilio is startled and reacts instinctively. What he does, he doesn’t mean. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother, but he has reacted too quickly to stop himself. He has shoved the long, sharp blade that rests inside his sleeve deep into Ernesto’s side. It slips smoothly between his ribs. Ernesto feels it and his rage grows. He digs his thumbs deeper into Emilio’s throat. Emilio knows sudden fear and his knife sinks twice more, through ribs into lung and heart. Ernesto’s eyes go dim then blank, but before he falls, he gives one last twist to Emilio’s throat. The crack can be heard throughout the room. Their bodies fall entwined across the conference table, tipping it, and crashing loudly to the floor.

Mark reaches for Mo, holds her and asks if she is okay. She says she’s never seen violence like that before. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not part of the plan. Mark pulls her closer. They’re not aware of much but each other for a moment or two. They finally part at the sound of a door slamming far down a hallway.

Mo says, “Where’s Harvey?”

Mark says, “Where’s the money?”

The plan had been simple. Harvey was going to be a dirty cop. He was going to take the money and threaten the brothers with exposure if they tried to blow the whistle. The room really had been bugged and there really was a tape. Afterwards, Mark would get his money back.

They all knew the con was dead, but Mark had agreed to give Harvey a cool ten g’s for playing his part. It wouldn’t be what the artist had set out for, but all things considered, not a bad payday.

They knew Ernesto would be hanging around near his brother, probably in the hotel lobby again, and he would have to be compromised. He was though, truthfully slow, and getting the drop on him was not difficult.

There was a bit more, of course, than that to Mo’s plan. Should it all go awry, the real cops would be called in. The money was marked.

Holding Mark’s hand, Mo says, “I guess now we have to blow the whistle on Harvey. Bummer. He was a straight up guy…until now.”

“You know what?” Mark says. “If it wasn’t for Harvey, we wouldn’t be together. And when we told him you’d screwed up his con, he didn’t get pissed, he just went right along with the new plan. I think the police are going to be more than thrilled just to have these two creeps out of the picture. I say to hell with the money. Let Harvey keep it. He earned it and I’ve got lots more.”

On a Trailways bus heading east, Harvey picks at a box of KFC and smiles to himself. He knew it would work out in the end. It always does. Harvey is not just a con man, he’s an artist.

Writing Wrut and a Wreview

Bit of a rut, eh what, Old Nut?

True dat.

I'm thinking (and THERE might be the problem) I need to get a work of fiction underway soon. The creative portion of my brain, the largest part, is atrophying at an alarming rate. The thinking, rational, intellectual portion of my brain, that pea sized spot over on the left that gets me from point A to point 2, having already shrunk from the mighty walnut it once was, is tired of doing all the heavy lifting while the creative part sips margaritas, lies in the shade and naps. I need an idea, any idea, it doesn't even have to be a good idea. Finish the radio drama you say. Yeah yeah, well sure, maybe next week.

Muses are so damn lazy.

So there I was all excited that Anaconda 3 was about to play on my very own TV tube, what with Anaconda 2 cleverly titled "Anacondas" having been such a raging success, if by success I mean flopping worse than soccer player looking for a foul call. 3 promised a sixty foot long serpent that bit people's heads off and that is what it delivered in as bloody a manner as the director, surely a twisted twelve year old, could devise and I have no criticism there. These are good things in a horror movie if you don't make them too slimy. I mean the object is to scare the viewers, not to make them squirm and turn away. Well, it is to my way of thinking anyway. What disappointed me about the film were two things. The first was that the snakes were cartoon drawings overlaid on the screens action. Really, if modern special effects can make a T-Rex look real, how hard can a snake be? The second turn off was that David Hasselhoff, the movie's star, didn't get his head bitten off, a thing he clearly deserved in this flick and most of his other entertainment endeavors. Ah well, maybe he'll get his comeuppance in Anaconda 4.

Why do they do it?

Rented a couple of movies yesterday. Here are my reviews:

"Sherlock Holmes" Sherlock as an action hero? Works for me.

"Alice in Wonderland" Alice as an action hero? Oh hell, why not?

I wanted to rent "The Wolfman" (Hombrelobo or Lobohombre, I'm not sure which is correct.) but the video store didn't have it yet. Bummer. (Does anyone other than Yers Truly still say bummer?) Benecio Del Torro stars. I wonder if the director will make the Wolfman an action hero. Might as well. No point in bucking the trend.

(Pause to obtain third cup of coffee, the equivalent of jumper cables to the brain. "OKAY, TRY IT AGAIN. er-er-er-er-er-er. STILL NOTHING.)

I'm only writing this blog because the three that precede it are long bits and I wouldn't want someone stumbling on to Monkeymind to think they are all like that. "Don't read this guy, Dear, he drones on and on."

So there I was walking contentedly along, if by contentedly I mean desperately trying to hold my dogs in check, when a chicken crossed the road in front of us. (Why do they do that?) The dogs, Raffi and Matti, shown in the pictures at the left of this blog as benign and adorable Cockers, are in actuality born fowl killers. The sight of feathered prey audaciously trotting to their fore caused them to lurch into ferocious action with said lurch having the additional consequence of dumping me on my ass, dog leashes yanked from my hands. I need mention here that this human/canine comedy took place directly in front of an Indian abode in whose doorway stood one of its many occupants, a man. In the briefest moments of time it took me to gather my senses from wherever they had gone and to determine I was mostly uninjured, while simultaneously shouting "NO NO" loudly at my little beasties, the foul fowl was pinned to the road and somewhere in the distant background of my mind I could hear Howard Cosell dramatically shouting, "Down Goes Frasier." As I gradually regained my footing and rushed too late to the chicken's rescue, I shouted to the man in the doorway, who, I also need add, never moved a muscle throughout the drama taking place in front of him, that I would pay for the chicken. I presumed it was his. "Lo siento, Senor, yo pago para la gallina." This was not the correct verb tense, but I'm sure he got the idea as I had, in fact, paid for dead chickens in the past. I gathered up the dog leashes in my hand while scolding my mutts loudly to impress the onlooker, knowing, of course, my words were in the wasted category as my Dog is not as good as my Spanish and proceeded down the road. After a half dozen steps or so, I was compelled by curiosity even knowing what that does to cats, to look back over my shoulder and see the carnage left behind. To my amazement, there was the chicken rising to its feet, shaking out its feathers and continuing its journey across the road. I thought two things: there's a chicken with a tale to tell and, Alrighty Then, I've just saved a buck!

Cherry Key and the Secret of Volcan Baru

Parts one and two of my radio drama. (I should probably finish this some day.)

Cherry Key and the Secret of Volcan Baru

A Radio Drama by Doc Walton


Narrator: Good evening (day) ladies and gentlemen (fair listeners?) As our story begins we find Cherry and her boyfriend Geraldo Serracin hiking up Boquete’s Pipeline Trail. With them is Cherry’s dog Spike, a mixed breed that is fiercely loyal to Cherry, but not the smartest pup in the litter. Slung over Cherry’s shoulders is a backpack of considerable size without which she never leaves her house.

Cherry: So tell me Geraldo, why do they call this the Pipeline Trail?

Geraldo: Por supuesto Katie. It got its name muchos anos ago when Indians from the other side of Baru used this trail to smuggle pipes down the mountain for use by the smokers in the valley.

Cherry: You’re kidding.

Geraldo: Ha! Of course I am. It’s because of that huge water pipe that runs along side the trail. See it over there?

Cherry: Oh is that what that is? Reach inside my pack and grab my camera, will ya? I want to get a picture of that thing.

Geraldo: Should I pose over there by the pipe?

Cherry: No, I want to get a PRETTY picture.

Geraldo laughs again.

Cherry: Go over there by the pipe Spike. You’re the good looking one here. I want to take your picture.

Spike: Barking sounds.

Cherry: Okay, forget it Spike. Jumping at my finger when I’m pointing is not what I had in mind.

Narrator: Cherry, Geraldo and Spike continue up the trail making small talk about the plants and wildlife. Geraldo is Panamanian and knows about these things. Cherry is from New York and doesn’t. Suddenly, from the forest around them comes …


Cue weird howling noise, frantically barking dog.


After it stops.

Cherry: Quiet Spike! Quiet, quiet! What the hell was that Geraldo? Some kind of Monkey?

Geraldo: I don’t know Cherry. I’ve never heard anything like it before. It sounded como un animal…but it was… much too loud. Yo creo if that was un animal we’d have seen it, would we not?

Cherry: We sure would!. That was just TOO spooky. I’m not turning back though, I don’t care what it was. We’re about halfway to the top of Baru, aren’t we? If my Dad was right, there is something there I have to find. I promised myself I would do this and I’m not going to let some silly noise stop me even if it WAS spooky. Are you with me?

Geraldo: Es verdad Cherry. I no want to go back either.

Cherry: Spike?

Dog barks.

Geraldo: The trail gets muy angosto aqui so stay close behind.

Narrator: Our three hikers start off again, walking slower, more cautiously in single file. They stop from time to time to listen to the noises around them, but nothing seems out of place. At a small clearing along the way they stop for a bite to eat.

Cherry: Geraldo, grab the picnic basket from my pack. It’s over by that tree. I’m going to fill my canteen from the stream.

Geraldo grunting and talking to himself as he removes the basket: How in el mundo does she put all this stuff in there?

Narrator: After eating, Cherry and Geraldo clean up their luncheon debris and continue up the trail. Spike bounds ahead of them nose to the ground. They hike no more than a few hundred yards when Spike begins to act very peculiar. He darts in and out of the thick jungle foliage as if he were looking for something or trying to fix on an elusive
scent. He stops abruptly, points his nose at the sky and emits a long wolf-like cry. He
then plunges into the brush and disappears. Katie and Geraldo can hear his bark get further and further away. They call and call but Spike does not respond.

Geraldo: What is WITH this dog Cherry? He goes loco!

Cherry: I don’t know Geraldo. He’s never run off before. We’ve got to find him.

Narrator: Cherry and Geraldo leave the trail in the direction of Spike’s distant barking. The underbrush gets so thick that Katie pulls a machete from her backpack and gives it to Geraldo to hack their way through the dense greenery.

Chopping noise in background.

Cherry: I think this is about where we heard his last bark. I don’t know where to go from here.

Geraldo: De acuerdo. If we go any further we are sure to get lost if we aren’t already. We should head back to the trail. Spike will be esta bien. He’s a dog. He can find us with his nose.

Cherry: Yeah, I know, but I hate to leave him. He’s not exactly Rin Tin Tin. Let’s rest a minute before…WHAT THE…?

Narrator: Cherry has leaned back against the broad trunk of a towering blah blah tree (need name of Panamanian tree) and very quickly melts into its interior. She cries out from the blackness.

Cherry: GERALDO. GERALDO. CAN YOU HEAR ME?

Geraldo: SI! SI! PERO DONDE ESTAS?

Cherry: I AM INSIDE THE TREE! PUSH ON THE TRUNK.

Geraldo aloud but to himself: Push on it she says. Push on the tree. Must be some kind of triiii…AI CARAMBA! (or some more likely Panamanian expression.) IT’S GOT MY HANDS!

A moment later.

Cherry: Are you all right?

Geraldo: (Taking loud deep breaths) Si, pero, que pasado?. Is this thing going to eat us or what.

Cherry: I don’t think so. It feels kind of…you know…roomy in here. There’s flashlights and matches in my pack. Reach in there and see if you can find them.

Rustling noise for a few moments.

Cherry: There. That’s better.

Geraldo: Wow. This place es muy grande. I can’t even see the other side. Cherry we have got to find a way out.

Dog barks in the distance.

Cherry: Did you hear that? That has to be Spike. Sounds like it came from over there.

Geraldo: Okay, we go in that direction, but we stay close to the wall. I want to find Spike tambien, but our first job is to get out of here. I don’t know about you, but this thing is…what is the word?... creeping me out.

Cherry: That’s the word all right.

Narrator: Cherry and Geraldo inch along the wall, step by careful step. Spike continues to bark and his barking gets a bit louder with each step they take.

Cherry: I think he’s close Geraldo. SPIKE! SPIKE! ARE YOU THERE? HERE BOY! HERE BOY!

Geraldo: Cherry stop! I think I see something in front of you. Lower su flash light un poquito.

Cherry: I see it. It looks like a hole or a pit or something. Let’s get a little closer. If its deep maybe we can go around it.

Geraldo: Oh man, I’m no to believe this! It’s a stairwell. Don’t even think about going dow

A dog bark from below interrupts him.

Cherry: That’s Spike. He’s down there. We HAVE to go get him.

Narrator: The stairs are steep and seem endless. Cherry and Geraldo descend them carefully. There are no handrails and a fall would be fatal. They go lower and lower and lower, spurred on by Spike’s continual barking. There is a slight easing of the darkness as they descend. The once dense blackness has turned to a hazy grey.

Cherry: I think there is light ahead Geraldo. Look, we can see two or three steps at a time without the flashlights.

Geraldo: You’re right. Let’s turn them off. Save the batteries.

(We hear them go down a few more steps.)

Cherry: There’s the bottom. And Spike sounds real close.

Geraldo: Yeah and it’s a lot brighter there. Let’s go.

Narrator: But brightness my friends, is relative. If one has been in total darkness a time, a match flame can seem a torch. Nevertheless Katie and Geraldo find it is now light enough to see several arms lengths ahead. Beyond that? Well… let’s just say there is still the darkness.

Cherry: There’s Spike! HERE BOY! HERE BOY! Hold my pack Geraldo, I’m going to get him.

Geraldo: Wait a minute Katie. He’s tied to something. Something behind him in the shadows. In fact…..there are….otras cosas in the shadows…all… ah…round us.

A sound that is first hiss, then voice envelops the room.
(Maybe we can echo chamber something that sounds menacing.)

It says: I AM SSSSSSILGORE, (Got to make the hiss prominent) LORD OF BARU. MANY HAVE COME BEFORE. THE GREN, THE VASSSILY. THE SSSPRADE. YOU ARE THE FIRST OF YOUR KIND. CHILDREN OF THE SSSURFACE. LIKE THE OTHERS, YOU WILL NEVER RETURN. SSSEIZE THEM!

Howls, growls, human screams and dog barks. The last sound is….

Cherry: Quick Geraldo! Throw me the backpack!

Cut to commercial.


Good evening ladies and gentlemen. With a name like Smuckers their jelly HAS to be good. With a name like Rancid-lizard-vomit our jelly HAS to be better!


THE SECRET OF VOLCAN BARU PART 2


Narrator: Six months earlier.

(Sound of door opening. Tinkle of bell to alert that someone has entered.)

Cherry: Dad, what are you doing here, why is the store still open?

Jonathon: (Cherry’s dad) Hi Sweetie, not much, what are you up to?
Cherry: I was just passing by on my way home and saw your lights on. I thought something might be wrong.

Jonathon: Nothing to worry about here Kiddo, I was just playing around with a formula I found and I thought I’d keep the door open and maybe make a late sale.

Cherry: Dad, it’s almost midnight. Nobody is going to come in HERE at this hour except creepy people…what kind of formula?

Jonathon: (laughing) Hey, come on, creepy people are my best customers! You don’t sell a lot of magic potions and lotions to guys in suits. They think this is all a scam or a tongue-in-cheek novelty store. It’s the believers and the desperate who buy my wares.

Cherry: Yeah, I suppose you’re right Dad. So tell me about this formula.

Jonathon: Well it’s something I found in one of my weirdo ancient books. Let me get it and I’ll show you.

Narrator: Jonathon pushes back his chair and reaches for the backpack that rests on the floor near his desk.

Jonathon: I was rummaging through my pack the other day looking for something else and I pulled out this book. Funny thing is, I don’t remember where I got it or when I put it in there but…well… there it was. I started to flip through the pages but the book opened itself to this middle part where it shows this…this list of things…strange things like the stuff I sell in here and it got my curiosity going.

Cherry: What’s it for?

Jonathon: Beats the hell out of me! The language in the text is old and phrased funny… but… it might be some kind of …I don’t know…repellent. Something to ward off who knows what. Look, it says here… if I’ve got this right…“protection for they who seek the truth, pain for they who”… I think this word is “hide” but I’m not certain.

Cherry: Whoa. That’s a little scary. What’s the title of the book?

Jonathon: The Cryptomicon. I haven’t read much of it yet because every time I try, the damn thing flips open to this page. I think I’m supposed to do something with this formula or whatever it is.

Cherry: Well, have you?

Jonathon: Not really. I keep trying, but I’m missing a couple of the ingredients. There is a plant from Costa Rica whose leaves I need and feathers from a bird in Panama called a quetzal. I’ve substituted stuff from the store but nothing works. Nothing I put in seems to mix properly.

Cherry: It’s probably all a bunch of hoohah anyway Dad. Let’s close up, go home, and get some sleep. This can all wait ‘til tomorrow.

Jonathon: Alrighty then Sweetness, but I wish you would take more interest in these things. Magic is real you know, whether you believe it or not. I’ve seen things that…

(The door bell tinkles and interrupts.)

Narrator: A tall, very thin, very pale man stands quietly just inside the door. He is wearing some sort of hooded cloak and his face is nearly obscured in shadow. Only his exceptionally large eyes, black as coal, but shiny as a cats are visible under his hood. At first he doesn’t speak. He just stands there still as death.

Jonathan: (whispering to Cherry) Boy were you right about the creepy people. (Aloud) Hey Sport, what can I help you with?

Stranger: I have come for that book.

Jonathon: (chuckling, trying to keep it light) What, this old book? Why would anybody want this. Heck the pages are falling out. I just wouldn’t feel right about selling it to anybody.

Stranger: I do not wish to buy what already belongs to me. It is mine and I shall HAVE it.

Narrator: The stranger moves menacingly towards Jonathon and Cherry who instinctively step back a little. Jonathon snatches up the book and holds it in one hand while pointing at the stranger with the other.

Jonathon: Hold on there Creepy Dude, what’s the big deal about this book?

Stranger: That is not for you to know. CRYTOMICON, CRYPTOMICON. TO ME!

Jonathon: What the! Damn Cherry. The book is pulling me.

Cherry: Let it go Dad! Let it go!

Jonathon: No way, this (sounds of struggle) isn’t happ..en…ing.

(Door slams.)

Cherry: Are you all right?

Jonathon: (breathing hard) Yeah I’m okay. He got the book though, the freakin creep. I should call the cops.

Cherry: I doubt they’d be interested in the theft of a book. Besides, we still have the formula.

TO BE CONTINUED

Missing Mashie

My first long-ish story, a P.G. Wodehouse tribute. (More or less.)

THE CASE OF THE MISSING MASHIE
By Doc Walton

It’s all quite so, you know. Only this afternoon, being about and at large, if that’s the phrase I’m looking for to point out an absence of anything worthwhile to do, I rang up my Auntie Paisley and found her in some sort of large colorful tither. This is a condition not wholly unfamiliar to her, but one to which I generally have no response beyond summoning the staff and the salts.
“Dear Auntie,” I shouted into the phone, using my most authoritative and commanding tone which, I now recall, is the one I use when enlightening my butler Jeeves on a subject about which I know nothing at all and the very one he says is reminiscent of amphibian love calls. “Do get a grip on yourself and tell me what IS the matter.” I waited for a moment, visualizing the old girl looking about for some sort of hand hold on her copious frame, then was startled by my aunt’s somewhat softer voice, and I say softer if one is cognizant of the difference between thunder and a nearby head on, responding, “Bertram, you spineless lizard, is that really you?” Auntie’s affection for me knows no limits. “Something dreadful has happened,” she continued without waiting for my reply, which I have noticed of late is a thing all but those who don’t know me frequently do. “My mashie is missing, and I am completely knocked up about it.” Auntie is not here, as some might surmise, speaking of a condition caused by Uncle Willingly Paisley, but rather a golf club, a mid iron, and one of a set of oddly designed implements used in swatting a small dimpled ball about a large lawn in hopes of losing it in a hole. A not unpleasant way to while away an afternoon and rid yourself of unnecessary self-esteem, simultaneously. Auntie, you see, is a bit of a champion, having won her Club’s annual tourney twice running and lacking but this year’s upcoming to have the trophy renamed the Paisley Cup, a feat she has dedicated herself to arduously, if that’s the word I’m looking for.
Uncertain how to reply to a dear one who has had the grave misfortune of losing her mashie at such a critical moment, I fell back on the one thing that has always served me well in times of crisis: I blurt out whatever comes to mind. “Auntie Love,” I heard myself saying, “how about I pop into the two seater, point it your way, and come have a look about?” The quiet on the line went on for such a long time I was beginning to suspect mechanical failure or that my aunt’s enthusiasm for the idea was so great she was momentarily dumbstruck. “I could bring Jeeves along for,” I was about to say “company,” when my aunt, recovering her voice, was suddenly bubbling into the telly about my being a grand nephew and how delighted she would be to see me and by all means to bring that splendid man of mine.
I cradled the receiver a moment later, feeling excited and eager, two emotions starting with the letter “E” that I hadn’t felt together since that time with cousin Gladly Wentfort in the back seat of the Bentley on the water to the theatre. She had accidentally dropped the tickets in my lap and spent just ages looking for them. This time I was E and E to solve the mystery of the missing mashie, if that doesn’t sound too Perry Mason. Jeeves, when I told him, was more than E and E. He was triple E’d, the last being elated, and it occurs to me that a monograph on emotions starting with the letter “E” might be just the thing to establish me with that crowd that’s always writing monographs and polygraphs and such. Jeeves’ elation, when I told him of the mystery and my plan, was clearly visible to me by the slight and momentary uplifting of his left eyebrow, a move he uses to express nearly all his passions and a dead giveaway that he is among the living, a thing that comes into question more often than you would think.
“Jeeves,” I said, “the game is a-something. The game is a-what?”
“Afoot, sir. The game is afoot.”
Now where had I heard that before?
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Jeeves,” I shouted above the wind to my companion as we swept through the English countryside at a speed I calculated as fast-as-we-could-go and one that apparently caused some degree of consternation to my old chum as he tightly clutched his bowler with both hands and tried almost successfully not to grimace, “why would someone pilfer just a mashie and not the spoon or the niblick or, indeed, the whole set for that matter? It makes no sense at all if you ask me, and I’m certain Auntie P will do just that. Could the dear old girl,” I continued without waiting for an answer, “be getting on, slipping, losing a bit of the old memory edge and merely have misplaced the mashie?”
“Memory traits are,” Jeeves responded, with, I think, a verbal elbow to the ribs, “rarely passed from nephew to aunt. Your aunt’s edge, it seems to me, has always been quite keen.”
I slowed the two seater to lessen the gale, knowing that Jeeves found shouting on a par with spitting tobacco for social acceptability. It was appalling and just not done in better circles, that is, the circles he wished I would become acquainted with.
“As to your first query, Master Bertram, I admit I haven’t as yet a clue. But in hopes of obtaining one, may I ask of you, sir, is your aunt longish or shortish off the tee, and aren’t we getting a tad too American in our driving habits?”
I steered us back to the left lane, the right one, knowing how fussy Jeeves was about that sort of thing and, taking just a second, searched my entire mind for an image of Auntie P on the links. We had played together but once a season or two ago when, desperate to fill a foursome, she had rung me up. Oddly enough, I thought, she had not invited me back, though I had played well under my 41 handicap and we had only lost the match by two. I clearly remember three-putting the eighteenth for a personal on-green best. I suggested to Auntie P that we request a rematch, but she mumbled something about the members objecting to special assessments for course repairs, so I let the matter drop. It was during the second second of probing deeply into my memory bank, or novelty shop as Jeeves calls it, that the reference to the American side of the road brought to mind the picture of the great U.S. cricketeer, Stanley Musical, all crouched and coiled, ready to do much harm should the bowler challenge him.
“Long,” I shouted, speeding up. “Auntie P is very long off the tee.” Though I hadn’t the foggiest idea why that mattered.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Blimey if we hadn’t just planted our bags on Auntie P’s oval drive when Jeeves and Mulligan, Auntie’s latest houseman, got into a furious row over who would see to the disposition of the aforementioned luggage. I could tell Jeeves was more than just out-of-sorts by his tone of voice, which was, in a word, loud. By loud I mean to say that one could hear him up to three or perhaps even four steps away. Standing at five, I caught no more than something surely Shakespearean that included the words “crude” and “cretinous.” I suspected that Jeeves and Mulligan had met on some other occasion. The matter was settled by Auntie P herself who, appearing at her doorstep in a most timely fashion, shooed this Mulligan fellow away while beckoning Jeeves and me to her ample bosom for welcoming hugs. I say ample bosom because it is the cliché used by polite society to describe women of a certain breast size that even science, with all its wonders, atom splitting, gene splicing, clap-on-clap-off, cannot account for their defiance of gravity. No man’s back could withstand the curious cantilever, and I’m sure there had to be architects employed in the brassiere design. Jeeves, showing first class butlerian restraint, refrained from rushing to Auntie’s embrace and used instead a deep formal bow accompanied by expressions of gratitude, humility, honor-to-be-in-presence, that sort of thing, while I, taking the low road, rushed to Auntie’s outstretched arms that weren’t quite pointed at me and planted myself firmly amidst the wiggling, a sensation not unlike flopping on a gelatin-filled waterbed, if that’s the image I want, and I’m not sure it is.
“Ah, Bartie dear,” says Auntie P, pushing me out to arms’ length, or roughly two inches clearance. “It’s good to see you again. How HAVE you been? You’re looking ALMOST well. Now don’t say another word until we’ve tea in hand. Come along, Jeeves. I can see that you could do with a spot and a crumpet, too. Not another word, just follow along. I have much to talk about and little time. Come, come.” All this and more was said mostly to Jeeves, which I’m sure was Auntie’s way of trying not to be a snob, as we followed her through the great hall and into the library. I could tell she was happy I was there to solve the mystery.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The moment we were ensconced, if that means seated, in the library, steaming Earl Greys in hand, Auntie P began her tale.
“Barney,” she began.
“Bertie,” I corrected.
“Whatever,” she continued. “I’m at a loss, a total loss, over this mashie thing. As you know, the finals of the Rollinginit Country Club tournament are this Saturday, and I’ve drawn a most worthy opponent in Lady Plodsforth. Blast if I can see a way to beat her with an untried new mashie. Why, the last time we contested I barely eked out a three up with two to go even though Lady Plodsforth did not have her wits about her the entire back nine. She had learned of her favorite dog Daisy’s untimely death at the turn. The poor thing had been accidentally shot by Lord Plodsforth during that morning’s ride to the hunt when, as he tells it, he mistook Daisy for the fox itself. Daisy, a Dalmation, was Lady Plodsforth’s favorite and last in a long line of pets to die accidentally in proximity to Lord Plodsforth, who, it is rumored, is quite the great white hunter and boasts of never returning from a hunt empty-handed. One reason, it is also rumored, that Lady Plodsforth doesn’t hunt with him. So you see, Baxter . . .”
“Bertie.”
“Yes, of course, . . .that I must have my mashie for the match or I will feel worse than Daisy by Saturday’s eve.”
Feeling worse than a dead dog was something I was intimately familiar with, having had to arise before nine on several occasions.
“My dear Auntie,” I started at her ramble’s end, “you are not to worry a moment more. I am completely confident that we will get to the bottom of this missing mashie mess in no time at all. Aren’t I, Jeeves?” I ended, turning to my butler, my pal, and the larger part of my deductive reasoning, who by dint of greater fish consumption was often able to see the light while I was still mentally stumbling about in the dark, and to whom Auntie P had directed most of her remarks, though she had almost used my name several times.
Jeeves, for his part, had sat quite still during Auntie’s discourse but was now suddenly, though quietly, on his feet making the shush signal of index finger to pursed lips at a small sound we all heard outside the library door. Indicating with a hand puppet gesture that we should keep talking, Jeeves made way on tiptoe to the distant door. Picking up on his meaning and intent, I quickly broke the silence with the first thing that came to mind. The subject, though not particularly relevant, having to do with this month’s Big Bottoms’ centerfold, was one I usually could count on when chatting with chums, and while in this instance was uttered perhaps a bit too nervously loud, was still lengthy enough to get Jeeves across the room to the door which, with great gusto, he yanked open to reveal the red-faced, startled-eyed, still bent-at-the-waist-keyhole-level hulking visage of Auntie P’s man Mulligan.
“Aha!,” I said, leaping to my feet and looking accusingly at the now erect, trying to compose himself butler, an act that left me pointing a bit like Daisy before her unfortunate accident, but without a further thought to say.
“Aha, what?,” I whispered to Jeeves.
“Aha, Mulligan,” said Jeeves, right on cue, but softly, without quite the caught-you-red-handed emphasis I was looking for.
“Perhaps you could explain, Mulligan,” Jeeves continued, in a voice that sounded somewhere between haughty and private eye, “your presence outside this door when you clearly have not been summoned.”
“Precisely,” I added.
“Indeed,” chimed in Auntie P.
“I . . .I thought, perhaps more tea,” said the, I was now certain, foul villain.
“You thought perhaps more tea; well, well, well,” I said cleverly, then added even more cleverly, “What do you think of that, Jeeves?”
“I think no more tea is required. Am I correct, Lady Paisley?” replied Jeeves, glaring at the shifty butler.
“Indeed,” said Auntie P once more, then adding, “Leave at once, Mulligan. This is none of your concern.”
Mulligan began backing from the doorway, his eyes darting guiltily from Auntie P to Jeeves. He was clearly about to bolt when Jeeves asked him in a quite friendly tone of voice--you know, the kind of tone one might use when petting a stray before grabbing its collar and hauling it off to the catchers-- whether he had ever been in the employ of Lord Peter Plodsforth, the noted fox hunter.
“Why yes, sir,” answered Mulligan, closing the door as he spoke. “And good references he give me.”
The instant the door clicked shut Auntie P and I looked to Jeeves, whose left eyebrow was raised a full inch above his shining orb, signaling a eureka of the first order.
“What have you, Jeeves?” queried Auntie P. “Surely you don’t suspect the Plodsforths?”
“Surely not,” I added, quickly summing up all the facts and cleverly deducing I hadn’t a clue.
Jeeves paused a pregnant moment, if that’s the word I’m looking for, as I’ve heard it means filled with intensity or child, then looked ceilingward while placing a finger diagonally across his lips. All to very dramatic effect, I might add, and do.
“I believe, Madame and Bertram Sir,” he began, “that though the prevailing evidence would indicate a lone culprit, the outcome will show that two men acting in concert, with profit as a motive, are responsible for the cruel and heinous crime of pilfering Lady Paisley’s mashie.”
Jeeves runs on like that sometimes for no apparent reason. It could be all that fish.
“But what about the grassy knoll and missing bullet?” I fired back. “Don’t they matter?”
“Bertie dear,” said Auntie P to me softly and, I’m sure this is the word, sincerely, “you are a putz. A very sweet putz, but a putz nevertheless.” Then to Jeeves, “Do go on.” I took no offense. Auntie is such a great kidder, and she’d gotten my name right.
“Madame, I cannot as yet point an accusing finger despite my suspicions. There are further inquiries that need to be made.”
Auntie P looked disappointed and distraught. Those two D’s are how one looks when they’ve just gotten the swing of things and the barman says its closing time.
“The match, the cup, my hopes are but two days away. Is there time?” Auntie implored, which is, I think, a kind of wishful asking.
“Not to fear, good lady,” said my man Jeeves, somehow looking taller, straighter, bolder. “With young Bertram’s help and his extensive knowledge of certain, um, areas, we shall have this matter cleared up before Saturday’s end. Your mashie, like Lassie, shall come home.”
Auntie took this last with a huge smile, said something about a dear man, kissed us both upon the cheeks, then left the room whistling a cheerful tune. I, on the other hand, was feeling dazed and distressed, these D’s being the condition one feels when they’ve just gotten the swing of things and find themselves short of funds.
“What in the world was that?” I asked the moment the door clicked shut again.
“I believe it’s the Colonel Bogie’s March from the film Bridge on the River Kwai in which William Holden and . . . “
“Not the tune, Jeeves,” I interrupted before getting the whole plot outlined. “The bit about my having special knowledge. I haven’t a whit of special knowledge of anything I know about and I know everything I know about, if you catch my drift.” I was on a roll now, voice and blood pressure rising. “And, furthermore, I can tell you with absolute certainty, I don’t know about anything at all,” I declared proudly.
Jeeves paused a moment, during which I suspected him of considering my physical restraint, then, seeing I was calming, looked at me steadily and said, “Perhaps you could tell me, young Bertram, where is the nearest place to make a wager?”
“Oh, sure,” I said, “I know all about that.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Shortly after dark, at Jeeve’s insistence, I found myself lightly rapping “shave and a haircut” on a door on a pad on a street whose address I’d been told to forget.
“I’m certain this is it, Jeeves old chum,” I said to my butler and constant companion, who was, at this moment, crowding my backside in hopes of escaping the accusing light of the street lamp, “I’d bet my reputation on it.”
“I trust you are right, young Bertram, though I know if you were really certain, you would have wagered something of value.”
I sensed another elbow to the ribs in that one and was trying to reason it out when, from the other side of the door, came an answering “two bits,” followed by a muffled female voice saying, “Ralph, get lost; me ‘usband’s ‘ome,” which I took to mean this was not Reggie the Greek’s place. It also saved me from having to give Jeeves a verbal oneupsman to his last remark. I had “Oh, yeah?” in mind. Instead it was back to the two seater and round the block to a place that looked exactly the last one except for its color and shape, details one couldn’t be expected to remember in a pinch, having taken to heart the earlier instructions to forget it.
This time my “shave and a haircut” summoned a voice more closely resembling a snarl than a whisper, but one I nevertheless recognized. It asked for the password. Lowering the pitch, tenor, and tone of my own voice so as to seem more masculine and to mimic that which I had just heard, I chirped the following: “London Bridges, Picadilly Square, even Shakespeare Canterbury there.”
Once inside, a large dram of brandy dissolved the glaze from Jeeves’ stunned eyes. Reggie, the proprietor, on the other hand, being a man of many moods ranging from dark to black, was not entirely pleased to see us. His first words had something to do with Jeeves’ likely dismemberment and far worse for me if we couldn’t immediately explain our presence and knowledge of the password.
“Reggie, old chum,” I blurted, bucking up with sudden inspiration. “It’s me, Bertie Wooster, and this is my man Jeeves,” I said, turning to my butler and dear companion who was just now coming round to his full senses and was taking this all mutely until I added, “who will explain everything.”
Reggie’s glower, if that word means fierce and menacing, became even moreso as he cast it upon my butler, my ally, and the man I now entrusted with saving my hide.
In some circles, say Trappist monasteries, Reggie might be considered talkative, maybe even verbose, but here a guttural “Speak,” accompanied by an even tighter narrowing of the eyes, was enough to convey his meaning: this better be good.
Jeeves, for his part, seemed unafraid now that the wicket had turned to flypaper and was straightening his back and pulling himself up to full butlerian height, still some half meter shy of Reggie, when I noticed a kind of light appear in the circle directly below his now arching eyebrow.
“Reg? Reg?” Jeeves was suddently aglow with recognition. “Reg Sheepstalker, is it really you?”
I turned back to our host and captor just in time to see his hairline separate from his brows as his eyes opened wide with a degree of interest behind the menace.
“’Tis me, all right, then” he said, Reggie Sheepstalker. “But who the ‘ell are you?”
“You mean you don’t remember me, Jasper Jeeves, from the old gang in the old neighborhood in the old days?” Jeeves ran on, I thought, a bit too pleadingly. “Bully bully bitobearl, let’s tag a bloke and steal his girl,” he added, and I knew I’d remind him of that one later. But as I was looking for a mental pen to write a mental note, if that’s at all possible, hulking Reggie grabs up Jeeves and begins to bear hug him in a manner that makes me fear, if not for his life, then at least for several major organs.
“Jasper Jeeves, Jasper Jeeves,” he’s growling crazily, all the while spinning the fellow about in what I am sure he felt was a masculine, good ol’ boy, hale fellow well met way, but was in fact one that was turning Jeeves a color that only paramedics see on a regular basis. I was looking about for the nearest blunt instrument when Jeeves’ feet returned to the floor and his lungs were allowed once more to partake of their function, a fact noted by the world’s largest inhale. “SSSSSsssshhhhhh” was its sound, and even though a drowning man bursting to the surface could not have made a louder one, it was, in Jeeves’ case, delivered with restraint and dignity. I don’t know how he does that.
“So,” I heard myself venturing boldly on what I surmised was fairly safe ground, “you know each other.” At this, even Jeeves, whom I had never known to guffaw, and I’m sure that’s the word I want, did so loudly as he and the equally heartily guffawing Reginald Sheepstalker stumbled to the other end of the room, arms about each other like tipsy sailors, leaving me to wonder at their familiarity, but also most grateful for it.
Left to fend for myself, as it were, and it certainly was, I took the opportunity to scout the premises and soon found myself several quid down and raising a bet with a poker hand full of nothing to a large gentleman lacking a neck but sporting more than his share of muscles. He had to be bluffing, was my guess, and I hoped that guess a good one as I was decidedly short of the necessary funding and I doubted this fellow would take my marker without first taking my hide. My guess looked to be wrong, and my luck, which I thought had been fairly good thus far this night, run out when No-neck saw my raise and then raised me back by a considerable sum, all the while clenching and unclenching his massive jaw muscles. I was about to fold and take my chances with flight or the miracles of modern medicine when Jeeves reappeared at my side and suggested a further raise, a plan unwise and lacking merit I was sure, but one I hopped to immediately, knowing that if my bluff were called Jeeves’ prowess in the manly art of self-defense would be less than adequate but would be the diversion I’d need to run for help. “All for one” is my motto at times like this, and when Jeeves needs help, I can be counted on to go get some.
Luckily, none of these heroic actions were called for. Something about Jeeves’ quiet assurance and upright bravado must have offset my visibly trembling, card holding hands because the most unlikely thing then occurred. After I raised back, old No-neck jumped to his feet, snarled something with the clarity and style of Boris Karloff’s most famous role containing the words “luck,” “sissies,” and we’re not sure about this last, but we think, “Smoke good,” then threw down his hand and stomped from the table.
“Come back here and say that,” I shouted after him, almost loud enough to be heard. “Jeeves and I will teach you some manners.” I continued, getting louder and louder with each departing footfall until I was at the very top of my whisper, and finishing with “You mindless buffoon.” I was very proud of this last, thinking most people would have gone for the less scholarly “oaf” or “idiot.” Jeeves, however, was not impressed. I could tell because he looked quite askance, if that means vaguely disapproving, and quietly uttered, “Really, Bertram.”
“Really,” I fired right back, but he knew I didn’t mean it.
Still, I was feeling victorious and triumphant, two emotions rare to me that don’t start with E, so I was looking about for a large elephant to ride upon at the head of my legions, when who else should reappear but Addams family lookalike Reggie the Greek with his hairline fully lowered to his eyebrows and his glower progressed from menacing to sinister.
“In a word, Bertie,” he says to me, darkening further and presenting some kind of ledger, “your accounts.”
That was two words, I thought, climbing down from my pachyderm, but not something I needed to point out.
A tip from a former friend of mine named Shady O’Grady had induced to me wager a goodly sum, and I say goodly sum in the sense that any sum that is more than I’m good for is a . . . well, you get my drift, on a horse whose name I can no longer recall and whose fate I hoped was never to sire. It was payment of that loss that I was now confronted with by our grim host and Jeeves’ old pal, Sheepstalker. When one considers the man and his name, one fears not only for himself but for the highland herds and wool futures as well. Though my poker winnings were substantial, they were but half the funds needed at the moment, so once again I called on all my mental resources, which were, as they so often are, in Jeeves’ head. Pulling him a bit to the side, I whispered cleverly, “What do we do now?” It was the “we” that was the clever part. Jeeves responded with my favorite, surely classic phrase, to wit: “Leave it to me.”
Off they went again, my hero and the sheep abuser, but this time they substituted conspiratorial whispers for their earlier guffaws. I was left alone once again to wonder at my fate, which is not a good thing when one tends to expect the worst. I won’t tire you with the grim scenarios my mind chose to give other than mentioning that most were unmentionable. The one, in fact, dealing with the term “drawn and quartered” seemed particularly visual. Fortunately, Jeeves returned in a nonce, if that means quickly rather than some transportation device, which is what it sounds like, and we were soon out the door and back in the two seater making haste and conversation.
I started with “Bully bully bitoberl?” and Jeeves countered with “Canterbury there?” and the truth was soon all out.
The sheep diddler fellow, as I now thought of him, and who is to say I’m far from the truth, and Jeeves had been, unlikely as it now may seem, boyhood neighbors who had struck an equally unlikely friendship by virtue of compatible skills. Jeeves, who as a boy differed only by the addition of the word “spindly” from his description now--tall, pale, and reserved--had then the beginnings of his quick and agile mind. His counterpart Reggie, a boy upon whom puberty had arrived shortly after sandbox, was a mite of muscle. Protection was soon exchanged for homework, book reports, and the like. This arrangement suited them both until middle school when Jeeves was sent to Academy to train for service, leaving Reggie to trade protection for grades directly with his teachers. Needless to say, he was on track to graduate with honors when he heeded his mum’s advice to “do what yer good at.” This advice led him to drop his schooling and pursue his natural calling: a profession listed in the yellow pages under the general heading “Thug.”
“Alrighty, then,” I started, after hearing all this from Jeeves, “but I’m a bit under speed as to why we had this giddy reunion with your old chum in the first place. What were we doing there, if you don’t mind me asking? Surely you weren’t placing a bet,” I mused.
“Actually, Bertram, we came not to wager but to wonder,” said Jeeves, sounding vaguely Latin. “Specifically, to wonder if there was any, I believe the word is “action,” on Lady Paisley’s upcoming golf event.”
“And was there?” I mused again, possibly making me a serial muser.
“Indeed there was, and before we departed there was quite a bit more. Did you know that your Aunt is a three to one underdog?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” I answered, somewhat surprised. “I mean, not that she’s an underdog, but that there’s wagering on the thing at all. If I had known early on, I’d have put a bob or two down on the old girl myself. Now, what with the missing mashie and all, I couldn’t see my way clear to give more than my complete moral support.” This last I said wistfully, if that’s the word I want, trying to sound as if I were following the intelligent course instead of my impulses, a feat I often attempt but never quite pull off.
“Well, act-u-al-ly,” Jeeves started but then trailed off, leaving me no choice but to respond in hyphenated kind.
“Act-u-al-ly what, Old Boy?”
“Actually, Bertram, you do have a small sum invested in the outcome of this weekend’s sporting event. You see, in order to facilitate our exit, or in your case, escape, from Reggie’s emporium, I took the liberty of placing the balance of your debt squarely on Lady Paisley’s nose. A threefold return will get you square with Reggie and leave you with a tidy sum as well. I also agreed to pay something called a vigorish. Perhaps you could tell me what that is.”
I told him about the ten percent commission and all that, then slumped in my seat to better envision my impending demise, but I like the phrase “impending demise” so much that I said it over and over until it had no meaning and I dozed off. I apparently was still saying it, “impending demise,” when Auntie P shook me awake at the end of our drive with an, “Oh, rubbish, quit your sniveling” and a “What have you learned, Jeeves?” I could tell she was happy to see me again.
A bit later, in the study, a room whose principal function has always eluded me, teas once again in hand, I was made an important cog in Jeeves’ plan to unravel the mystery, expose the villains, and regain the missing mashie. My part, critical to the whole plan’s success, was to not get in the way. I vowed to remain incognito if it were nearby.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Instead, when Saturday broke all Britishy bright and damp, I found myself among a small gallery of members, friends, and assorted officials on hand to witness the match. Jeeves was perfectly resplendent: starched, pressed, and properly dressed in white togs matched smartly to the hue of his indoorsman skin, until he added a black waistcoat against the morning chill. That addition gave him the look of a lanky but somehow dignified penguin, if that’s the image I’m looking for, and it seems unavoidable. Jeeves was Auntie’s choice to be on her bag throughout the day, leaving Mulligan, her usual caddie, behind with household chores to attend to. Though Jeeves was a skilled and competent caddie (I always used him as such to save me the cost, not to mention the ridicule of professionals), he seemed to my trained Jeeves-watching eye a touch apprehensive. I noticed an occasional shift of weight from one foot to the other. For Jeeves, this was tantamount to a fidget. To the rest of the gallery, I’m sure he appeared quite implacable, if that’s the word I want, and I’m sure I do though I have only a vague idea of what it means. I wondered if it was the match, the mystery, or the banner across his back that read “Paisley” that was causing his distress.
A “crack,” followed by the oohs and aahs of the gallery and a lone loud voice at the back shouting “You da Aunt!” startled me back from my wonder. Auntie P had just put her ample girth to her cherry wood driver, and the match was underway. As the crowd turned to see which blithering idiot had broken the hallowed rule concerning acceptable golf noises, I noticed among their faces that of Sheepstalker, his crony the Karloffian card player, and, surprisingly, as he should have been attending to duties elsewhere, Auntie’s man Mulligan. Their presence together meant what, I thought. Something . . . something . . . . Where was Jeeves when I needed him? . . . something. I know, “Not good!” I blurted aloud, and the gallery turned to glare at me again.
As the match moved along it became clear why Auntie missed her mashie. Being long off the tee frequently left the dear old girl facing a second shot that was precisely mashie distance from the green. The look of consternation she wore at such times was a near equal to the one Jeeves put on when watching me struggle with some difficult task like tying my shoes. Auntie would consult with Jeeves, then pull a club from her bag that invariably left her a bit short or a bit long. At the turn, she was three strokes down to Lady Plodsforth and had no interest in the tea that players and gallery alike were sharing. Her opponent, on the other hand, was having a spot with her caddie, a bloke whom I gathered by his intimate manner to be that noted huntsman, Lord Plodsforth himself. He appeared quite pleased and full of himself, as if he were the one swinging the clubs rather than carrying the bag. I wondered why he wasn’t out shooting pets.
The tenth and eleventh holes were played even, but on the twelfth Auntie spooned one in from the fringe to get within two. The thirteenth and fourteenth were also halved. On the fifteenth, Auntie rolled in a twelve footer to save par, and a surprised Lady Plodsforth lipped out her shorter putt. Auntie P was now only one hole down with three to play.
I had become so engrossed by the match and my aunt’s courageous performance that I’d completely forgotten the consequences riding on the outcome. I was abruptly reminded of my “impending demise” when on the sixteenth tee I chanced to look up and catch the glower of Reggie Sheepstalker. Threatening and menacing don’t quite capture the look that held my eye, but I stared back unflinchingly. I couldn’t actually, flinch that is, as my eyelids were locked open. I stiffened my spine and called up my own courage and fortitude. “Jeeves, Old Chum,” I called. “Could I have a word with you?”
“What is it, Bertram sir,” Jeeves said as he approached. “You look about to wet yourself.”
I was a bit upset that he recognized my distress, but I let that go to get my message over quickly. “Listen,” I said, hoping I sounded commanding and not pleading, knowing there was little chance. “If you really have a plan, shouldn’t we be using it soon, or maybe even now?
“Not to worry, young Sir,” Jeeves replied. “Madam Paisley’s win is virtually assured. You might even say, if I may borrow a phrase of yours, Bertram, that the match is in the bag.”
With that, he walked back to the tee box, leaving me pondering and perplexed, two words that start with P that reminded me that I’d better find a porto before locking gazes with Sheepstalker again.
When both Auntie P and Lady P knocked their drives at the sixteenth squarely down the center, I became aware how still and quiet the crowd had become. I also noticed that Lord Plodsforth was no longer smiling and smug, but rather more worried and a bit damp looking. He kept wiping a sleeve across his forehead. A mere two or three paces from the nervous Lord stood Reggie Sheepstalker, who had pushed his way to the front of the gallery. He had turned his gaze away from me and seemed instead to be staring at the back of Lord Plodsforth’s head. I was grateful for the respite. I looked about for Reggie’s Karloffian crony and found him standing on my side of the fairway and a few paces from another worried looking chap, one named Mulligan. I was going to wonder what it all meant when the clink of an ill struck iron brought me back to the match. Luckily, I’m easily distracted.
Auntie P had hit over the green into some deep rough, and Lady Plodsforth was in a greenside bunker. Neither player was able to salvage par, but both made sizable putts for bogie. They walked together to the seventeenth, a long par three, Lady Plodsforth still clinging to a one hole lead.
When Auntie’s low three iron chased up the fairway, landing some fifteen or so yards short of the green but rolling on and up and not stopping until it was no more than three feet from the hole, the pressure found her opponent. Lady Plodsforth knocked her drive hard a port, and, when it took her two swings to reach the green, she conceded the hole. The match was now all square with one hole to play, and tension filled the . . . no, that’s not the word I’m after, it’s fear that filled the air. Mine. Could Auntie win the hole without her mashie and save me from the Wrath of Reggie, whose company slogan, “We leave no bones unbroken in search for what yaz owe me,” needs a bit of editing but makes a strong point? Does Jeeves really have a plan?
That’s it, I decided. I can’t wait a Liverpool second longer. I’m not going to rely on Jeeves to save my skin this time. I’ll make my own plan and resolve this crisis decisively. When the first opportunity to take action arises, I will. I’ll run.
I was flexing my knees and committing to this plan when the sound of club to ball brought me back again. Auntie P had smacked another long and true, her ball landing near the center of the fairway, perfect mashie distance from the hole. Lady Plodsforth put wood to her shot equally well, but without Auntie’s great distance. Her ball rolled to rest some thirty yards behind my prodigious relative’s. I postponed my flight.
A cool Lady Plodsforth, being away, was first to hit. I admired her composure as she stood over her ball, some sort of wooden club in her hands, preparing to swing. Her back was to me, and I watched as she calmly went through her complete preshot routine, including a good relaxing shake of her bottom. Her composure may have been admirable, but her waggle was world class. Her swing on this particular try was also a grand thing, and the ball arched high and straight for the green. However, one of the problems that can occur with using a wooden club is the forward spin it applies to the ball. When Lady Plodsworth’s own dimpled sphere arrived at the front edge of the green, true to her aim, it hit and rolled and rolled and didn’t come to a stop until it was caught up in the first cut of fringe, some forty odd feet from the flagstick. It was, nevertheless, an excellent shot, and I was applauding along with the gallery when all pandemonium broke loose. Pandemonium will do that when no one keeps an eye on it.
During the clap (an unfortunate phrase that), I looked to Lord Plodsworth to see what he thought of the shot. He had just picked up Lady Plodsworth’s bag when a browless Reggie Sheepstalker stepped from the crowd and whispered something to him that caused the Lord’s eyes to open large as a Big Bertha head cover. I was counting my blessings—let’s see, one, Sheepstalker seems to have forgotten me, and two, who needs two, one is good enough--when the plan that I had so carefully crafted just a shot or two ago ESPed from my head right into the goggle-eyed Lord’s. He made a sudden but ill-advised, it seemed to me, break for it. I say ill-advised because he was hemmed in by the gallery and there was simply no place to run. His only hope of escape, as far as I could tell, was to crash through somewhere. Of course, that’s when he turned in my direction.
I’m quite sure I was hollering something in capital letters with an exclamation point like, “WAIT!” or “STOP!” or “HOLD IT!” when the panicked Lord crashed into me like a runaway golf cart meeting a stay-at-home tree. We went down in a jumble of bag and clubs, and we both were scrambling to get back up when Reggie, who had been snapping at Plodsforth’s heels, landed atop the pileup with what American officials would call a late hit. He was growling all his pet phrases as he tried to corral the two of us in his long arms, and I could make out the words “Maim,” “mangle,” and “murder” as I snatched up the nearest golf club, squirmed to my feet, and, with upraised arm, threatened the three M’s right back at him. I was bluffing, of course.
“Don’t move a muscle” were the words that cut through the melee and froze me in place, though I thought it a peculiar turn of phrase considering how few I have, muscles, that is. But it was Jeeves’ voice, after all, and he was using that commanding tone he summons before brushing a spider from my back, so I stood my ground. Lord Plodsforth, however, having apparently no fear of spiders at all, once again bolted for freedom, followed by Sheepstalker, in what’s usually called hot pursuit, and I see no reason to call it anything else. The two had just cleared the gallery when, amazingly, they were joined by another two streakers: Auntie’s man Mulligan, who burst from the crowd to join the fleeing Lord, and on his heels Reggie’s pal, No-neck. We all watched breathlessly—Auntie, Jeeves, the gallery, and me—until the chase disappeared over a nearby hill. It was then that I quite suddenly found myself giving off an exhale of approximately the same volume Jeeves had achieved at the end of Sheepstalker’s bear hug. My tormentors were, at least for the moment, gone.
“My dear Madam Paisley” was the next thing I heard above the murmur of the crowd. Jeeves was addressing my aunt, which I knew right off because, if he’d been talking to me, I’m sure he would have used MY name. “Allow me to present you with your missing mashie,” he said. Then, turning and addressing me, see I’ve made my point, he said, tone again commanding, “Bertram, give your aunt her club.”
“Jeeves, old chum,” “I don’t have,” and “Where would I get,” and “Are you?” were some of the things I was about to say when a glance at the shaft in my hand (another unfortunate phrase) revealed the long lost iron. “But how?” I managed to say, twice actually, “But how, but how?” before Jeeves, using his calming tone, stopped me before I but howed again, “Not to worry, Young Sir. I will explain all at the match’s conclusion.”
“The match IS concluded,” came a voice from out of the murmur. “A count of Lady Plodsforth’s clubs, with the inclusion of that mashie, puts her one over the tournament limit. The rules call for disqualification.”
It was Baxter Smallwit, president of Rollinginit Country Club, looking wonderfully puffed and pompous, making this announcement.
I’ve won! I’ve prevailed! I’ve done it all! Found the mashie, bested Sheepstalker, and saved the day, were the first thoughts in my head. I have no idea what just happened, thank God for Jeeves, and how lucky can you get were my next. Nevertheless, I had waited all my life for a moment like this, and I wasn’t going to waste it. I began my Endzone Dance. I call it The Funky Twit in honor of another pet name my aunt has for me, and I was hopping about and flapping my arms quite rhythmically, I thought, despite what appeared to be looks of horror from those about me, when . . .
“I won’t have it,” stopped me in my tracks. All eyes turned to Auntie P. “Lady Plodsforth knew nothing of the stolen mashie in her bag,” she went on, to my growing distress. “It was her dastardly husband, Lord Plodsforth, who was the culprit, and I will not see her disqualified.” Auntie can get all worked up and quite stubborn in that queerly British way when fairness is the issue. I watched as she did that chin up, back-stiffening thing that signifies no surrender.
Smallwit was quickly cowed. “All right then,” he declared with a magisterial wave of his hand and the sinking of my heart, “do play on.”
The match was rejoined, and my demise was impending again. Auntie P hadn’t hit a green from this distance all day, and with the distractions of the past few minutes and the pressure applied by Lady Plodsforth’s good shot, it seemed unlikely she would do so now. Still, she was able to stop me in mid fret. “Bertram!” she barked, “Buck up and hand me my mashie.”
I was startled to see I was still clutching the prized club. I handed it to her quickly, muttering something that came out faintly Australian like, “G’ luck, Dearie,” then stepped aside to watch her play the shot that would decide my fate.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“If you will slow to something a bit under warp time, Master Bertram, I will do my utmost to make it all clear, though I doubt, considering the question of skull thickness, bone density, and all that, that perfect clarity is possible in your case.” Jeeves was shouting at me in response to my “But how?” I wasn’t sure what he meant there, but I slowed the two seater until the wind noise was just under howling.
“Thank you. Now if you will further allow me the privilege of a small dissertation, I will detail the sequence of events as I recall them, leading to the mystery’s conclusion. Perhaps then your questions, like the mystery, will also find an end.”
Jeeves has a way with words sometimes, but I’m not without my own resources in that department. “Sure,” I answered, “dissert away.”
My companion stared at me blankly for a second before a look of something, I think it was wonder, drifted across his face.
“Yes, well the . . .,” he started. “In brief, my first clue was simply the skulking about of that disgrace to the profession, Stuart Mulligan. You see, Mulligan had been out of service for some time, having to do with charges of pilfering, which is why I refused to relinquish our luggage. When I learned that he had recently been in the employ of Lord Plodsforth and, further, that he had received good references from him, I knew something was amiss.”
“But how . . . ?”
“You see, Bertram,” he continued, ignoring me, “if there is something missing and a thief is about, one will most likely have something to do with the other. The question I then asked myself was, Why? Why would Mulligan steal a golf club that was in and of itself not particularly valuable? I had no answer until it came to me as it had earlier come to Mulligan that the club was valuable, but only to Lady Paisley. Without it, she felt she could not win her Club’s championship. Mulligan, having caddied for your aunt, knew of her dependence on the mashie shot. How could this knowledge be useful to him, I wondered, until it dawned. There was indeed a way. Remove the club; then make a wager. It was then that I suggested the trip to Reggie’s emporium.
“But how . . . ?”
“Once there, more of the puzzle came together. I was somewhat bothered by why Mulligan would take the risk. I couldn’t imagine that he could scrape together enough funds to place a bet that would return a sufficient amount to make the caper worthwhile. His position at your aunt’s was a good one and not worth losing over a small sum. And, of course, only a fool or, um, a brave man like yourself, would bet more than he could pay with Reggie Sheepstalker. Though betting is usually a most confidential thing, I traded upon my childhood friendship with Reggie to inquire as to the parties who might be wagering on such a small thing as a country club golf tournament. There were few, but amongst them was a name I knew, and it was not as I expected, that is, Mulligan. It was Lord Plodsforth. The connection was obvious. Mulligan needed Plodsforth to make a really large bet, while Plodsforth needed Mulligan to snatch the mashie, the profits from the wager to be split in some agreed upon manner, The amount they had risked, I should add, on what I am certain they felt a sure thing, was substantial. With the facts becoming clear and, of course, needing an exit, I added your paltry sum in opposition to their bet.”
“But how . . . ?”
“Upon our return to Paisley Manse, I made some further inquiries via telephone to several of my colleagues in service. Through them I learned what apparently Mulligan did not know. Lord Plodsforth was broke. He had frittered away the family fortune riding to the hunt and betting large sums on the outcome with other members of the gentry. My friends had witnessed the money changing hands on many occasions. Lord Plodsforth was now trying to recoup both his losses and Lady Plodsforth’s affection, which he had also lost by his continual elimination of her pets, in one fell swoop.”
“But how . . . ?”
“It was then I devised my plan—two plans, actually. The first required a bit of good fortune to be successful. A calculated risk, if you will. I suspected that Lord Plodsforth, having so much at stake, would want the mashie close at hand to assure that it would not be found and returned to your Auntie Paisley. The only way he could do that and conceal it while caddying would be to put the club in Lady Plodsworth’s bag. I was a touch nervous at the start of play until I was able to edge close enough to spot the club where I had hoped it would be. After that, I knew all would be well. If your aunt had played poorly, I would have revealed the club’s presence much sooner so as to effect the disqualification and put an end to the things. I didn’t know, of course, that your aunt wouldn’t settle for such a conclusion. As it was, the old girl played with such grit and determination that I just stood back and enjoyed the performance.”
“But how . . . ?”
“My second plan, should the mashie not appear in Lady Plodsforth’s bag, was simply to have Reggie and company thrash the two villains until the truth was out. I had alerted Reg to the whole scheme, and he does not take kindly to people who try to beat the odds by fixing a contest to cheat his establishment, especially when they have no ability to pay should they lose. A thrashing was now in order whether for my plan or not; hence the chase.”
But how . . . ?”
“I know what you are driving at. No scene ever plays out exactly as planned, Young Sir. I could not have anticipated Lord Plodsforth’s escape attempt before the match was even decided. I gather that with your Auntie Paisley making her gallant comeback and Reggie whispering his company motto in the chap’s ear, it was simply too much, and he cracked. I also could not have anticipated the excellent tackle you would make at that point, momentarily preventing his escape, but, more importantly, saving the mashie. How you then selected it so quickly from the cluster about you has me yet amazed. You have my highest commendations.”
“Yes, well, er, thank you, Jeeves. Bit of rugby, training, quick thinking, that sort of thing” was all I could mumble to explain my blind luck. I was finally out of “but how’s,” my questions, I thought, all answered. Jeeves, though, had more to say.
“One last thing I must mention, Bertram. Because of my first plan’s success, the match was, I shan’t say “fixed,” let’s say “assured,” in your aunt’s favor. This being the case, your winnings are, of course, forfeited. But you will, I’m sure, agree that it was all worthwhile to save the day and be witness to your aunt’s last shot.
I might have agreed; that is, if I actually had seen the shot.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Auntie has no waggle, which is a good thing. With her size, the air displacement could be threatening. Instead, she employs a kind of club twitching back and forth as she stands behind the ball and takes dead aim down the fairway. Once over the ball, she is as still and steady as the Rock of Ages. Or is it the Rock of Gibraltar? I’m not sure, so whichever one moves the least, that’s the one she’s still and steady as. Her backswing is slow and deliberate as her hips and torso turn into a powerful coil. When she actually swings, it looks a rather leisurely thing, but it somehow imparts terrific force. The ball seems to jump off her clubhead. Even with all the pressure this day had brought—the tournament, the mashie, me standing behind her saying, “Oh please, oh please, oh please”—Auntie was able to bring her best swing to the ball. “Whoosh” was the sound the mashie made as it propelled the dimpled orb into the sky, and “whoosh” was the sound that closed my eyes. I just couldn’t look; there was too much riding on it. Away flew the ball, a thing of beauty, I was told later, that bounced twice lightly on the green and then rolled to the hole, where it gently tapped the flag then disappeared. The crowd’s murmur turned instantly to a deafening roar, and I opened my eyes in amazement. Auntie’s ball had found the bottom of the cup, the match had been won . . . and the Funky Twit was back.
It was all perfect, just, and grand, if that’s the end I’m looking for, and I’m sure it is.