Slimy Underbelly

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Wuwufo is easier to pronounce,” I said, then reconsidered. “Well, I guess not.”

  “Lawyers like to be accurate in every detail,” Robin said. “On behalf of our client, I tried to get more background on the organization itself, so I requested a copy of their membership directory. I wanted to look at the other members to get a feel for the politics involved in this election. But I was flatly refused. Dead end.”

  “We could look at Thunder Dick’s personal copy,” I suggested. “I’m sure he’d let us.”

  Robin shook her head. “Release of private information in the directory to non-members is grounds for expulsion.”

  “If he’s expelled, Thunder Dick couldn’t very well be the president of the organization,” I said. Stripped of weathermancer membership, he would also likely have to change his name back to Richard Thudner.

  Robin shuffled papers. “I researched what I could. Wuwufo has some public activities. They sponsor a nonprofit scholarship for a rainy day, and recently they financed new protective nets under the eaves of City Hall to prevent citizen impalement by falling icicles, but nobody really knows what the organization does behind closed doors or how influential the members are.”

  “Typical professional organization,” I said.

  There was also a Private Investigators Club that discussed matters of professional interest to other detectives. I had been active in it when I started out as a human PI. I even bought a lifetime membership, although many of the club’s concerns didn’t relate to my work in the Unnatural Quarter.

  To make matters worse, after I was killed and came back from the dead, I received a notice in the mail that my lifetime membership had been terminated because I was no longer alive. They told me I could write an appeal letter to the club membership committee, but I hadn’t gotten around to it, and I found that my life was just as fulfilling without their monthly newsletter.

  Robin continued to skim down the list that the magic pencil had written neatly on her legal pad. “I’ve filed several information requests under transparency laws, hoping for a list of Alastair Cumulus the Third’s public campaign donors. So far, though, all the requests have been turned down. Wuwufo is a private organization and not bound by campaign finance laws. I can’t even figure out who’s paying for Thunder Dick’s campaign, and he’s our own client. He’s very tight-lipped about it.”

  Sheyenne flitted in. “Oh, I know a way around that—I’ll get you the information.”

  Even Robin looked surprised. “How?”

  “I’ll just file a similar request to the same office. And another one this afternoon. And another one tomorrow morning.”

  Robin and I looked at each other, then back at Sheyenne. I said, “But if we’ve already been turned down, what good will that do?”

  She flashed a quirk of a smile. “We can always count on red tape and incompetence. If we try enough times, we’ll get lucky. Someone is bound to slip up.”

  At the Goblin Tavern, Stentor the ogre tried to drown his sorrows, but the metaphorical water wasn’t deep enough to do the job.

  I took the big guy along with me to the Tavern, because it was time to visit my designated stool with McGoo, but primarily because the impatient ogre had come back to our offices, hoping for a report. When I had no progress to tell him, the ogre paced around the waiting area, nervously blundering and bumping into the furniture. Neither Robin nor Sheyenne could get work done, and for the safety of our furniture, and walls, and ceiling, I decided I had better take him elsewhere.

  Francine the bartender was good at understanding the problems of her customers, and I let Stentor squeak out his tale of woe for her. It made him feel better to unload, even though an echo of his words was probably also coming out of the distant lawn gnome’s mouth. Who knows, maybe it would make Mr. Bignome feel a little guilt.

  Even though she knew why the baritone ogre sounded like a chipmunk, Francine suggested a special hot toddy concoction that would surely help. Stentor’s gloom brightened just a little, and I told Francine to conjure her concoction. I even offered to pay. “What have you got to lose, Stentor?”

  She whipped up a batter that had the color and consistency of tar, to which she added smoking spirits from a dusty bottle beneath the bar. She sniffed, winced, and declared it perfect. “I used to make these at a biker bar where I worked. Sometimes the boys would get too loud and rowdy, and this pacified them.”

  Stentor took the mug in his beefy hands and slurped. “Tastes awful,” he said, and took a bigger gulp.

  “Better make another one, Francine,” I suggested.

  When Stentor finished his drink, he tilted his head back and tried to shout, but only a weak, high-pitched noise came out. I could see his clear disappointment. “Give it a little time to work,” I said.

  The ogre rested his elbows on the bar. “I’ve been shouting myself hoarse. That’s what Officer McGoohan told me to do. I’ve been practicing my scales, singing arias—and not just to make that thieving lawn gnome crazy. I have to keep my vocal cords conditioned, just in case. Great voice talent doesn’t come easy.”

  McGoo burst through the Tavern door, his face flushed, his cap askew. I usually expected him at this time of the evening, but he didn’t normally arrive with such an uproar. I raised my hand and caught the bartender’s attention. “Francine, looks like McGoo’s in a hurry for a beer.”

  “Shamble,” he said, panting. “I knew I’d find you here!”

  “That doesn’t take much detective work.” I turned to the ogre. “Stentor, you’re in his seat.”

  “No time for a beer tonight—we’ve had a breakthrough!” He grinned at the ogre. “And I’m glad he’s here.”

  “What kind of breakthrough?” I asked.

  “Did you find my voice?” Stentor turned around on the barstool so quickly that one of the legs groaned. I was afraid it would break.

  “The station just received a very interesting complaint, a neighbor calling in to report a disturbance. A troll living near a large abandoned building complained about constant noisy opera singing.”

  “That can’t be a coincidence,” I said. “How many opera singers are there in the Quarter.”

  “More than you might think,” said Stentor. “But what did he mean by ‘noisy’?” He sounded offended.

  “According to the report, the troll called it ‘worse than wet bagpipes played by a Scottish ghost with a tin ear.’ ”

  Stentor’s shoulders drooped, and he hunched over the second mug of the steaming tarry concoction Francine had delivered. “Then it can’t be my voice.”

  I patted him on the huge shoulder. “I’m afraid it might be. Not everyone has a taste for opera.”

  Stentor vacillated between being hopeful and insulted. “Once I get my voice back, I’d like to have a few words with this troll.”

  “Where are Mr. Bignome and his gang holed up, McGoo?” I asked, then turned to the ogre, raising a warning finger. “But be careful what you say out loud, Stentor. Remember, Bignome can hear every word that comes out of your mouth.”

  The ogre’s eyes widened, and he made a zipping-his-lips-shut gesture.

  McGoo nodded. “They’re in the Lawn and Garden section of an abandoned department store.” His eyes sparkled with excitement. “This is the break we needed. They’re putting together a task force at the precinct right now, heading out within an hour. Want to go along on the raid, Shamble? Bignome is part of your case, too.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it, McGoo.” I touched my hip, making sure the .38 was there. “So long as my friend Stentor can join us.”

  McGoo sized up the enormous ogre. “Sure thing. We can use the extra muscle.”

  Stentor swung down from the barstool, which toppled and crashed to the floor in his eagerness to get going. He jabbered with all the enthusiasm and tonality of a hyperactive squirrel. “When I get my job back at the opera, I’ll send you and the entire police force free tickets to my first performance.”

  CHAPTER 30


  At the precinct station the squad cars were prepped, and the incident commander gave a quick briefing. I could take care of myself in a crisis, but I felt like a fifth wheel at the moment. Stentor tried his best to stay out of the way, and failed completely.

  “Remember, be careful not to say anything,” I cautioned the ogre. “You could give away the raid, ruin the element of surprise.”

  The big ogre nodded vigorously, again putting a finger to his lips to shush himself.

  Before heading out, officers donned bulletproof vests and safety goggles for protection against Timmy gun slugs. McGoo gave me one, since my body had had enough close encounters with bullets of various calibers, thank you. The officers were flustered when they couldn’t find a vest that was even remotely ogre sized. Stentor was impatient with the delay. He struggled with himself, wanting to blurt out an argument, and he finally went over to a whiteboard on the station wall and picked up one of the markers in his zucchini-sized fingers to write, Don’t need a vest. I’m bulletproof. He picked up a stapler from a nearby desk and bashed it against his bicep, where it shattered into pieces of plastic and metal. “See.”

  “That only proves you’re stapler proof,” said one of the uniformed cops.

  “They’re just Timmy guns,” I said. “Not much stronger than staplers.”

  McGoo finally said, “No more delays. That gang could be on the move.” Stentor danced from foot to foot as if he’d had too much coffee and too little time in the bathroom.

  Next came a debate about whether all the squad cars should roar in and surround the Lawn and Garden department with sirens blaring and ultimatums shouted through bullhorns—which would be dramatic, but not conducive to surprise.

  “If you did that, you’d be asking for a shoot-out,” I said.

  McGoo agreed. “We haven’t had a good shoot-out in months, but our objective is to arrest the lawn gnomes, not kill them all. I want to see those pint-sized creeps sentenced to twenty years of hard labor on a chain gang, chipping away at ornamental landscaping rock.”

  Six squad cars rolled out in the middle of the night, carrying a dozen uniformed officers loaded for bear (or lawn gnome), a zombie detective, and a vocally challenged ogre. I rode with McGoo in the front seat while Stentor occupied the entire back. The vehicles headed across town in a silent caravan.

  With a minimum of roaring engines and squealing tires, the cars pulled up in the empty retail parking lot beneath darkened streetlights. As the black-and-whites parked in a haphazard cluster in front of the Lawn and Garden department entrance (carefully avoiding the faded paint of a handicapped spot), Stentor struggled to climb out of the squad car, leaning on the door so heavily that one of the hinges bent.

  In front of the door, dead and dry plants—petunias, I think—filled terracotta pots with an old sign indicating that they were marked down for quick sale. Some of the letters on the store sign had fallen askew.

  The building was dark and sinister, but we could see a few moving lights inside, shielded camping lanterns the gnomes must have stolen from the sporting department.

  Haunted houses may seem scary, but there’s nothing more sinister than an abandoned department store. It’s a building of broken dreams and disappointed shoppers, promises of discounts that would never be fulfilled, holiday sales that would never meet their potential. Fortunately, I don’t enjoy shopping much, so I didn’t get too wistful.

  McGoo put a finger to his lips, reminding everyone to be quiet. The uniformed officers spread out, creeping up to the glass entrance doors. Before anyone drew close, the automatic door whisked open, surprising us all. The cops froze. I had my pistol drawn. Stentor followed me, as if trying to take shelter behind my gaunt form.

  Our officers hadn’t triggered the door, though. One of the lawn gnomes sauntered out—the green one with the shamrock on his lapel. Preoccupied, he didn’t notice any of us as he hunched over; a flare of light brightened the dark entryway as he lit his pipe and stood puffing.

  The raiding squad stood motionless for two full seconds, not sure what to do—until the lawn gnome spotted us. His eyes sprang open so wide that he looked like one of Snow White’s animated dwarves, and he yelled out in a voice that would have been the envy of any ogre opera singer. “Cops! Boss, the cops is here!”

  “The cops are here,” McGoo corrected, then raised his voice. “You’re under arrest. Surrender and come out quietly.”

  Instead, the shamrock lawn gnome threw down his smoldering pipe and bolted back into the dark department store. Now that the surprise was blown, two cops raced back to their squad cars and flipped on the sirens, unleashing an explosion of noise. Strobe blue-and-red lights lit up the parking lot, as if the store had reopened and was announcing a big sale.

  McGoo ducked into the front of his car, grabbed a bullhorn, and yelled, “Bignome, we know you’re in there. Come out with your hands up.”

  In response, one of the plate-glass windows shattered. The skinny barrel of a Timmy gun extended and began to spit gunfire like popping popcorn. As the cops yelled and dove for cover, small-caliber bullets pinged and bounced off the squad cars, the darkened light poles, and even a few bulletproof vests. Two more store windows broke out, and additional Timmy-gun fire peppered the night.

  The police shot back in a barrage of much-larger-caliber fire, and I joined in, firing my .38 because it seemed like the thing to do. We were very thorough, making sure that all the store windows were completely shattered.

  During a brief lull in the gunfire, a loud voice—which properly belonged inside the throat of an ogre—bellowed, “You’ll never take me alive, coppers!”

  To which Stentor yelled back (and a louder echo of his voice came from the darkened Lawn and Garden department), “You’d better not damage my voice.”

  The lawn gnome took control of the voice again. “Stop that—it’s disorienting.”

  Stentor pushed past me, squeaking, “Let me take care of this.” He bounded toward the door, attracting more Timmy-gun fire, which simply bounced off his pebbly skin as if the bullets were no more than staples.

  “Lay down some covering fire,” McGoo shouted through the bullhorn, which made him sound very Stentorious himself. The cops opened fire, driving the cornered lawn gnomes farther back in the store, away from the windows.

  The ogre bounded ahead faster than the automatic doors could respond; he smashed right through, knocking them off the tracks and leaving the abandoned Lawn and Garden department wide open. The machine-gun fire ceased as the lawn gnomes retreated into the darkness.

  “Everyone, move out,” McGoo yelled. “They’ve got no place to go. Let’s round them up—alive if possible.”

  One of the other cops muttered, “Nobody’s going to notice a few chips or paint scuffs if we rough them up a little.”

  The uniformed officers surged into the Lawn and Garden department, holding flashlights in one hand, firearms in the other. I was already chasing after Stentor. There was no stopping the ogre.

  As we ran through the door together, McGoo flashed me a broad grin. “Now this is the kind of shoot-out I’ve been looking forward to, Shamble.” Then he split off to follow the sounds of gunshots that rang out in the shadows.

  The shamrock lawn gnome was trying to hide inside a stack of rolled green garden hoses, but he had underestimated his height, and the pointed top of his cap protruded above the coils. He surrendered when two cops drew down on him. Their standard-issue handcuffs proved to be too large for the lawn gnome’s wrists, but the policemen used duct tape, and escorted the captive green gnome out to their squad car.

  Two other lawn gnomes barricaded themselves behind a stack of plant food bags. They popped up, opened fire with their Timmy guns, and ducked back down. The cops launched return fire, bursting the sacks and sending up clouds of powdered plant food.

  McGoo signaled, pointing to larger bags on shelves above the barricaded lawn gnomes—forty-pound sacks of manure, marked “highest quality.” In response, the cops shot ou
t the sacks and split them open so that their contents buried the besieged gnomes. McGoo and his companions raced forward to make the arrest. Other officers called out success as they collared two more lawn gnomes.

  I made my way toward the back of the store, where Stentor had charged into the dimness, shoving aside folding plastic lawn chairs, knocking over barbecue grills. He was after Mr. Bignome himself.

  “Be careful, Stentor,” I shouted. “There’s nothing more dangerous than a cornered rat.”

  “I’m more dangerous than any rodent,” the ogre squeaked back, “cornered or otherwise.” The same words echoed in a louder voice from the potted plant section ahead.

  “Bignome, there’s no way out!” I yelled. “You can’t hide from us.”

  “I’ll never surrender,” the loud voice came back. “I’ll never do time in the prison yard—or any yard!”

  Stentor seized his stolen voice again. “Oh, yes, you will.” We could hear the words emanating from the lawn gnome’s hiding place.

  I caught up with him. “That’s it, Stentor! Keep yelling, and we’ll pinpoint his location by the voice.”

  The ogre kept shouting, and his displaced words echoed out, “Over here. I’m over here. Helloooo! Oh, I think I just wet my pants.” The last was followed by an angry mutter from the lawn gnome.

  The gunfire had petered out in other parts of the store, and McGoo caught up with us. “We’ve got them all except the ringleader, Shamble.” Then he raised his voice, yelling into the gloom. “Bignome, I’ll give you one last chance—come out with your hands up.”

  The gnome’s voice came back from the clutter of shadows and potted plants. “We’ve already been over this.”

  A rattle of Timmy-gun fire shattered the dimness. McGoo and I instinctively took cover behind large terracotta planters, but the ogre didn’t bother. He blundered ahead, knocking aside anything that was in his way.

  Mr. Bignome chose to make his last stand by climbing to the top of a set of rickety metal shelves, nearly five feet high. On his body I saw several white chips where the black paint on his jaunty vest and pointed cap had been damaged. Broken clay pots and upended watering cans lay all around.