Only then did Dodger notice the most surprising thing of all about his new friend. The animal was not a chimp, nor a fighting prototype. He was human. Dodger had seen pictures of mongoloid children in his biology class and had in fact been kept after school for making fun of them. He now understood why he'd been punished for such lack of compassion.
His new friend was a mongoloid dwarf. Dodger couldn't tell how old the boy was, but he guessed they were close to the same age. As Dodger continued to study the boy, the distraught look relaxed a little as he realized that Dodger was not a threat. Still, he continued to pant heavily and drool from the intense heat of the car's interior.
"What's your name?" Dodger yelled to the boy through the glass.
The boy cocked his head first in one direction and then the other. Dodger repeated the question.
The boy cocked his head one more time, pulling at a leather collar that seemed almost too tight to allow him to breathe. With a great deal of effort, the boy answered in a guttural voice.
Dodger couldn't be sure what the boy had said, but it sounded like "Elliot."
"Elliot. Did you say, Elliot?"
The mongoloid's face distorted into a semblance of a smile, and he nodded.
"I'm Dodger," Dodger said as he pointed to his chest.
The boy nodded, then continued to stare at Dodger, smiling. Suddenly, his smile dropped away, and he pointed a pudgy finger in Dodger's direction. At first Dodger thought the gesture was a plea for help and was about to answer when his shoulder was suddenly caught in a vice-like grip, and he was spun around.
"What the hell are you doing? Trying to break into my car?"
Dodger tried to free himself from the man's grasp, but the long bony fingers simply dug in deeper, paralyzing his left arm. The man was tall, well over six-feet, dressed in a black suit that was in desperate need of an iron, and a white shirt in equally desperate need of washing.
"I said, what you doing around my car, boy?" The man growled again. "Take your damn skateboard and get on down the road before I call the cops on you, ya hear?"
Dodger opened his mouth to retaliate, but the man chose that moment to shove him out of the way. Dodger tripped over his skateboard and found himself for the second time that afternoon with his rump soaking up the oil of the parking lot pavement. He sat there dazed by the sudden attack when he heard the engine of the Caddy start up. With a squeal of rubber, the black machine leaped out of the parking space in reverse. Dodger had just enough time for his eyes to fix on the trailer hitch as the Caddy bore down on him.
At the last second, Dodger rolled with all his might to the left, the rear wheel of the Caddy missing his nose by inches. He scrambled to his feet in time to catch a glimpse of the license plate – RNT 1109. He repeated it to himself several times until he was sure he would remember it.
Wait till Uncle Matt hears about this, Dodger thought, as he walked over to pick up his skateboard that had also narrowly escaped from being run over. He righted the board with one foot and kicked off in the direction of the fish and tackle shop where his uncle worked. He won't believe what happened. As he exited the parking lot, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he might be right about his uncle. He probably wouldn't believe any of it.
"LET ME BE SURE I'VE got this straight," Matt said, as he pulled a bottle of beer out of the cooler. "You were in front of the Vantage Drug Store when you happened upon this strange black limousine with out-of-state plates. You looked in the rear seat of the limo and low and behold, there was this monster. Is that the gist of it?"
"Not a monster and no, it wasn't a limo. I don't exactly know what was in the back seat, but it was human, and it was locked up without so much as one window cracked open. It had a thick leather collar around its neck that looked way too small. It wasn't exactly locked up, least not as it had been. It must have broken out of the wooden coffin it had been in. And the car was a Cadillac, not a limo. Come on Uncle Matt, I'm telling you the truth on this one."
His uncle rested his elbows against the weathered wood of the counter. He took a long swallow of beer and shook his head. "I don't know, Dodger. Your story smells kinda fishy to me—pardon the pun. You know, your mom warned me about your tall tales and vivid imagination."
"I know Uncle Matt, but this really happened. I'm telling you the truth, and if we don't do something, there's no telling what that old coot will do to the boy." Dodger's voice threatened to break from the strain.
His uncle glanced at him, his eyes squinting in the sun. With a smile, he asked, "What do you suggest we do?"
"I don't know," Dodger answered. "Go to the police for starters. They can put out an all points bulletin for the Caddy. Dragnet the area . . ."
"Whoa there. Hold on a second. I think you're forgetting something. I'm not held in the highest esteem by Chief Kenwood and neither are you. Need I remind you of last summer?"
Dodger groaned as he recalled the close brush he'd had the previous year with the Police Chief of Foster Flat.
"It wasn't my fault. Besides, surely Kenwood has forgotten about it by now," Dodger said, but didn't even convince himself.
"Are you kidding? Kenwood has a memory like an elephant...”
"And a body to match." Dodger finished the sentence for his Uncle, who frowned at the remark.
"Do you think for one minute that Kenwood is going to have anything to do with either of us?"
"Well . . ." Dodger replied slowly. "I thought maybe he would listen to you—you being old like him and all."
Matt finished the beer off and tossed the bottle into the oil drum reserved for such waste. "Old has nothing to do with it. One of these days, maybe you'll realize how much your tall tales cost you and everyone around you. In the meantime, I suggest you take this latest one, write it up and send it off to the Enquirer. You may as well make a few bucks off it and help pay for your keep. Otherwise, keep it to yourself. I'm sick of hearing about it."
"But, Uncle Matt . . ."
"No buts. I gotta get back to work. How about making yourself useful and get yourself home and make us some dinner?"
"Yeah, okay," Dodger replied. "It's just that the kid in the Caddy needs help. You can't imagine how sad and lonely he looked."
"No, you're right. I can't imagine. I'll leave that to you. Now, get your butt home. I'll be there in a couple hours." As his uncle walked by, he tousled Dodger's hair. "Be a good kid and stay out of trouble. Okay?”
Dodger nodded, running his fingers through his hair. "I'll try."
GRUNT ROLLINS PULLED the black Cadillac close against the Silverstream trailer. As he turned the engine off, he reached behind him in the rear seat and caught the dwarf by the leather collar.
"Idiot!" he yelled at the boy, as he yanked him over the seat and pulled him out of the car.
"Ediollt!" the boy slurred back, holding onto the collar in an effort not to be choked. Pain and fear distorted the already marred face into a grotesque mask.
"Gracie! Get out here and give me a hand," Grunt screamed at the top of his voice, slapping at the dwarf with his free hand at the same time.
A haggard old lady flung the door of the trailer open and rushed out, pulling a faded pink apron off as she ran.
"Hold it down. You want to get us kicked out of this dump before we make enough money to pay for it? What's all the fuss about, anyhow?"
"This idiot is getting too damn strong for his own good. Look what he did to the box. I'll have to take it in and see if I can fix it," Grunt said, as he passed the dwarf off to Gracie and turned back to pull the damaged box from the back seat.
Gracie glanced through the open door into the back seat and saw the splintered remains where the latch had been pulled loose.
"Tch, tch," Gracie said, shaking her head. "If tain't one thing, it's another. I hope to hell you remembered to get his medicine."
"I got it, don't worry. I'm as tired as you are of fixin' up after him. Excepting for the box, though, it was a right worthwhile trip. I picked up a
couple double strength padlocks for the lid, and while I was in the hardware store, I ran into our first customer."
"Well, once we get him inside, we'll give him a shot to calm him down and then you can tell me about it," Gracie said, as she walked towards the trailer, dragging the boy behind her. "Don't forget the packages."
Grunt reached over to the front seat for the packages and threw them into the wooden coffin, then dragged it into the trailer.
"How many drug stores did you have to try 'fore you found it?” Gracie asked, wincing as she glanced at the receipt.
"I told you it was a good trip. Only had to stop at two. I know," Grunt said, as he saw her face. "The price keeps going up. I figure we'll just have to pass it on to our customers. Besides which, it's close to going out of date, but the druggist assured me it would still be full strength. I figure as fast as we use it up, it wouldn't be a problem. The druggist hardly even glanced at the prescription."
"All they care about is the money," Gracie said. "These hick druggists are all the same. Slide them the greenbacks and they don't care if Donald Duck signed the script." She cackled at her joke. "What you think? Two or three cc's?"
"Well, you're the nurse, not me, but I'd say go ahead and give him three. Hell, if two is good, three gotta be better. The mark I was telling you 'bout ought to be here within the hour. She was real anxious to have her fortune read once I told her about idiot here. Three cc's ought to have him just about right by the time she shows up. Seems like it takes a little more for him to be accurate."
"You fool, you really think he sees the future, don't you?" Gracie asked, as she pulled the amber liquid from the vial.
"Yeah, I do. Least some of the times," Grunt replied defensively. "How 'bout the time he predicted the stock market would fall by thirty points?"
"Hell, Grunt, we made that up out of the nonsense he said while he was in his spell. It was pure luck, and you know it."
Gracie walked over to the dwarf and jammed the syringe through his blue jeans and into his buttocks. Elliot's scream, that sounded like a cat caught in a car's fan belt after snoozing on the warm engine, would have melted most people's hearts, but Grunt's only reaction was to stuff a soiled, rolled up sock into the gaping mouth to stifle the sound.
"Did you wash his other outfit?" he asked, as he pulled Elliot's hands down to his sides to keep them away from the sock.
"It's not that dirty. It'll do. If he soils it again, I'll wash it tomorrow. Who did you say was coming, and how much are they willing to pay?"
"Her name is Nannie Smotherman. Her husband owns the hardware store and a couple of other businesses in the area. I figure we can soak enough from her to blow this joint. She's real gullible, like most of these southern hicks."
Elliot's movements began to slow as the drug started to take effect. Grunt removed the wadding from his mouth to keep him from choking on it.
"Throw him in the bathroom for now. I'll change him in a couple of minutes," Gracie instructed, as she pulled a couple of beers from the ice box. Grunt did as he was told. Before closing the door to the bathroom, he stood for a moment and studied the now docile child.
"I'll never get used to watching him after he first gets his medicine. Look how alert he is. You could almost pass him off for normal."
"Except that he still looks like a Cro-Magnon man," Gracie snickered.
"You know what I mean," Grunt replied, still looking at Elliot. "His eyes—they're so clear. I swear to you he's different after the medicine. It's like wherever he is most of the time, wherever his thoughts are, for a while he comes back to his body."
"If you don't beat all. Close the door and come get your beer," Gracie said.
"Maybe his thoughts have been out there somewhere in time," Grunt continued, as he closed the door and picked up his beer from the table. "Maybe that's why he can tell the future when he comes back."
"Boy, sometimes I'm not sure which of you are the biggest idiot. Come on, help me put the damn silly outfit on him. The mark will be here soon."
DODGER REALLY HAD MEANT to follow his uncle's instructions and go straight back to the blue and gray trailer that had served as his summer home for the past two years. It had been his uncle's year-round home for over fifteen. It's likely he might have even forgotten about the kid in the back seat, at least for a while. But as he left the tackle shop, he decided to take the back way home where the traffic would be less and the road smoother.
He pushed himself along on his skateboard, taking potshots at beer cans and other debris in the gutter with the water pistol he always carried with him. As he did so, he found himself thinking more and more about what it must be like for the boy in the back seat, and liking his thoughts less and less. There must be some way he could help the kid. No one deserved to live such a life, not even Mrs. Peterson. His fifth-grade teacher had proven to Dodger beyond a shadow of a doubt that time did indeed slow down at certain points in one's life.
If only there were someone you could call on when you had a problem like this, Dodger thought. Like a Robin Hood, but for kids. Maybe a cross between Robin Hood and Peter Pan. Yeah, that's it. You could hire the entire band of merry men at a price break depending on what your weekly allowance was. In a situation like this one, you could slip the friend you were helping off to Neverland as a witness protection plan for troubled kids. Maybe that's what he would become when he grew up. Someone needed to be around to stick up for kids. It certainly looked like a wide open market.
The back way took him by a narrow road of rundown shops that had flourished until the new road had been built a few years ago, cutting Foster Flat out of the mainstream of the rest of the world. Now, most of the shops were boarded up with For Sale or Rent signs on them. One, though, had recently had the boards removed and on the glass door were the newly painted words:
P. I. (SLY) HOOD
PRIVATE DETECTIVE
Dodger kicked his skateboard to an abrupt stop and walked back to the store front. He stood in front of the glass door for several minutes, scheming on how he could take advantage of such a twist of fate. Dodger believed in fate. He had traveled home this way less than a week ago and the entire strip had been vacant, boarded up tight at a tick. But today, just when he needed the services of a private dick—presto—here appears Sly Hood.
What a dorky name, Dodger thought, as he opened the door and walked in. Well, beggars can't be choosers. He propped his board against the wall next to the door and looked around. The outer room was nearly vacant with only a rickety desk that seemed to bend under the strain of the thick stack of dust-covered magazines that lay upon it. By the scuff marks on the floor, it had obviously been dragged from the next room. The marks trailed under the door, which was propped open a few inches by a brick. Dodger knocked lightly on the door before walking in.
"Sorry, not opened for business yet," a slender, well-muscled man in gray denim pants and a polo shirt shouted over his shoulder, then turned his attention back to the rusty nail that he was preparing to pound into the wall. Leaning against the wall at his feet was a framed diploma. It looked to Dodger like the frame had probably come from the local thrift shop and the diploma from the back of a book of matches.
Dodger stopped a few feet inside the doorway and waited patiently.
"I said, I'm not open for . . . " Sly stopped in mid-sentence as he turned and saw his visitor for the first time.
"What d'you want, kid? Can't you see I'm busy?" He turned back to his task and gave the nail a couple more wallops with the hammer.
"I'd say, by the looks of things, you can't afford to turn down your first case," Dodger replied.
Sly swatted the nail one last time and bent it flat against the wall.
"Damn. Now, see what you made me do. What do you want?" Sly turned and tossed the hammer on the desk next to him. The desk appeared to be the twin of the one in the outer office. Four folding chairs rested against the front of the desk, their gray surfaces polka-dotted with white paint. They obviously ca
me with the office, the white paint matching the office walls.
"You're new in town, aren't you?" Dodger asked, as he opened one of the chairs and sat down.
"Oh, boy, a real Sherlock Holmes. Maybe I should hire you as my partner."
"No, thanks. I'm not looking for employment at present. Besides, I'm interested in hiring you. You interested?"
Sly studied Dodger for a moment before answering. "Sure, kid, what are you going to pay me with, your lawn mower money?" Sly slid the hammer to the side and sat on the corner of the desk.
"Well, this case may not pay much, but it'll make your reputation in town if you solve it. Consider it good public relations."
"Right, kid, just what I thought. Beat it, I've got work to do."
"What if you could expose a major scam, one that included corrupt city officials?" Dodger asked, not moving from his chair. He found the words falling from his mouth. His imagination was at its best when he didn't know ahead of time what he was going to say.
"Yeah? What about it?" Sly asked after a few seconds.
"It involves kidnapping, child abuse and maybe more. You could make a real name for yourself. You'd have clients pouring in here in less than a week."
"Yeah? And what's in it for you?" Sly asked, watching Dodger closely.
Without hesitating, Dodger replied, "I'll get my brother back."
Sly continued to look intently at Dodger. After a couple of seconds, he picked up the hammer and walked over to the wall with the bent nail. He pulled the nail out with the claw end, studying it for a moment before tossing it in the trash can.
He turned back to Dodger and stared at him for several seconds. Dodger did not move a muscle but returned a steady gaze. "Oh, what the hell," Sly finally said, breaking the long silence. "That was my last nail, anyway. Give me the scoop."
Fantastic Fables of Foster Flat Page 5