Who Wacked Roger Rabbit?

by Gary K. Wolf

  Was there nothing a Katie Gibbs girl couldn’t do?

  Following the truck was a big, black, bad-boy motorcycle, a Triumph Thunderbird 650CC. The cycle wasn’t running. The bike was mounted on a knee-high metal trailer. The cycle’s front and rear wheels were both locked in place to the trailer’s floor. A metal fork attached the trailer to the truck’s tow hitch.

  Cooper straddled the immobile bike. He had accessorized his black leather jacket with one of those hats that were all the rage with hell-raising motorcycle gangs. To my eye his hat looked like a shiny hard brim glued to a puffy black mushroom.

  Sands yelled down to Cooper, “Pretend to rev the engine.” Cooper did as he was told while Sands filmed the action.

  “Okay, pretend to shut off.”

  Cooper complied.

  “Great—cut!” shouted Sands from his perch on the platform. “That’s a take.” He set the camera down and hopped off the platform.

  “What’s this?” I asked him.

  “Something real clever I thought up,” said Sands. “A way to squeeze extra cash out of a flicker. I’m filming a film about the filming of the film. I’ll show audiences everything we went through to make Hi, Toon!”

  “You saying you’re making a movie that’s got no story? Just a bunch of movie people doing normal movie work? Sounds boring. Who’s gonna wanna see that?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Sands said. “There’s plenty of well-educated movie goers out there talking up movies as art. I mean real art. Not just stuff that guys like me make to sell popcorn and jujubees. The kind of high class, high priced eye candy you see in museums. They’ll lap up anything they can see about how movies get created.” Sands picked up his camera. He used his wetted thumb and his dry sleeve to clean the lens. “Imagine if there’d been cameras when one of the old masters—Rembrandt, say—was working. People would have paid mucho lira to sit in the Pitti Palace or one of them other fancy Eye-talian movie theaters so they could watch him mix his colors and daub them on canvas until they turned into Mona Lisa.”

  “That was Leonardo Da Vinci.”

  “Mona, Leo, po-tay-to, po-tah-to, whichever picture Rembrandt painted. What I’m getting at is that art lovers would have paid big bucks to watch him do painting. I’m giving movie lovers a chance to see their art of choice get created. I’ll release The Making of Hi, Toon! right after Hi, Toon! comes out. I’ll play the documentary in art houses. Give audiences the back story. Gary Cooper faces jeopardy, confronts danger to make a movie. To make modern cinematic art. Sensational stuff. The box office gross for the two flickers together will be through the roof.”

  Sands was dressed in an outfit straight out of the Director’s Guild style guide—dark yellow khaki jodhpurs, tight-fitting brown leather, knee-high lace-up boots, blousy white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a tan gabardine vest. He wore a gray wool newsboy’s cap that looked to be the twin brother of Miss Ethyl’s. Except Sands’s was a couple of sizes bigger to accommodate his dead muskrat of a wig.

  “Climb on behind Coop,” he said, indicating the cycle.

  I was okay with getting paid to bodyguard a guy acting in a movie. Call me shy, call me introverted, call me not-getting-paid-nearly enough, because I wasn’t okay with being in the movie too. “How about if I drive my own car and follow you?”

  Sands shook his head vigorously. “That won’t work in my documentary context. I want to show that this is a dangerous project. Coop is risking his life going to Toontown. There are bad, dastardly people out to get him. I gotta let the audience see you. You’re the tough guy, the hired muscle, the one who’s gonna keep Coop safe. You’re an essential element of Coop’s retinue, part of his milieu.”

  That’s me. Roughest rogue in the retinue, the muscle of the milieu. “I thought you didn’t want anybody knowing there was a problem. I thought you were worried about scaring off investors.”

  “Of course I am! Majorly concerned. That’s why I’m keeping the documentary strictly hush-hush. I’m not telling anybody I’m shooting. I’m filming guerrilla style, on the Q.T. Handling everything myself, camera, sound, the whole works. Nobody’s gonna know what I’m doing.”

  I shook my head. Looking at the world through a camera’s narrow aperture day after day makes these creative types go batty. They start seeing only what they want to see on the other end of their rose-tinted lens. “Somebody’s gonna tumble to the truth. Your secret gets out quick and easy the first time anybody spots you towing Cooper around behind a truck while you film him.”

  Sands thought about that and nodded. “Good point.” He stroked his chin and then held up his finger. “Ethyl, come up with a couple of good disguises for me so nobody can tell what I’m doing.”

  Miss Ethyl held up her two arms, palms facing out, to stop traffic in both directions. When there was nothing moving past her, she reached into her overall pocket, pulled out a steno pad and pen, and jotted herself a note.

  Cooper was straddling the cycle, leaning forward across the handlebars, one leg cocked up and resting in a figure four position on the gas tank.

  “You okay with this?” I asked him.

  Cooper shrugged.

  “Because if somebody in Toontown’s out to get you, you’re a lot more obvious if you got Sands following you around with that huge camera every place you go. He can disguise himself, sure. He ain’t able to make himself invisible. Especially not when he’s toting that monster piece of gear. No way can you stay low, keep yourself from getting noticed when you got Sands filming your every move.”

  Cooper, a man of great acting ability and few words, let his facial expressions do his talking, and they said plenty. They said he hadn’t thought about that, that he understood what I was telling him, that I was right, that he was getting worried. He looked up at Sands.

  “Not a problem, Coop,” said Sands cheerily. “That’s why I hired Eddie. He’ll protect you. That’s what he does for a living.”

  Cooper returned his attention to me. He cocked his head.

  Might as well throw the poor galoot a bone, take a little weight off his broad shoulders. I opened my coat and gave Cooper a peek at my holstered .45.

  Cooper visibly relaxed.

  “I loved what you did right there,” shouted Sands with the excited enthusiasm of a baseball fan who had just watched his team’s cleanup hitter belt one out of the park. “That was great stuff. Cold. Hard. Menacing.”

  He picked up his camera and pointed the lens at me.

  “Do that again so I can get the action on film. Then I’ll film Coop’s reaction.”

  He put his eye to the camera’s viewer.

  “Ready.”

  He pushed a button. The camera made a soft whirring noise.

  “We’re rolling.”

  I pointed a finger at him. “Here’s the first piece of your disguise. Paint that thing black.”

  He stopped filming. “Why?”

  He looked at his Newman. As he turned the camera this way and that, the sunlight hit the camera’s steel side and produced a reflection as bright as one of those lights they put outside Grauman’s for big film premiers. Sands blinked, momentarily blinded by the glare. “Right. I’ll have Ethyl buy paint and a brush.”

  “Where do I put my stuff?” I toe-kicked my duffel, held up my two paper sacks.

  Sands put down his camera. “Reggie will take care of them.” He picked up a megaphone and pressed it to his lips. “Hey, Reggie! Come on in.”

  A dream on wheels—a dark grey over black 1947 Rolls Royce Silver Wraith—turned the corner. The Rolls didn’t make a sound. If the car hadn’t been moving, I’d never have known the engine was running.

  The Rolls pulled up behind the motorcycle. This wasn’t the kind of car Sands could afford to buy or even rent. He might have stolen a car like
this one. I wouldn’t put that past him. More likely, if I walked around and took a look at the driver’s side, I bet I’d see the word COOP written in gold on the door, just like on the Duese. Without doubt, a high-toned guy like Cooper knew his cars and only bought the best. If I was Hollywood’s box office king, pulling down five figures a year, I’d spend my loot that way too.

  A dignified, elderly, silver-haired gent got out. He wore a black homburg, black morning coat, starched white shirt, black tie, grey trousers, and black shoes that sparkled like twin pieces of polished opal. He walked towards us, his motions crisp, graceful, elegant.

  “I told Reggie to hang back,” explained Sands. “Stay out of my shots. Wouldn’t look good for Coop’s new hard guy image. Don’t want to show him traveling around with his butler tagging along. Reggie, meet Eddie Valiant. Coop’s bodyguard.”

  “Good morning, Mister Valiant,” said the butler in an English accent buttery enough to slather a scone. “I’m Reginald Crawley, Mister Cooper’s gentleman’s gentleman.” He gave me the limp handshake English blokes get from breakfasting on clotted cream and grilled tomatoes instead of steak and eggs. “I will be accompanying the master on his sojourn into Toontown. If you will permit me to take your luggage.”

  “By all means.” I handed him my paper sacks.

  He accepted them without batting an eye. Definitely a class act this fellah. “I’ll stow yours with the master’s.”

  He opened the trunk. The compartment contained six custom-made leather suitcases. They were the exact same grey over black color as the car. Solid silver rivets reinforced their corners and seams. Each one had the initials GC silver-stamped discreetly on top, underneath the black steel handle. If I were going to stay in Toontown for a year, I’d have that much stuff packed into that many suitcases. I hoped Sands didn’t expect our stay in Toontown to last that long.

  The suitcases had been custom fitted to the trunk. They stacked inside with the close precision of the fine piece of machinery transporting them around. The only way Reggie could squeeze in my A&P sacks was to lay them on top of the valises, which he did. They stuck up too high. He would need to lean over and put a little oomph into closing the trunk lid.

  “Hold it,” I shouted.

  He stopped, the trunk still open a smidge.

  I reached into one of my sacks and pulled out my tubes of Brylcreem and toothpaste. Wouldn’t want either one splitting open and squirting goo all over Cooper’s nice, clean baggage. I put the tubes in my pocket. I nodded at Reggie.

  He slammed the trunk home.

  “Those too.” I pointed to the duffel and the case of rotgut.

  Reggie grabbed the duffel by the strap. He couldn’t lift the duffel off the ground. Employing the can-do British spirit that made the bulldog the Limey’s national mascot, he squatted down and walked backwards, dragging the duffel behind him, letting his legs do the work. He hefted the duffel into the back seat.

  He pointed to the booze. “We can take this along if you want—”

  What kind of a prude was this guy? “You bet I want.”

  “—however, the master anticipated that you would be in need of liquid replenishment during your sojourn. He instructed me to select a suitable libation. I chose this.” He opened the Rolls’ rear door. The back seat held several cases of good whiskey, stuff made in a real distillery, not in my next door neighbor’s bathtub.

  I gave Cooper a flip of my hat brim. “My compliments to the master. A perceptive man of exceptional taste.”

  Cooper returned my salute by nonchalantly thumbing the bill on his mushroom.

  “Shall I return your spirits to your abode?” asked Reggie.

  “Naw. Leave ’em for the trash men. Saves me having to tip ’em at Christmas.”

  Like me, those yahoos would drink anything that didn’t smell worse than the garbage they threw into their truck. This batch of booze made the cut, barely.

  I started to squeeze in to the back seat, next to the refreshments. Maybe I could get a head start on tomorrow’s hangover, polish off a bottle or two on the way over.

  “No, no, like I said before. You ride there,” shouted Sands who had climbed back aboard his platform. He pointed to the motorcycle. “Behind Coop.”

  “Come on. Give me a break.”

  Sands shook his head and jerked his camera at the bike.

  Cooper swung his leg off the gas tank and back to riding position. He scooted forward a bit to make room for me.

  I climbed on behind him. “This is really stupid.”

  “Yup,” he answered.

  Responding to Sands’s hand directions, Reggie put the Rolls into reverse. He backed it around the corner, out of sight.

  Sands aimed his camera at us. “Make like you’re starting up. We’ll foley the sound in during post.”

  “What’s a foley?” I asked Cooper.

  “Sound effects,” he answered.

  I didn’t ask him about post. I didn’t want him thinking I was as dumb as one.

  “And…action!” Sands shouted.

  Cooper mimed starting the motorcycle.

  Sands stamped his foot twice on his platform, a signal to Miss Ethyl. She pulled the truck smoothly into traffic. The trailer, the motorcycle, me, and Cooper tagged along behind.

  I could have walked to Toontown faster than we were driving. A kid peddling a Schwinn passed us by. So did a little girl on roller skates. The final indignity, a crotchety granny driving an ancient Model A Flivver kept honking her horn, the old-style brass kind with a rubber bulb on it, until Miss Ethyl pulled over and let her by.

  “Speed it up,” I yelled to Sands. “We’re going way too slow to be realistic,”

  “Don’t worry. A trick of the trade. I’ll goose up the film speed in final edit. On screen you and Coop will be flying.”

  To support the illusion that we were zipping along at full throttle, Sands made me keep my arms tightly gripped around Cooper’s waist. The only good part of nuzzling up close to Cooper like some scared sissy was catching strong whiffs of his aftershave. High end stuff. Gave me a mild buzz. If we ran out of his good booze, we could mix his aftershave with soda, add ice cubes, and get loaded.

  We stopped moving about a half mile shy of the entrance to the Toontown tunnel.

  “What’s going on?” I yelled to Sands. “What’s the hold up?”

  He walked forward, looked over the truck’s cab. He came back and gave us his report. “Long line for customs.”

  I hadn’t been to Toontown for quite a while. Not since they started making visitors pass through customs in order to enter.

  Years ago, the Toons never needed a customs checkpoint. Hardly anybody went to Toontown. That changed when Toontown’s former mayor, Joe Viality, and the Toontown Chamber of Commerce started promoting Toontown as a great family-friendly getaway spot. Their advertising campaign worked. The rubes came pouring in.

  Nowadays Toontown gets a ton of tourist traffic. I’m suspecting mostly day trippers. Being around Toons for longer than that becomes a health hazard. Spend too much time among them and you run the risk of coming out as crazy as they are.

  Most sightseers come in on double decker excursion buses. Probably a hundred passengers on each bus.

  Toons aren’t the most sensible or organized administrators. I’ve watched Toon public officials break into song and dance routines while processing paperwork. I’ve seen them get distracted by passing butterflies. I couldn’t imagine how they’d handle a hot, stuffy Greyhound crammed full of moms, dads, grannies, gramps, and choruses of screaming kids.

  We were most likely in for a long wait.

  I hopped off the cycle.

  I did a deep knee bend to unkink my legs. My gimpy knee locked into place. I duck-walked around, pretending there was nothing wrong, for as long as
I could stand the discomfort. Finally, I swallowed my pride and asked Cooper to help me straighten up.

  He put his arms under my shoulders and jerked me to standing.

  “You know where we’re going once we get through the tunnel?” I asked Cooper.

  Cooper nodded. “Rabbit’s place.” He reached into one of his zippered pockets and pulled out a book. He handed the book to me.

  Roger Rabbit’s Gossipy Guide To Toontown.

  The subtitle read: The Sensational, Salacious, Sleazy Secrets of Screendom’s Superest Stars!!! Special Unexpurgated 1947 Edition.

  The cover illustration was the big white wooden TOONTOWN sign up in the hills over the entrance to the Toontown Tunnel. If I looked up and craned my head, I could see the real deal from where we were parked. In the picture, Roger was standing underneath the sign, waving gaily. He was blissfully unaware that one of the O’s was falling over and about to squash him flat.

  I opened the book. To my surprise, the dedication read, “To my very bestest pal Eddie Valiant. May I be worthy to hop in your footsteps.”

  I might have been touched by that. How many people get a book dedicated to them? Except this wasn’t War and Peace. This was a lurid illustrated guidebook to the place I hated most. Written by a rabbit I hated almost as much as I hated the place he’d written the book about.

  I flipped through the pages.

  In terms of limited editions, this was the most limited I had ever seen. The illustrations were photographs Roger had taken himself. They were old style, black and white with serrated white borders. Identical to the ones my grandmother displayed in the scrapbooks she brought with her from the old country. Like hers, these photos were held in place with old-fashioned triangular corner tabs. Roger had indicated the subject matter of each photo with short handwritten captions underneath.

  I turned the page to a photo of a huge blue eyeball. Apparently, Roger was pointing the camera at himself instead of the other way. Under the picture, was a scribble in Roger’s handwriting. Hare’s looking at you!