by Kirk Watson
No police. Besides, you’re a reporter. Or at least you used to be. And you were pretty good at it. So do what you do best: investigate.
Although unnerved by the morning’s events, he found himself strangely glad for the distraction. The last six months had been a drunken blur, easily the darkest time of his life. Until that morning, he had been preoccupied with ending it all, to finally extinguish his suffering. But now he found his attention diverted by the mystery of the black squirrel and the cryptic card. Besides, if there were a good story to be uncovered, Mr. Finn would be happy to run it in the Post. Even though John had never been keen on getting personally involved in his stories (preferring to keep an objective distance), he liked the idea of repaying Mr. Finn for his continued faith in him.
God knows I don’t deserve it. Maybe I’ll give Mr. Finn one last story, for old times’ sake. Why not? It could be the one they’ll remember me by after I’m gone. Besides, there’s no need to rush to my own end; after all, there’s no deadline for obituaries, so to speak. But I will need a little more time to shake down this story. And what about that black menace? He knows where I live. He’ll be back.
John weighed the gun in his paw.
I got lucky this time. If he does come back, coppers-to-walnuts he’ll be better prepared. I can’t stay here.
He looked down at the card:
The Broken Bough Inn
He put on his coat, stuffed the card in one pocket and the gun in the other, and headed out the door.
He hadn’t felt so alive in months.
Chapter 4
THE CRADLE WILL FALL
Within the securities market, certain equities may lose favor with investors, and their prices subsequently fall. Some contrarians purchase these stocks hoping for a quick rebound. When bought too soon, however, this is known as “catching a falling knife,” as the stock may continue its plunge unimpeded. You should never attempt to catch a falling knife, for as the phrase implies, a falling knife can cut you.
The Broken Bough Inn lay hidden in the trunk of a tree felled by time or storm (no one seemed to remember which). The blackened stump sat on a riverbank near the docks where the traders loaded and unloaded their flat-bottomed boats, afterwards stopping in the tavern for bed and drink. For a silver more, that bed included companionship. The regulars came to know it as The Broke-And-How Inn.
A black market thrived around the inn, specializing in the sorts of merchandise you couldn’t find in Langley’s proper stores—firearms, erotica, medicines. In fact, there was little that could not be bought at the Broken Bough Inn, provided your coins were plentiful and your questions few.
By design, the inn was not easy to find. There were no signs out front to indicate it even existed, nor any windows the outside world might peek through. Since it stood well off the main road, any passersby would be likely to miss it entirely, especially in the dark of night.
A series of inquiries had led John from one establishment to the next—each seedier than the previous—before he found himself standing in front of the Broken Bough Inn on the verge of midnight. He stepped through the door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. His nose wasn’t as quick to adjust to the smell, a rancid mixture of mildew and smoke.
A mirror hung over the u-shaped bar at the far end of the room, making the narrow space seem larger than it was. The candlelit tables between the entrance and the bar provided little light, but gave the smoky room an eerie glow, lighting the faces of the otters, ferrets, and foxes that packed the tavern. Some of the patrons were laughing boisterously, while others growled menacingly at each other as they exchanged money beneath the tables. Others still primped their fur to gain the attention of the ladies circulating about the room; the scantily clad women sat in the men’s laps, pretending to laugh at their jests while sneaking coins into their purses.
The shrieks, guffaws, and snarls all came together in a raucous din that pierced the smoke-filled air like a foghorn, warning any passing ships of the danger within.
John turned up his nose before wading in. Even by mole bar standards, the place was a dive. Nut casings crunched under his feet as he crossed the wooden floor. A few of the regulars had already taken their places at the bar. They turned to regard the approaching newcomer, but soon lost interest in the modest squirrel and returned their gazes to their mugs.
A female squirrel with fur teased impossibly high on her head tended the bar. She leaned against the copper-topped counter, obviously bored as she absentmindedly ran a silver brush through her blonde tail.
That’s probably the least of the health violations, John thought. As he took a seat, the bartender placed a napkin in front of him.
“What’ll you have?” she asked.
John thought she could have been attractive; it was difficult to tell in the dimly lit bar. He was sure the patrons preferred it that way, and he was glad for the darkness himself—the revolver weighed heavily on both his mind and his coat pocket. He slid a single copper coin across the bar.
“Acorn ale,” he said, hoping there wouldn’t be any hair in it.
The bartender raised her eyebrows. “You got another one of those for me, big-spender?”
John reluctantly pulled another copper coin from his pocket and slid it across on the bar. The bartender scooped the two coins up and turned to fetch a mug.
“And it wouldn’t kill you to tip me, you know,” she said over her shoulder, nodding towards the brass pot on the bar.
“Oh, right,” John said with an embarrassed smile. He reached back into his pocket.
He waited until the bartender had turned her back and began to pour his drink. With a quick glance around, he dipped his paw into the brass pot and pulled out a few coins, then dropped them back in with a clink. The bartender turned her head at the sound, nodding in approval as she drew the ale from the tap. She returned to place the foamy mug in front of him.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,” she said.
“I’m here to meet someone.”
“Oh yeah? Who?”
“I’m the transporter.”
The bartender crossed her arms. “No kidding. If that’s true, then you must have something for me.”
John pulled the card from his pocket and handed it over.
The bartender set her silver brush down on the bar and took the card. She eyed it, then John, flipped the card over, and eyed him some more. “Where did you get this?”
“From a fellow in black.”
John took a sip of his ale. It was both bitter and strong. He reminded himself to drink slowly; he didn’t want to get drunk in a place like this, and more importantly, he didn’t want to swallow any stray hairs.
The bartender stared at him for a long moment with her brow furled. “So you’re the new transporter? Sorry, I just thought you’d be taller. Sit tight for a second.”
She took the card with her and disappeared through the office door, leaving her brush behind. John sipped his ale, trying not to appear nervous. He picked up the brush and examined it. The bristles were full of blonde fur, and an ornate “L” was engraved into the silver handle. When he looked back up, a ferret was scowling at him from across the bar. John carefully set the brush back down. The ferret continued to stare at him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. John quickly looked away and regarded the other patrons.
The old fox sitting next to John had an untouched mug of ale in front of him. John decided it couldn’t have been the fox’s first drink of the evening. The fox sat with his eyes closed, his head inching closer and closer towards the bar.
Been there, John thought.
John spied a bowl of peanuts in front of the fox. His stomach growled—he hadn’t eaten since the previous day. As the fox slumped farther down, John stretched past him to grab a peanut. The fox suddenly emitted a snore. Startled, John quickly withdrew his paw, knocking over his own mug in the process.
John stifled a curse, frowning at the overturned mug that had cost him two
coppers. He watched helplessly as the spilled ale spread across the bar and lapped against the passed out fox’s head. Still, the fox didn’t move. John watched for a few moments more to make sure he wouldn’t wake, then quickly exchanged his own spilled mug for the fox’s untouched one. The fox continued to doze, oblivious to the maneuver. John smiled in satisfaction.
Heh-heh. Clever squirrel.
Emboldened, he reached over the fox and grabbed a pawful of peanuts from the bowl. He popped one into his mouth, rather pleased with himself, but when he looked back up, he nearly choked on it—the beady-eyed ferret was still watching him from across the bar. The ferret stood and walked over, never taking his eyes off John. He pulled up a stool and scooted in close—a little too close for John’s comfort. John pretended not to notice the ferret or his accompanying smell of booze and river.
“Are you friends with Lilah?” the ferret asked.
“Oh, yes, old friends,” John replied. He assumed Lilah was the bartender. That would explain the “L” on her brush.
The ferret tilted his head to one side as he studied John, his nose twitching. “That’s funny, cause I don’t think I recognize you.”
John ran a finger across his upper lip. “I shaved my moustache.”
The ferret contemplated this for a moment with a puzzled look on his face. To John’s relief, the ferret stood without a word and returned to his seat across the bar. But every now and then, the ferret would cast a wary eye back at him.
John was glad to see the bartender return from the back office.
She retrieved her brush from the bar. “Hey, my brush is all wet! Did you spill your drink?”
John nodded his head towards the sleeping fox and took another sip from his mug. Lilah gave him a suspicious look as she dried her brush with a towel.
“Come with me,” she said, obviously irritated.
He followed her into the small office behind the bar. Set into the wooden floor was a trapdoor.
“Down there,” she said, pointing the way with her brush.
“Right,” John said. He placed a paw in his pocket and felt the reassuring coldness of the gun. Bracing himself, he pulled the trapdoor open, revealing a set of stairs leading into a dark cellar. He felt carefully for each step as he descended.
Down below, a single candle burned on a small table. John could see the faint outline of someone sitting at the table; the yellow glow of two eyes stared at him from the darkness.
John turned to see if Lilah was coming down as well, but she remained up top and closed the trapdoor behind him. For a second, he thought she had a smile on her face.
John approached the table and sat in the chair opposite the glowing eyes. He kept one paw in his coat pocket, gripping the gun tightly. In the darkness, he couldn’t quite make out the animal seated across from him, but he could tell it was rather large.
“You’re late, transporter,” the glowing eyes said.
“Something came up,” John replied. “But don’t worry; I took care of it.”
“That’s what I like to hear. You have the money?”
“Let’s see the goods first.”
“That wasn’t the deal.” The glowing eyes leaned into the candlelight, and John could now see it was a well-dressed raccoon in a three-piece suit. “You don’t get the merchandise until I have my money. Half now and the other half on delivery. Now, let’s see the money.”
“What do you take me for? A fool? Not until I inspect the goods, you bandit.”
The raccoon simmered, stroking his whiskers. After a long moment, he chuckled. “You’ve got some big acorns, squirrel. I like that in a transporter.”
“And I like your vest, raccoon. So, now that we’re best friends, why don’t you tell me where the goods are?”
“They’re nearby, safe and sound. Now, why don’t you tell me where the money is?”
They? What is this raccoon peddling, anyway? “The money’s close by,” John said, “but first I need to inspect the merchandise. Don’t worry; if it’s good as you say, you’ll get your money.”
“Of course, my bushy-tailed friend,” the raccoon said with a smile. “No need to get testy.”
John didn’t like the looks of that smile. “So, where is it? Here at the inn?”
“Now you take me for a fool. Of course they’re not here. They’re in the warehouse near the docks. So, do we have a deal?” The raccoon stood and extended a paw.
“If everything’s in order.” John stood from the table and removed his paw from his coat pocket, releasing the gun. As he shook the raccoon’s paw, he noticed the gold rings on his fat fingers. The raccoon motioned towards the trapdoor.
“Then come on up. I’ll show you the merchandise myself.”
John climbed up the stairs with the raccoon trailing close behind. He opened the trapdoor and gasped.
Above him stood the same black squirrel who had attacked him that morning. The giant squirrel now sported a fresh bandage on his ear and (rather impossibly, John thought) looked even angrier than before. His nostrils flared as he glowered down at John, tapping a wooden club into the palm of his paw. John smiled apologetically.
“Oh, hello again. I was just looking for you. I have your card right here—”
John reached for his coat pocket, but before he could pull the gun, the black squirrel brought the club down, striking John across the temple. John fell backwards down the stairs, hitting his head hard on the cellar floor. As he lay there gasping, he turned his head towards the solitary light on the table. The candle’s flame grew blurrier and brighter, completely filling his vision, then faded altogether.
Everything went black.
Chapter 5
VALEDICTIONS
Teenaged John Grey squirmed to get comfortable in the library’s wooden chair. Most students avoided the library like a skunk colony, but that was just fine with John. He liked having the place to himself. The smell of the musty old volumes, the meticulously-kept card catalog, the crack of a new book’s spine—to John, these were the things that made a school day bearable. And the library’s solitude provided a welcome respite from the teenage drama in the halls outside. This was his church, and he spent hours in worship there, poring over the obscure tomes and romantic poems from authors long past. Over the last four years, he had missed many a class doing just that, often forgetting the time while committing some stanza to heart. Perhaps not coincidentally, it was gym class he missed most often. But despite his frequent truancy, he had somehow managed to rise to the top of his class. It was a position he attributed partially to hard work, but mostly to charming the faculty to excuse his spotty attendance.
And so John found himself in the library that spring day, the last of the school year, preparing the valediction he was to deliver in front of the graduating class. He didn’t relish the task—just the thought of speaking in front of a group made his stomach turn as if he had swallowed a live tadpole—but when he saw his father’s pride upon learning his only son was to be valedictorian, he knew he would have to do it. He couldn’t deny his father the opportunity to watch him address an assembly of Langley’s most well-respected citizens.
“The Greys have finally made something of themselves,” William Grey had beamed at the dinner table. “Your mother would have been so proud.”
John couldn’t bear to disappoint his father. No, he would have to give the speech, tadpoles or not. Resigned, he dipped his pen in the inkwell and began to write in his nearly illegible scribble:
Fellow seniors,
We gather here today to celebrate a momentous occasion: graduation!
(pause for applause)
It’s hard to believe that only four short years ago we began this journey together. We were just children at the time, boarding a ship with an unknown destination. The more adventurous of us came running aboard, our eyes wide with excitement. Others of us had to be pushed, all the while crying for our mothers.
(pause for laughter)
But time passes quickly.
Today, as young adults, we have reached our destination.
(pause for more applause)
That’s not to say our journey has come to an end. On the contrary, we simply pause today to reflect on the past, for tomorrow we begin a new journey. I look out on your faces and see all the hopes, all the dreams, all the possibilities that lie before us. I encourage each one of you to embrace these opportunities, for we are only young once, and life is far too precious to waste. But let us also take a moment to remember the time we spent together in these hallowed halls: the lifelong friendships we forged, the challenges we conquered, the laughter we shared, and the tears we shed.
(pause to allow crowd to wipe their eyes)
And most important, let’s not forget to celebrate! We finally did it!
(after standing ovation, remember to bow)
John took a moment to read what he had written.
“Rubbish,” he said, wadding the paper into a ball and tossing it into the wastebasket.
Truth be told, there was only one student in those hallowed halls he cared to remember. She had been in his thoughts every moment of those past four years, a constant presence in his mind he could no more forget than he could to breathe. She was the air around him, permeating his thoughts during the day and his dreams at night, until he was saturated to the bone. He took his pen and spelled out her name in long, deliberate strokes:
Sharon
He sighed, for as much as he thought of Sharon Payne, she barely knew he existed. He thought back to their first encounter, when as a young paperboy he had accidentally beaned his beloved Sharon with an errant throw of a newspaper. The next day, he had returned to the scene of the crime under the pretense of collecting a newspaper subscription, but secretly he just wanted to see Sharon again. He knocked on the door of the Payne residence and was greeted by the butler, a rather austere hedgehog who looked down his pointy snout at the grubby paperboy standing in the doorway. John explained he was collecting for the Langley Post, and as the butler left to fetch the money, John peeked inside the elegant home, hoping to catch a glimpse of the little squirrel who had bewitched him so. But the butler soon returned with the money and closed the door in his face, and John was forced to leave unsatisfied.