The Unpleasant Profession Of Jonathan Hoag And Other Stories

by Robert A. Heinlein

  "I get it," Perkins told him, and turned to Dumbrosky. "You got a call from the city hall, didn’t you? So you sent Dugan down to do the dirty work. What I don’t get is why you sent Dugan. I hear he’s so dumb you don’t even let him collect the pay-off on his own beat."

  "That’s a lie!" put in Dugan. "I do so—"

  "Shut up, Dugan!" his boss thundered. "Now, see here, Perkins—you clear out. There ain’t no story here."

  " ‘No story’?" Perkins said softly. "The police force tries to arrest a whirlwind and you say there’s no story?"

  "Now?" said Clarence.

  "Nobody tried to arrest no whirlwind! Now scram."

  "Then how come you’re charging Pappy with obstructing an officer? What was Dugan doing— flying a kite?"

  "He’s not charged with obstructing an officer."

  "He’s not, eh? Just what have you booked him for?"

  "He’s not booked. We’re holding him for questioning."

  "So? Not booked, no warrant, no crime alleged, just pick up a citizen and roust him around, Gestapo style." Perkins turned to Pappy. "You’re not under arrest. My advice is to get up and walk out that door."

  Pappy started to get up. "Hey!" Lieutenant Dumbrosky bounded out of his chair, grabbed Pappy by the shoulder and pushed him down. "I’m giving the orders around here. You stay—"

  "Now!" yelled Perkins. Clarence’s flashbulb froze them. Then Dumbrosky started up again.

  "Who let him in here? Dugan—get that camera."

  "Nyannh!" said Clarence and held it away from the cop. They started doing a little Maypole dance, with Clarence as the Maypole.

  "Hold it!" yelled Perkins. "Go ahead and grab the camera, Dugan—I’m just aching to write the tory. ‘Police Lieutenant Destroys Evidence of Police Brutality.’ "

  "What do you want I should do, Lieutenant?" pleaded Dugan.

  Dumbrosky looked disgusted. "Siddown and close your face. Don’t use that picture, Perkins— I’m warning you."

  "Of what? Going to make me dance with Dugan? Come on, Pappy. Come on, Clarence." They left.

  "OUR FAIR CITY" read the next day. "City Hall Starts Clean Up. While the city street cleaners were enjoying their usual siesta, Lieutenant Dumbrosky, acting on orders of Hizzoner’s office, raided our Third Avenue whirlwind. It went sour, as Patrolman Dugan could not entice the whirlwind into the paddy wagon. Dauntless Dugan was undeterred; he took a citizen standing nearby, one James Metcalfe, parking lot attendant, into custody as an accomplice of the whirlwind. An accomplice in what, Dugan didn’t say—everybody knows that an accomplice is something pretty awful. Lieutenant Dumbrosky questioned the accomplice. See cut. Lieutenant Dumbrosky weighs 215 pounds, without his shoes. The accomplice weighs 119.

  "Moral: Don’t get underfoot when the police department is playing games with the wind.

  "P. S. As we go to press, the whirlwind is still holding the 1898 museum piece. Stop by Third and Main and take a look. Better hurry—Dumbrosky is expected to make an arrest momentarily." Pete’s column continued needling the administration the following day: "Those Missing Files. It is annoying to know that any document needed by the Grand Jury is sure to be mislaid before it can be introduced in evidence. We suggest that Kitten, our Third Avenue Whirlwind, be hired by the city as file clerk extraordinary and entrusted with any item which is likely to be needed later. She could take the special civil exam used to reward the faithful—the one nobody ever flunks.

  "Indeed, why limit Kitten to a lowly clerical job? She is persistent—and she hangs on to what she gets. No one will argue that she is less qualified than some city officials we have had.

  "Let’s run Kitten for Mayor! She’s an ideal candidate—she has the common touch, she doesn’t mind hurly-burly, she runs around in circles, she knows how to throw dirt, and the opposition can’t pin anything on her.

  "As to the sort of Mayor she would make, there is an old story—Aesop told it—about King Log and King Stork. We’re fed up with King Stork; King Log would be welcome relief. "Memo to Hizzoner—what did become of those Grand Avenue paving bids?

  "P. S. Kitten still has the 1898 newspaper on exhibit. Stop by and see it before our police department figures out some way to intimidate a whirlwind." Pete snagged Clarence and drifted down to the parking lot. The lot was fenced now; a man at a gate handed them two tickets but waved away their money. Inside he found a large circle chained off for Kitten and Pappy inside it. They pushed their way through the crowd to the old man. "Looks like you’re coining money, Pappy."

  "Should be, but I’m not. They tried to close me up this morning, Pete. Wanted me to pay the $50-a-day circus-and-carnival fee and post a bond besides. So I quit charging for the tickets—but I’m keeping track of them. I’ll sue ’em, by gee."

  "You won’t collect, not in this town. Never mind, we’ll make ’em squirm till they let up."

  "That’s not all. They tried to capture Kitten this morning."

  "Huh? Who? How?"

  "The cops. They showed up with one of those blower machines used to ventilate manholes,

  rigged to run backwards and take a suction. The idea was to suck Kitten down into it, or anyhow to grab what she was carrying." Pete whistled. "You should have called me."

  "Wasn’t necessary. I warned Kitten and she stashed the Spanish-War paper someplace, then came back. She loved it. She went through that machine about six times, like a merry-go-round. She’d zip through and come out more full of pep than ever. Last time through she took Sergeant Yancel’s cap with her and it clogged the machine and ruined his cap. They got disgusted and left."

  Pete chortled. "You still should have called me. Clarence should have gotten a picture of that."

  "Got it," said Clarence.

  "Huh? I didn’t know you were here this morning, Clarence."

  "You didn’t ask me."

  Pete looked at him. "Clarence, darling—the idea of a news picture is to print it, not to hide it in the art department."

  "On your desk," said Clarence.

  "Oh. Well, let’s move on to a less confusing subject. Pappy, I’d like to put up a big sign here."

  "Why not? What do you want to say?"

  "Kitten-for-Mayor—Whirlwind Campaign Headquarters. Stick a 24-sheet across the corner of the lot, where they can see it both ways. It fits in with—oh, oh! Company, girls!" He jerked his head toward the entrance.

  Sergeant Yancel was back. "All right, all right!" he was saying. "Move on! Clear out of here." He and three cohorts were urging the spectators out of the lot. Pete went to him.

  "What goes on, Yancel?"

  Yancel looked around. "Oh, it’s you, huh? Well, you, too—we got to clear this place out. Emergency."

  Pete looked back over his shoulder. "Better get Kitten out of the way, Pappy!" he called out. "Now, Clarence."

  "Got it," said Clarence.

  "Okay," Pete answered. "Now, Yancel, you might tell me what it is we just took a picture of, so we can title it properly."

  "Smart guy. You and your stooge had better scram if you don’t want your heads blown off. We’re setting up a bazooka."

  "You’re setting up a what?" Pete looked toward the squad car, unbelievingly. Sure enough, two of the cops were unloading a bazooka. "Keep shooting, kid," he said to Clarence.

  "Natch," said Clarence.

  "And quit popping your bubble gum. Now, look, Yancel—I’m just a newsboy. What in the world is the idea?"

  "Stick around and find out, wise guy." Yancel turned away. "Okay there! Start doing it— commence firing!"

  One of the cops looked up. "At what, Sergeant?"

  "I thought you used to be a marine—at the whirlwind, of course."

  Pappy leaned over Pete’s shoulder. "What are they doing?"

  "I’m beginning to get a glimmering. Pappy, keep Kitten out of range—I think they mean to put a rocket shell through her gizzard. It might bust up her dynamic stability or something."

  "Kitten’s safe. I told her to hide. But
this is crazy, Pete. They must be absolute, complete and teetotal nuts."

  "Any law says a cop has to be sane to be on the force?"

  "What whirlwind, Sergeant?" the bazooka man was asking. Yancel started to tell him, forcefully, then deflated when he realized that no whirlwind was available.

  "You wait," he told him, and turned to Pappy. "You!" he yelled. "You chased away that hirlwind. Get it back here."

  Pete took out his notebook. "This is interesting, Yancel. Is it your professional opinion that a whirlwind can be ordered around like a trained dog? Is that the official position of the police department?"

  "I— No comment! You button up, or I’ll run you in."

  "By all means. But you have that Buck-Rogers cannon pointed so that, after the shell passes through the whirlwind, if any, it should end up just about at the city hall. Is this a plot to assassinate Hizzoner?"

  Yancel looked around suddenly, then let his gaze travel an imaginary trajectory.

  "Hey, you lugs!" he shouted. "Point that thing the other way. You want to knock off the Mayor?"

  "That’s better," Pete told the Sergeant. "Now they have it trained on the First National Bank. I can’t wait."

  Yancel looked over the situation again. "Point it where it won’t hurt anybody," he ordered. "Do I have to do all your thinking?"

  "But, Sergeant—"

  "Well?"

  "You point it. We’ll fire it."

  Pete watched them. "Clarence," he sighed, "you stick around and get a pic of them loading it back into the car. That will be in about five minutes. Pappy and I will be in the Happy Hour Bar- Grill. Get a nice picture, with Yancel’s features."

  "Natch," said Clarence.

  The next installment of OUR FAIR CITY featured three cuts and was headed "Police Declare War on Whirlwind." Pete took a copy and set out for the parking lot, intending to show it to Pappy.

  Pappy wasn’t there. Nor was Kitten. He looked around the neighborhood, poking his nose in lunchrooms and bars. No luck.

  He headed back toward the Forum building, telling himself that Pappy might be shopping, or at a movie. He returned to his desk, made a couple of false starts on a column for the morrow, crumpled them up and went to the art department. "Hey! Clarence! Have you been down to the parking lot today?"

  "Nah."

  "Pappy’s missing."

  "So what?"

  "Well, come along. We got to find him."

  "Why?" But he came, lugging his camera.

  The lot was still deserted, no Pappy, no Kitten—not even a stray breeze. Pete turned away. "Come on, Clarence—say, what are you shooting now?"

  Clarence had his camera turned up toward the sky. "Not shooting," said Clarence. "Light is no good."

  "What was it?"

  "Whirlwind."

  "Huh? Kitten?"

  "Maybe."

  "Here, Kitten—come, Kitten." The whirlwind came back near him, spun faster, and picked up a piece of cardboard it had dropped. It whipped it around, then let him have it in the face.

  "That’s not funny, Kitten," Pete complained. "Where’s Pappy?"

  The whirlwind sidled back toward him. He saw it reach again for the cardboard. "No, you on’t!" he yelped and reached for it, too.

  The whirlwind beat him to it. It carried it up some hundred feet and sailed it back. The card caught him edgewise on the bridge of the nose. "Kitten!" Pete yelled. "Quit the horsing around."

  It was a printed notice, about six by eight inches. Evidently it had been tacked up; there were small tears at all four corners. It read: "THE RITZ-CLASSIC" and under that, "Room 2013, Single Occupancy $6.00, Double Occupancy $8.00." There followed a printed list of the house rules.

  Pete stared at it and frowned. Suddenly he chucked it back at the whirlwind. Kitten immediately tossed it back in his face.

  "Come on, Clarence," he said briskly. "We’re going to the Ritz-Classic—room 2013."

  "Natch," said Clarence.

  The Ritz-Classic was a colossal fleabag, favored by the bookie-and-madame set, three blocks away. Pete avoided the desk by using the basement entrance. The elevator boy looked at Clarence’s camera and said, "No, you don’t, Doc. No divorce cases in this hotel."

  "Relax," Pete told him. "That’s not a real camera. We peddle marijuana—that’s the hay mow."

  "Whyn’t you say so? You hadn’t ought to carry it in a camera. You make people nervous. What floor?"

  "Twenty—one."

  The elevator operator took them up non-stop, ignoring other calls. "That’ll be two bucks. Special service."

  "What do you pay for the concession?" inquired Pete.

  "You gotta nerve to beef—with your racket."

  They went back down a floor by stair and looked up room 2013. Pete tried the knob cautiously; the door was locked. He knocked on it—no answer. He pressed an ear to it and thought he could hear movement inside. He stepped back, frowning.

  Clarence said, "I just remembered something," and trotted away. He returned quickly, with a red fire ax. "Now?" he asked Pete.

  "A lovely thought, Clarence! Not yet." Pete pounded and yelled, "Pappy! Oh, Pappy!"

  A large woman in a pink coolie coat opened the door behind them. "How do you expect a party to sleep?" she demanded.

  Pete said, "Quiet, madame! We’re on the air." He listened. This time there were sounds of struggling and then, "Pete! Pe—"

  "Now!" said Pete. Clarence started swinging.

  The lock gave up on the third swing. Pete poured in, with Clarence after him. He collided with someone coming out and sat down abruptly. When he got up he saw Pappy on a bed. The old man was busily trying to get rid of a towel tied around his mouth.

  Pete snatched it away. "Get ’em!" yelled Pappy.

  "Soon as I get you untied."

  "I ain’t tied. They took my pants. Boy, I thought you’d never come!"

  "Took Kitten a while to make me understand."

  "I got ’em," announced Clarence. "Both of ’em."

  "Where?" demanded Pete.

  "Here," said Clarence proudly, and patted his camera.

  Pete restrained his answer and ran to the door. "They went thata-way," said the large woman, pointing. He took off, skidded around the corner and saw an elevator door just closing.

  Pete stopped, bewildered by the crowd just outside the hotel. He was looking uncertainly around when Pappy grabbed him. "There! That car!" The car Pappy pointed out was even then swinging ut from the curb just beyond the rank of cabs in front of the hotel; with a deep growl it picked up

  speed, and headed away. Pete yanked open the door of the nearest cab.

  "Follow that car!" he yelled. They all piled in.

  "Why?" asked the hackie.

  Clarence lifted the fire ax. "Now?" he asked.

  The driver ducked. "Forget it," he said. "It was just a yak." He started after the car.

  The hack driver’s skill helped them in the downtown streets, but the driver of the other car swung right on Third and headed for the river. They streamed across it, fifty yards apart, with traffic snarled behind them, and then were on the no-speed-limit freeway. The cabbie turned his head. "Is the camera truck keeping up?"

  "What camera truck?"

  "Ain’t this a movie?"

  "Good grief, no! That car is filled with kidnappers. Faster!"

  "A snatch? I don’t want no part of it." He braked suddenly.

  Pete took the ax and prodded the driver. "You catch ’em!"

  The hack speeded up again but the driver protested, "Not in this wreck. They got more power than me."

  Pappy grabbed Pete’s arm. "There’s Kitten!"

  "Where? Oh, never mind that now!"

  "Slow down!" yelled Pappy. "Kitten, oh, Kitten— over here!"

  The whirlwind swooped down and kept pace with them. Pappy called to it. "Here, baby! Go get that car! Up ahead—get it!"

  Kitten seemed confused, uncertain. Pappy repeated it and she took off—like a whirlwind. She dipped and gathere
d a load of paper and trash as she flew.

  They saw her dip and strike the car ahead, throwing paper in the face of the driver. The car wobbled. She struck again. The car veered, climbed the curb, ricocheted against the crash rail, and fetched up against a lamp post.

  Five minutes later Pete, having left Kitten, Clarence, and the fire ax to hold the fort over two hoodlums suffering from abrasion, multiple contusions and shock, was feeding a dime into a pay phone at the nearest filling station. He dialed long distance. "Gimme the FBI’s kidnap number," he demanded. "You know—the Washington, D.C., snatch number."

  "My goodness," said the operator, "do you mind if I listen in?"

  "Get me that number!"

  "Right away!"

  Presently a voice answered, "Federal Bureau of Investigation."

  "Lemme talk to Hoover! Huh? Okay, okay—I’ll talk to you. Listen, this is a snatch case. I’ve got ’em on ice, for the moment, but unless you get one of your boys from your local office here pronto there won’t be any snatch case—not if the city cops get here first. What?" Pete quieted down and explained who he was, where he was, and the more believable aspects of the events that had led up to the present situation. The government man cut in on him as he was urging speed and more speed and assured him that the local office was already being notified.

  Pete got back to the wreck just as Lieutenant Dumbrosky climbed out of a squad car. Pete hurried up. "Don’t do it, Dumbrosky," he yelled.

  The big cop hesitated. "Don’t do what?"

  "Don’t do anything. The FBI are on their way now—and you’re already implicated. Don’t make t any worse."

  Pete pointed to the two hoodlums; Clarence was sitting on one and resting the spike of the ax against the back of the other. "Those birds have already sung. This town is about to fall apart. If you hurry, you might be able to get a plane for Mexico."

  Dumbrosky looked at him. "Wise guy," he said doubtfully.

  "Ask them. They confessed."

  One of the hoods raised his head. "We was threatened," he announced. "Take ’em in, lieutenant. They assaulted us."

  "Go ahead," Pete said cheerfully. "Take us all in—together. Then you won’t be able to lose that pair before the FBI can question them. Maybe you can cop a plea."