Slimy Underbelly

by Kevin J. Anderson

  She picked up an interoffice phone, paged Miz Mellivar’s office, but got no answer. She finally located the Deputy Assistant Manager of Patents out in the testing laboratories. “She requests that you join her on the floor.” The receptionist pointed toward the warehouse area at the back of the offices. “But before I allow you back there, you’ll have to sign a waiver.”

  She shuffled her papers and handed us a form, which Robin perused, line by line, crossing out a few clauses, then signed before handing it over for my countersignature.

  “Are the testing labs that dangerous?” I asked.

  “It’s a standard liability waiver,” Robin said. “Probably unenforceable in the case of extreme circumstances. Primarily, they’re afraid you might trip on the floor and break an arm, or bump into a desk and bruise yourself.”

  “Don’t I have to worry about that every morning when I wake up?” I asked. “Or each time I cross a street?”

  “Yes, but government facilities are prone to lawsuits,” Robin said. “When you add pain and suffering, emotional distress, loss of work time and earning potential, it adds up.”

  I signed the form. All I needed to know was that Robin thought it was necessary, and she’s my partner. And my lawyer.

  The receptionist reached into a drawer beneath her desk and pulled out thick gloves and bulky safety goggles, which we were required to don. From a rack on the wall, she removed two plastic hard hats and gave us clean lab coats sealed in sanitary plastic bags “for health purposes.”

  “These are also mandatory,” said the receptionist.

  The back rooms of the Mad Scientist testing labs were full of chrome and tile, stainless-steel tables, laboratory benches, Bunsen burners, bubbling flasks, and a rack of vending machines in the corner that sold soft drinks, snacks, and packets of preserved blood. Ventilation hoods sucked wafting toxic fumes and released them to the outside air.

  Teams of mad scientists in lab coats, thick horn-rimmed glasses, and safety goggles meticulously worked through checklists. Every fifteen seconds or so explosions occurred with a loud pop! that caused the testing scientists to scatter before they returned to the area, taking notes. From the calm demeanor of their coworkers, though, the explosions must have been planned, or at least routine, events.

  From the far end of the room came shouts, then panicked screams. One team of scientists fled in absolute terror, flailing their hands, eyes wide, mouths agape as they bolted for the door. I tensed and prepared to defend Robin, just in case some horrific monster had been unleashed, but none of the other testing groups even glanced up from their work.

  We found Miz Mellivar at a workstation against one wall, where a straight-laced middle-aged man in a lab coat pushed his glasses up on his nose and discussed the testing protocol. Beside him stood a drop-dead-gorgeous female lab assistant, listening eagerly as he explained even the simplest things.

  Miz Mellivar turned when she saw us arrive. Her face softened just a fraction of a degree, which, for her, was apparently the equivalent of a broad, welcoming grin. “Ms. Deyer, Mr. Chambeaux, I’m glad you could come. I see by your rapid arrival that you understood the urgency of my letter.”

  “We must not delay the test, ma’am,” said the scientist. “There’s been too much preparation.”

  DAMP Mellivar turned back to him. “Very well, I’m here to observe. Proceed.”

  The scientist flipped on his equipment, studied readings, gazed intently at the sine wave on an oscilloscope. His lab assistant stood there looking so beautiful I could tell she was a professional. A lead-lined cubicle box faced a wire cage containing a white lab rat that squeaked and snuffled in search of treats, completely unaware of its impending doom.

  Miz Mellivar explained, “We’re verifying a new patent application. An entrepreneur has invented artificial Medusa heads, claiming they’re just as potent as the original. He wants to manufacture them and release them on the open market.”

  Robin asked, “What possible use could anyone have for an artificial Medusa head?”

  “Home security,” said Miz Mellivar, without further explanation.

  The scientist placed opaque goggles over his eyes and told us all to avert our gazes, while the lab assistant looked adoringly at him. Using black rubber gloves, he slid up a metal plate that covered a transparent window in the box. I was careful not to look at what the box contained, but out of the corner of my eye I did watch the rat. The rodent curiously looked toward the box, perhaps hoping for fresh kibble.

  A pale electric-green glow pulsed out of the box. The rat reared up, its pink eyes going wide, its cute little front paws trembling in terror. Then it crackled, turned even whiter than it already was, and fell over as a petrified statue.

  The scientist nodded and made a notation in his notebook, while the female lab assistant said, “Oh!” Then the petrified rat quivered and disintegrated into a pile of white powder. The scientist made another note as his beautiful lab assistant threw herself against his chest, sobbing.

  “It seems to have a design flaw,” I said. “Aren’t Medusa heads supposed to turn things to stone?”

  “Yes, but this is a kinder, gentler one,” said DAMP Mellivar, “with built-in safety features designed to turn victims into powdered sugar rather than stone. The prototype appears to perform exactly as it was designed to do.”

  I couldn’t see that turning a victim into a pile of powdered sugar was any safer than turning a victim into stone, but this wasn’t my area of expertise.

  Miz Mellivar complimented the scientist and his work, and he said with an appreciative glance at his beautiful lab assistant, “I couldn’t have done a thing without Marilyn here.” She fawned over him.

  When Mellivar led us back to her office, she seemed sterner, more disturbed. “I called you here as a private matter, Mr. Chambeaux and Ms. Deyer. This is unofficial, and I would normally require approval even to consult with you, but, as you might have guessed, I have something of a soft spot for our junior mad scientist, Jody Caligari—as I think you do.”

  “We do,” Robin admitted. “And we think his landlord may be involved in things much more questionable than wrongful eviction and illegal seizure of a tenant’s property.”

  “Extortion and murder, for example,” I added.

  Miz Mellivar went behind her desk, looked down at several notes she had taken. “Yes, a Mr. . . . Ah’Chulhu. There’s definitely something fishy going on. Ah’Chulhu has been in contact with the patent office, looking to secure the rights to Jody’s prototype inventions. The young man submitted certain sketches, schematics, blueprints, and design specifications, and, of course, the actual working prototype of his X-ray Spex.”

  “I thought you said Jody’s patents were denied?” I asked.

  “Pending and under review,” corrected Miz Mellivar. “Not quite the same thing. Ah’Chulhu wanted to buy them all outright. He became very aggressive about it. At the same time, he purchased the rights to numerous other patents, obscure ones like protective spells and anti-evil equipment. Those are all a matter of public record, available for sublicense or direct rip-off. He wanted to secure rip-off approval for Jody’s devices, too, but I denied it. That’s my job. Patents are sacred and important. This office is powerful, and I will not let it be abused.”

  She tapped her fingertips on her desk. “He got pretty nasty about it, said some very offensive things—at least I think they were offensive. I don’t actually speak Australian.”

  I found this disturbing indeed. “Sounds like Ah’Chulhu wants more than just back rent.”

  CHAPTER 28

  With a tentacle monster on the loose in the sewers after the murder of Fletcher Knowles, the gator-guy intimidation against Lurrm at the Recompose Spa, the dangerous gang of thieving lawn gnomes, an ogre whose operatic voice had been stolen, and an adorable junior mad scientist who needed his evil inventions back, I found it difficult to devote all my energy to the alleged nefarious shenanigans in the Wuwufo campaign.

  Bu
t, as I had told Sheyenne at Basilisk, each client’s case was the most important thing in the client’s life. As Thunder Dick’s numbers dipped in the polls for the upcoming election, he felt as if the entire universe were collapsing around him. And when a weather wizard was upset, an emotional tempest—even one in a teapot—could get out of hand.

  Thunder Dick stood in our offices wringing his hands, distraught and infuriated. His beard and hair looked wild and disheveled, as if combed by hurricane winds. The rainbow colors of his wizard robe seemed faded, an indication of the extreme stress he had been under, not to mention the frequent rough washings by storms he himself had conjured. At his feet, Morris/Maurice licked a paw, the picture of nonchalance.

  The wizard threw a folded newspaper down on Sheyenne’s desk. “This goes below the belt and above the knee! These photos were never supposed to be released.”

  I saw the printed picture of Thunder Dick grinning, unaware of a dark and embarrassing clump of spinach caught between his teeth. Another photo showed a close-up of his face with a crusty dried booger hanging out of one nostril.

  “Alastair Cumulus the Third is evil,” he cried with such vehemence that spittle sprayed from between his lips. “And in this case, evil isn’t a good thing! These photos have nothing to do with my policies or my qualifications. They are irrelevant to the campaign. They serve only to embarrass me—and to hurt my feelings.”

  Sheyenne looked over at the newspaper and agreed. “Those are some bad pictures.”

  The cat started licking his other paw.

  Thunder Dick could barely control his outrage as he unfolded the newspaper to show us the full spread below the fold. “This one’s the worst.”

  The image showed Thunder Dick asleep, his head tilted back, mouth gaping as he snored. A thin rivulet of drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth and down his chin to become lost in the saturated tangle of his beard. The caption read, If elected Wuwufo president, Thunder Dick promises to work hard for the Unnatural Quarter.

  “And where does my rival get them? You have to stop that evil man, Mr. Chambeaux. Alastair Cumulus the Third is a pustule on our profession.”

  “Do you have any embarrassing photos of him?” Sheyenne asked. “We could counter with that.”

  I was surprised. “Don’t encourage him. We don’t stoop to that level.”

  I expected Robin to argue as well, but she said, “As an attorney, I do need to know what leverage I have, even if we don’t use it. Besides, in politics I’m not sure there is such a thing as above-the-belt advertising.”

  Thunder Dick was dejected. “As far as I can tell, my rival never takes bad photos.” He shook his head. “I even paid bribes to get a copy of his driver’s license photo—only to find out that it looks like a studio portrait!”

  “Uncanny,” I said. “Nobody takes a good driver’s license photo.”

  On the floor, Morris/Maurice began the strange acrobatic bathing move that only cats can perform, rolling half on his back with his tail twitching, sticking one hind leg up in the air and grasping it with the front paw so that he could reach his nether regions in what amounted to a feline Cirque du Soleil performance.

  “Time for a face-to-face meeting with Mr. Cumulus,” I said. “I’ll try to convince him to bring a higher level of decorum to this campaign.”

  Thunder Dick snorted, “Ha, good luck with that. That fat-assed turd face doesn’t know the first thing about decorum.”

  “Unlike you,” I said.

  “Unlike me,” the weather wizard agreed and stalked off with his cat.

  Alastair Cumulus III lived in a fine residence in a quiet section of town where the homes were crowded close together. It was obvious that a weather wizard lived there. Instead of banners and flags for decoration, Cumulus had orange windsocks. Rain gauges adorned the shrubbery. A weather vane spun haphazardly on the top of the roof; another one with a dragon pointing north stood on a metal rod next to the driveway. A serrated copper stake allowed the measurement of snowfall or flood waters. Anemometers spun like eggbeaters as competing breezes held a battle around the small house.

  I didn’t see any lawn gnomes, nor did I expect to.

  A swift gust almost blew my fedora away, but I caught it in time. I was getting good at that. I rang the bell at the front door, which sounded like a loud foghorn. It seemed a corny gimmick, but immediately thereafter rafts of dense mist wafted up from a sprinkler system.

  The erudite and prissy weathermancer opened the door and regarded me as if I were a proselytizer selling newspaper subscriptions or religions. He stroked his forked beard with two fingers and regarded me with a frown. “How may I help you? Can I brighten a gloomy day? You look like you could use a sunny disposition—my services are for hire.”

  “I’d like to speak with you about the Wuwufo campaign, Mr. Cumulus the Third,” I said.

  He looked at me with narrowed eyes. “I’ve seen you before. You were in the museum when I rescued the Egyptian exhibit.”

  “And other places.” I retrieved one of my business cards and handed it to him. “Dan Chambeaux, Private Investigator, from Chambeaux and Deyer Investigations.”

  Alastair Cumulus regarded the card, then pocketed it. “The walking dead certainly get around. I’ll keep this in case I need a zombie detective. Would you like to contribute to my campaign? You’ve seen what I can do.”

  “I’ve seen. Your opponent hired me to investigate certain nefarious campaign shenanigans, such as vandalism of his campaign signs and posters, and the release of embarrassing photos to the media. Could I come inside, please?”

  A storm crossed the weather wizard’s face. “My opponent claims I’ve used unacceptable tactics? A pot shouldn’t call a kettle black.”

  “No more than reasonable men should use clichés,” I replied. “In any case, you may not want to have this discussion out in the open.”

  Grudgingly, Cumulus let me inside. The weathermancer’s main sitting room had Victorian furniture, a loud ticking grandfather clock, a glass decanter of sherry and two snifters on a tray (which I had never seen except in movies). Oil paintings of storm-whipped landscapes hung on his wall. Though he had electric lighting fixtures on the ceiling, he lit the room with hurricane lamps. Four large TVs were on one wall, each tuned to a different weather channel.

  “Let me explain something, Mr. Chambeaux.” Cumulus took a seat in an overstuffed leather chair decorated with brass studs. “I am running for president of the Weather Wizards Fraternal Order, and I intend to win. To that end, I’ll do whatever is necessary to show the voters I am the best candidate. However, I have done nothing illegal, or even nefarious. Why would I need to resort to dirty tricks? My opponent’s embarrassing incompetence and social ineptitude is self-evident.”

  “He seems a nice enough guy,” I said.

  “Maybe, but would you want him running anything more complicated than a coffeemaker?”

  Not wanting to give my opinion on the matter, I brought out the folded newspaper, although I was sure Cumulus had seen it. “And what about these shocking photos?”

  He snorted. “I had nothing to do with those pictures. I can’t even say that they’re a bad likeness. Have you seen Richard in person? He actually looks like that half the time.”

  I was surprised he would deny his involvement so plainly, since politicians rarely give straight answers. “Are you suggesting Thunder Dick released these images himself so he could appear to be a victim, while making you the bad guy?”

  Cumulus chuckled. “My foggy bottom! That level of intellectual complexity is far beyond poor Richard Thudner. I’m merely stating that I had nothing to do with it.”

  He poured himself a glass of sherry, but didn’t offer me one, so I had no opportunity to refuse his hospitality. He hadn’t invited me to sit down either.

  “To tell you the truth, Mr. Chambeaux, I have nothing to gain by becoming the Wuwufo president. As a professional organization, it spends more time in flame wars and debating the style of t
he organizational tie tack than actually accomplishing anything. But I could not in good conscience allow an oaf like Richard Thudner to run unopposed. I am obviously the superior candidate, and the voters will see it as well. I don’t need to release embarrassing photos to make my case. It’s obvious.”

  “Obvious in what way?” I asked.

  He leaned back in his overstuffed chair and ticked off the reasons on his fingers. “In the first place, I have no need for a familiar. I’m in charge of my own powers, and I don’t require some furry animal for moral support. And I don’t need a talisman either. Thunder Dick always wears that sundial thing around his neck, but it’s a crutch. Without it, he couldn’t create a sunny day in June, and that’s a sign of weakness if you ask me. And finally, well, I’m me.”

  As he spoke, a white cottony cloud materialized above the overstuffed leather chair. The cloud grew thicker, grayer, and then black, and a rumbling sound came from inside. Cumulus raised his left hand in a languid gesture. “Please step a bit to your left.”

  I lurched to the side just before a lightning bolt seared out like a spear hurled by Zeus himself. (Or maybe Thor was the one who threw lightning bolts. Sometimes I get my mythologies mixed up.) The bolt blasted the corner of the room, sending up a shower of sparks.

  I staggered, grabbing a shelf to steady myself.

  “A spider,” Cumulus explained. “I can’t abide spiders. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m rather busy. I have tomorrow’s weather to plan.”

  He didn’t offer to show me out, and I didn’t ask. When I left through the front door, the fog was still so thick I could barely see the sidewalk, and I had to fumble my way out to the street.

  CHAPTER 29

  Despite being a lawyer, Robin is normally a trusting sort of person. Now, however, she sounded suspicious. “It’s a very secretive organization, the Weather Wizards Fraternal Order.”