Sometimes Dead Men DO Tell Tales!

by David W. Smith

  “Did you boys ever hear the story of Pinocchio?”

  That caught all of them by surprise. They looked at each other open-mouthed. Here this old man was supposed to be afraid of them and now he was going to tell them a bedtime story?

  Before the surprise of the moment fled, Walt stood back from the table and began telling them the story of the puppet who wanted to be a real boy. He changed the sound of his voice for Geppetto and Pinocchio and, if they had known who he was, they would have recognized Mickey’s voice being used for the Blue Fairy and Jiminy Cricket. When he described Cleo the goldfish, he puffed out his cheeks and swam around the room. He slouched and winked for Honest John and Stromboli and rolled his eyes and slurred for Gideon. When he described the leaping attack of Monstro the Whale, the boys leaned back from the table, so wrapped up were they in the tale by the Master Storyteller. As Geppetto, he held up a lantern as he searched and called piteously for the little lost boy. Pleasure Island came alive for them with cigarettes and pool balls and beer bottles used for props.

  Mesmerized. That was the word that would have described Walt’s audience—much the same as it had been during the storyboard years when he would act out a movie or a cartoon or a Disneyland ride that was in his head and not yet on paper. Only these weren’t his artists or his storymen or his Imagineers. Still, they were his audience just the same as the others had been. And they were in the story with him. There was no animosity now–only the voice of the storyteller flowing over them, painting the scenes with his voice, illuminating them with his actions.

  When he finished and Geppetto had realized his little puppet was a real boy and Pinocchio had realized he needed to listen to his conscience, Walt walked slowly up the rickety stairs to the second floor. There was silence below him. The young men looked at each other. They weren’t sure what had just happened, but they knew it was something special.

  They left the old man alone as they watched the glowing tip of the cigarette dangling from his fingertips disappear as he stepped with a knowing stride up to the second floor.

  Walt breathed deeply. He was tired. Acting out a story like that took a lot out of him these days. He used to be able to go on all day long with a story like that. He used to.… Well, he used to be a younger man, he reminded himself with a grin.

  He looked around the desolation that used to be their offices. No chairs. No tables. In some places, no walls. The skylights—those wonderful skylights that had been the envy of every artist and photographer in the building—apparently leaked, if the stains on the floor were any indication. A lot of the windows were broken out and replaced haphazardly with boards. He looked out of the window that used to be his, shaking his head with a sigh. So different. The skyline was different. The neighborhood was different.

  Time to get to work, he told himself. But how? It’s all changed.

  He examined what was left of the walls. His wall was gone but the brickwork of the exterior was left. The ceiling sagged toward the middle of the room. He wished he could bring in his Disneyland construction crew. They could fix this up in no time flat! But, they were fifteen hundred miles away. And he didn’t need a crew for what he needed to do.

  He ran his hand over the brickwork. It was solid. The floor squeaked as he walked over to the window again. He paced off how large his office used to be. That’s right. Table over here. Papers stored there. Chair was here. The floor seemed pretty sturdy in spite of the shape of the roof and there was just that one floorboard that squeaked.

  Looking at the brick wall and the floor, seeing in his mind the layout of what used to be, he decided what to do. He would need a hammer, probably a small screwdriver would be enough instead of a chisel, a couple of nails, and about twenty less years on his back, he chuckled to himself. He would come back tomorrow and fix it up just fine.

  He patted the little capsule in his pocket. Almost home. Almost home.

  2002

  “So, up or down?” Lance finally tired of bouncing. It was no fun when Adam ignored it.

  Adam glanced back up at the ceiling. “I did a pretty thorough search. I didn’t see any indication that something had been taken down and put back. Assuming Walt did it himself, I don’t see him ripping off part of the ceiling.”

  “That leaves the floor. You said it was pretty solid here. Think it was further back in the room?”

  Before Adam answered, he needed to see something again. “Show me again the dimensions the office would have been.”

  Lance let out a breath. “It was kind of vague.” He paced off a portion of the floor. “From what I read, I would guess about this size.”

  Adam checked that in relation to the window. Lance was making the floor squeak again. Good thing Adam had nieces and nephews and could block out irritating noises. “I need to check where the floor joists are.” He used his hammer to sound out the floor and found the joists were eighteen inches apart running perpendicular to the window. He marked the two closest to the brick. “Okay, now what? The boards aren’t warped. Which would he choose? Is there a cross beam?” Talking quietly to himself, Adam sounded the floor in the opposite direction. Lance whistled a drinking song in time to the hammer hits. Again, he was ignored. Asking Lance to move from his favorite spot on the floor, Adam kept moving. He found the cross beam just behind where Lance had been playing. He marked it with the claws of the hammer. “Here is the cross section of the strongest part of the floor. If we are looking for another capsule, it might be placed near the cross. Looks like we have a choice of four boards to try. What do you think?”

  Lance shrugged. He hadn’t really been listening. The words of the song were still going through his mind. “Whatever you say, boss. Do you think that part of the floor always squeaked?”

  “Hard to tell. Would have been easy enough to fix. Want to start there?”

  “Be my guest.” Lance made a chivalrous bow from his waist.

  Adam rolled his eyes and hammered the wood around the old nails to compress the wood and lift the nail heads higher. Once that was done, it was easier to get the claw of the hammer under the nails. With a squeal of protest the nails pulled out. Adam repeated the motions on the other end of the board. When he set the floorboard aside, he reached for the flashlight.

  Mold. That was the first thing that greeted his eyes. He ran the light along the subfloor as far as the beam would reach. The light caught a few items that had fallen through some crack years ago, but they looked more like pencils than anything else.

  “Do we need to pull up another board?” Lance was almost on top of him, peering over his shoulder.

  “That might be a good idea. I don’t think anyone would mind.”

  Lance looked around the devastated room. “Nope, nobody said a word.”

  The next board proved a little stickier. Adam had to bang it from below to loosen the nails. “That’s interesting. The first board came up a lot easier.”

  With the second board removed, there was more light—and more mold. “Hope you don’t want to go crawling around down there.” Lance saw what was under the floor and grimaced.

  “Well, if we don’t find anything doing it this way, we just might have to.”

  “You’re shorter.” Smiling, Lance was quick on the draw. There was no way he was going down into that mess.

  “Aww, you too delicate?”

  Lance refused to be baited as Adam put his mask in place and stuck his head into the opening, flashing the light back toward the beams. “Delicate has nothing to do with it. You’re used to such conditions. I am not.”

  “You could get used to them.… Wait, I need the other flashlight. No, shine it over here. What’s that on that cross beam? No, the other side.… Lance, can you see where my light is shining? Over there.… What does that look like to you?”

  “You think that’s it? It’s a lot smaller than the last one we found.”

  “Nothing said they have to be the same size,” Adam muttered, thinking. “Back out of the way. I think I can reach
it from here. Hold the light so I can use the hammer. I think it’s nailed to the brace.” Adam grunted at the effort to loosen the two nails holding the capsule. “Walt had quite a grip.” He got the final nail out and caught the capsule before it fell onto the moldy subfloor. He handed it to Lance before nailing the two floor boards back in place. Might as well not leave any more holes in that poor old floor.

  Lance looked out the window again. “Want to get out of here and look at this at the hotel?” He saw the same black Camaro go slowly past their rental car again and watched it disappear down the street. “What about the tools?”

  “Let’s leave them. Can’t take them back to California anyway. Maybe someone will put them to good use inside here.”

  Lance nodded and made his way carefully back to the stairs. It was pretty easy to see their footprints, but they didn’t need to hurry. He hoped.…

  Lance was tense until they pulled into their hotel and turned the car over to the valet. He had constantly checked the rearview mirror, but didn’t think they were followed. He had seen the Camaro again once they turned off of 31st Street. It didn’t reappear as they put distance between themselves and the McConahy Building.

  They had a suite at the Hilton President in downtown Kansas City, only three miles from the old building and about twenty-five miles from the airport. The lobby was an elegant blend of gold and burgundy with marble pillars reaching up to the second balcony. Seating areas were comfortable and plush and were arranged on green and gold Persian rugs. The hotel was located just blocks from the Crossroads Art District. There were also two sports arenas in the area.

  Chatting to cover his nervousness, Lance filled Adam in on some of the history of Kansas City. Close to the Missouri River and the Kansas River, the city had been the launching point for travelers in the Old West. Along with the nearby towns of Independence and Westport, the Santa Fe Trail, the Oregon Trail, and even the California Trail had all originated from here. Kansas City was now known as the City of Fountains, boasting two hundred fountains and claims to be second only to Rome in number. Kansas City also claims to be one of the ‘world’s capitals of barbecue’, something Lance was much more interested in than fountains, shopping districts and architecture.

  If Adam had wondered why Lance was so chatty on the short drive to their hotel, he didn’t ask. He was looking at the beautiful buildings of the downtown area, including their hotel. It would be nice to do some exploring if they had the time.

  On this trip, Lance had brought his laptop computer. They didn’t need to be flying back again in another three days. They could research the next clue—if there was one—and see if they needed to stay longer. They were quiet in the ornate elevator up to their floor. Dusty from their excursion into the old building, they didn’t want to draw any more attention than necessary.

  When they got to their suite, Lance handed Adam the capsule. “I have to take a shower. I can still smell that mold.”

  Adam set the plastic container on the coffee table and picked up the hotel directory. He looked over the extensive room service menu and ordered a couple of Kansas City Strip Steaks for their dinner. Having had more time to pack for this trip, he took a shower in his room and changed into a clean set of clothes. Lance was already sitting down to eat when he came out. “Glad to see you waited for me,” he commented dryly as he saw Lance tearing into his steak.

  Lance didn’t even look up. “Like one pig waits for another.”

  “You do realize one of those dinners is mine, right?”

  Lance dipped his bite of steak in the deep red barbecue sauce. Closing his eyes, he savored the rich flavor. “Then you had better hurry and eat it.”

  Adam could barely understand the mumbles between bites and started on his own meal. “You open the capsule yet?”

  Lance shook his head. “For that, I did wait for you.”

  “I never did ask. Did you find out what the Santa Fe train stocks are worth?”

  Lance grinned over his last bite. “Yes, I did. Called a stock broker friend. He took down the year—1929—and the stock numbers, etc. They are each worth about $1000.”

  Adam’s face fell a little. “Oh. I thought, since they were so old.…” He stopped and bit back his disappointment. He didn’t want to come off sounding either greedy or unappreciative.

  Lance shrugged and speared Adam’s last bite of steak off of his plate. “Still, it is a nice, well-preserved piece of history. Just the paper itself can go for a couple hundred. He said he could move them for us if we wanted. If trains make a huge comeback in years to come, they could be worth more.”

  “Hmmm.” If airline travel hadn’t become so prevalent, who knew what they could have been worth? But, as Lance pointed out, historically they are interesting and worth keeping.

  Now they had another piece of history to consider. And it was sitting on the coffee table waiting for them.

  Lance let Adam again do the honors in opening the capsule. This one was about six inches long and three inches around. The seal was just as tough to get open as the first one they found.

  Adam set the cap aside, and, heart pounding, tilted the plastic. Nothing fell out. Looking inside, he saw rolled paper that hugged the rounded sides of the container. Making sure there was no barbecue sauce on his fingers, he reached inside and caught an edge.

  There were three pieces of paper in all. The largest piece, the one that had been carefully wrapped around the others, was yellowed plain stationery covered with writing. There was also a business card and a piece of paper with a torn side.

  Adam handed the largest piece to Lance as he examined the business card. He recognized it from his research. It, too, was yellowed with age but still very clear and distinct. In black letters, the middle of the card proclaimed ‘Laugh-O-Gram Films Inc.’ Behind the dark wording were the words Laugh-O-Gram, again in faint color. Inside the oversized O was the picture of a cartoonist at work on an easel, pictures flying off left and right. The bottom left corner had ‘Walt Disney, Cartoonist’, and the right corner had the address of the building in which they had just found this capsule. He knew Walt had drawn the cartoonist himself. There was a later business card with the same picture prominent on the front. However, the card he was holding had been made first.

  Lance was reading through the sheet he had been handed. It was all done in Walt’s own handwriting. He could tell from the words that it was a script for an Alice’s Wonderland episode. At the bottom were drawings of Julius the Cat with directions on the actions he was to take in a certain scene. Lance wasn’t familiar with all fifty-six Alice episodes, but he thought this might be one that never got produced. The hand-drawn pictures of Julius the Cat were fascinating. Lance knew there was a succession from Julius the Cat to Oswald the Lucky Rabbit to Mickey Mouse as Walt’s studio—and life—progressed. Lance fingered the writing and the drawings, knowing that Walt Disney himself had written the words and drawn the images he was holding. Like the diary, the page was fascinating.

  The third paper looked familiar to the men. After having spent so much time reading and re-reading the diary, Adam knew this page had been ripped out of the little black book. It was the right size and paper quality. Had Walt brought the diary with him when he hid the clues? Had it all been written ahead of time and concealed when the opportunity presented itself? There were so many questions and absolutely no way to get any answers. That is, unless Walt himself left them something more to find.

  Well, there was only one way to find out. They had to keep following the clues and see where they led.

  They just hoped it would start getting closer to home.…

  When they read the next clue they were pretty sure they didn’t need Lance’s computer. They knew where Walt—and now they themselves—headed after his time in Kansas City was finished—California. The note told them:

  “You ready for some prospecting?

  Triple R

  Just sing Mario part of the campfire song.”

  Well, at
least they hoped it was back in California.

  “You have no sense of adventure.” Lance gave a disgusted sniff at Adam.

  Adam tossed the gym bag back into his closet. “Hey, I ain’t singing nothin’ to nobody! You sing. You’re the one with no inhibitions.” Sufficiently unpacked, he headed back to his living room. “And why is my computer reminding me to feed you every day? I can’t get the darned thing to shut off!”

  “Well, be that as it may, we still need to find the particulars before we know what there is to sing and to whom.” Lance ignored Adam’s outburst. He could hear the soft chime coming from Adam’s computer. It would keep doing that until Adam canceled the reminder Lance had programmed. Maybe he shouldn’t have used a password-protected command….

  “Why in the world am I getting all this spam?? I paid good money for that program. Look at this! Two hundred messages in the three days we were gone!” Adam took up his mouse to rid his computer of all the unwanted junk mail as he continued to mumble and curse at the Internet.

  Lance could have told Adam his spam program had been turned off…. Maybe later. “You have any idea what the Triple R stands for?”

  “Reading, writing and ‘rithmetic?”

  “Isn’t that usually written as The Three R’s? No, I don’t think that would be it. Where should we start? The Triple R or the Mario Walt named?”

  Adam was still deleting emails. He had to go one at a time as they were mixed in with vendor quotes, personal mail, and about fifteen messages from Mrs. Anderson with new ideas for her bathroom.