Who Wacked Roger Rabbit?

by Gary K. Wolf

  The hyenas surrounded the louse, hopping up and down, clapping their hands and moaning with pleasure like kids at a local ice cream store’s Free Giveaway Day.

  I could easily read the hyena’s balloons, backlit as they were by the bright porch light.

  “Gimme, gimme, gimme,” the hyenas said in balloons that intertwined chain fashion into a near-tribal chant. They eyed the can of gas.

  “You gimme first,” demanded Louie Louie.

  The hyenas calmed down and lined up in orderly fashion. In turn, the hyenas gave Louie Louie individual slips of paper.

  I couldn’t make out what they were.

  “Okay, Roger,” I told him. “Do your stuff. Haul out your binoculars.” Since our surveillance was nearly finished anyway, I didn’t care if passing tourists or Toons saw us.

  I didn’t need to ask Roger twice. I probably didn’t need to ask him once.

  He took the binocs out of his pocket and pressed them to his face. As predicted, his eyes popped right through them.

  “They’re deposit slips, Eddie. Bank deposit slips.”

  I would bet my life that each slip came from a bank in which one of those hyenas worked as a teller.

  After he had all the deposit slips, Louie Louie gave the hyenas the gas. One of the hyenas opened the valve, releasing the gas. The critters turned into a hill of hyenas, climbing up, around and over one another in their efforts to press their lips against the open valve and suck in a snoot full of escaping gas.

  They started laughing insanely and out loud.

  Louie Louie got in his car and drove away.

  “You get that transaction on film?” I asked Sands.

  “Sorry, no. Too dark.”

  I had made a couple of major discoveries tonight.

  One of them was the fact that Sands never seemed to film anything that might wind up incriminating Willy Prosciutto.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Don’t get the wrong idea,” said Roger the next morning. “I love hanging around with you fine fellows. You’re just about the bestest palsy-walsies a rabbit could ever hope to have. So don’t get the wrong notion when I tell you what I’m gonna tell you. Because I honestly wouldn’t tell you if I didn’t absolutely, positively have to tell you. What I’ve got to tell you.”

  Even Mutt couldn’t listen to much more of the rabbit’s babbling. The little guy whimpered a few times, put his head down, and covered his ears with his paws. Adorable! Maybe after this caper ended, I would take him around to a couple of studio people I knew. Get him cast in one of those flickers they’re always throwing out about some ragtag bunch of kids who form a club, hold their meetings in a tree house, and won’t allow in any girls. Almost sounded like my life. Maybe I could be in their club. I’d supply the cutesy dog.

  “I can’t follow whatever you’re babbling about,” I told the rabbit. “How’s about you skip the soup, carve up the goose, scoop the potatoes, and pour the gravy?”

  I thought I made myself perfectly clear, but apparently not to a Toon.

  Roger put up a balloon repeating my words. He stared at his balloon for a moment trying to suss my meaning. He rearranged the words to see if that helped. He tried jiggling around the individual letters to see if that would clarify anything. Before he started to work on the individual calligraphy strokes he’d used to create the words, I waved a hand through the balloon.

  “Tell us what you’re trying to work up the nerve to tell us.”

  “Oh, sure. Well, to put my problem in words of one syllable, lately I been spending way too much time with the boys. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. The experience has been lots and lots and lots of fun for me. The problem is this. I’m afraid my sweetie pie darling dumpling might be getting lonely.”

  Let the rabbit enjoy his deluded daydream. From what I knew about Jessica Rabbit, that girl would never, ever be lonely. I’d heard stories about her not being lonely with almost every guy in town, stories that would singe this bunny’s tail.

  “I wanna pass a little bit of time with my beloved Jessie Wessie,” said Roger. “I want to show her I haven’t forgotten her.”

  I laughed out loud.

  Cooper cocked an eyebrow in a “What’s so funny about that?” look.

  “Who could forget Jessica Rabbit?” I said to him.

  Cooper nodded. “Not me.”

  “Jessica knows an awful lot about Toontown,” said Roger. “She might be able to help us with our case.”

  “I’d certainly like to meet the little missus,” said Sands with a shade too much lechery in his voice. Thank goodness Roger wasn’t one for picking up subtleties. “Maybe we could all go with you.”

  Sands readied himself for his royal audience with the reigning screen queen by plucking off his toupee and licking the cow licks flat with his tongue. He plunked his spitballed rug back on his head. He got his hair on almost straight.

  “Me too,” said Cooper.

  “That’s great,” said Roger. “Stay with my buddies and still spend time with my sweetie. Kill two birds with one stone so to speak. Except I’d never kill a birdie. I’d never throw a stone at anybody, either. Maybe more like tickle two kittens under the chin with one pinkie finger.”

  Mutt chased his tail around in aimless circles. In addition to his superlative acting abilities, that dog could apparently read my mind. He knew exactly how I felt about the rabbit.

  “Yeah, we get the analogy.”

  “Good. Because I wouldn’t want you stuck with the idea that I was some kind of mad, psycho bird stoner.”

  “Trust me. Won’t happen.”

  “Good. because Jessica will want to meet you, Mister Sands, and you too, Mister Cooper. She’s always looking for people who can help her advance her career.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said.

  “How about you, Eddie?” asked Roger. “You coming too.”

  I would never turn down an opportunity to spend time with Jessica Rabbit. “Absolutely.”

  We drove to Toon Pan Alley, the place where Toons created songs and wrote stage musicals.

  On the way in, we passed a series of Burma Shave style word balloons. They were stapled to sticks and stuck into the ground alongside the road. They read:

  When you need

  A song to sing,

  Hit the Alley.

  Where music’s king.

  Two bars, eight bars

  Six bits, a dollar.

  Want a song?

  Just give a holler!

  “I been hearing a lot about this cow lately,” said Sands. “Elmer Holstein. A musical genius. He wrote Cow, Cow Boogie and that other one everybody was singing a few years back. Cow Patty, She’s My Girl. I oughta stop off and visit him while we’re here. See how much he’d charge me to write a score for Hi, Toon!”

  We pulled up at the Fine Toon Rehearsal Studios located just off Frankie Lane.

  We went inside.

  Jessica Rabbit stood on-stage.

  She wore the outfit chorines favored for rehearsals, loose-fitting red shorts and a white blouse that barely contained her prominent assets. Thanks to the shorts, I was able to spend a few luscious moments admiring the world’s most perfect pair of legs. I had read the publicity story about how her film studio had insured her gams for one million simoleons. In my opinion, that appraisal was too low by a factor of ten.

  Jessica was the damsel undistressed by the chorus line of tall, handsome, humanoid men surrounding her.

  Jessica sang a song about diamonds being a girl’s best friend while the men picked her up and passed her around hand to hand. From where I stood, more than a few of Jessica’s dancing partners got overly handy.

  Roger wasn’t completely clueless. He couldn’t help but notice the pot- of-gold - at -the-end-of-the-rainbow effect his
wife had on red-blooded, blue-blooded, yellow-livered, black-hearted, purple-passioned, or in my case white-knighted men. His jealousy boiled up a little bit at the sight of his wifey playing kitschy-koo with thirty guys who didn’t have a total of ten flaws between them. Roger’s head turned bright red. Little puffs of steam came out of his ears.

  Jessica looked down from the stage. She spied her near-boiling husband about to do his tea kettle imitation.

  “Hold on, hold on,” she said to her dancing partners. She spoke in real words. Since Jessica did most of her business outside Toontown, she rarely used balloons. “Let’s take ten.”

  She swiveled her way down off the stage.

  She gave Roger a big smooch that delivered a vicarious thrill and the basis for tonight’s naughty dream to every man who saw her pucker up.

  “You know Eddie,” said Roger.

  “Of course,” said Jessica. “Hello, Mister Valiant. So good to see you again.” I wanted her lips. She gave me her hand.

  “This is Barney Sands,” said her ever loving hubby. “He’s producing my new movie.”

  Sands got the same hand I did. Instead of shaking her hand like I did, he gave her hand a kiss. I wish I had thought of that. I’d take any old excuse to put my lips on the teensiest part of Jessica Rabbit’s body.

  “Mister Sands,” said Jessica. “Thank you for recognizing Roger’s talents.”

  “Of which you are one of the greatest.”

  That comment made no sense whatsoever. Jessica Rabbit had that effect on men, made them spout senseless gobbledygook. If Sands hung around with her long enough, I had no doubt he would lose completely his ability to speak and be reduced to baying at the moon.

  Since everybody in Toontown seemed to know we were making a movie, Sands had dispensed with disguises. He carried his camera out in full view.

  “And this,” said Roger, “is my new buddy, Mister Gary Cooper.”

  “Mister Cooper,” said Jessica. Cooper got a full on lip lock. “I believe we’ve met before.”

  Cooper gave Roger a guilty sideways glance. “Nope.”

  “I’m positive. I never forget a handsome man.”

  “Nope,” said Cooper again.

  Jessica tilted her red head toward the stage. Her rehearsal pianist broke into a swing rendition of You’re The Top. I seemed to recall Jessica warbling that selfsame ditty in her first starring vehicle, Flying Down To Toontown. A movie featuring a big production number in which Jessica first danced with a chorus line of men, a tradition she had maintained in every one of her movies since. In Flying Down To Toontown, the male chorus wore loin cloths and carried both sharply pointed spears and softly rounded Jessica.

  If memory serves me, and usually memory serves me hot and hearty, Flying Down To Toontown was also the movie where Cooper got his first break. He was a member of the chorus with two lines of dialog. A big director saw him, thought he stole his one scene, gave him his break, and the rest, as they say, is show biz history.

  “Care to join me for a dance?” Jessica asked Cooper. The tone of her voice indicated to me that dancing wasn’t all she had in mind.

  “I’ll be de-lighted to bunny hop with you, honey, dearest,” said Roger. From the shape and coloration of his balloon, a two-toned, black and white pair of tap shoes, dancing was the only activity he had on his puny mind.

  “Oh, Roger. Don’t be silly. You know hoofing isn’t your forte.” Jessica winked at Cooper. “I’m always joking that his two rabbit’s feet are gigantic. Thank goodness, because you know what that signifies! When it comes to dancing, he’s got two left ones.” She returned her attention to her hubby. “Leave the fancy footwork to Freddie Astaire.” Jessica wrapped her arm through Cooper’s. “What brings you three gorgeous men, and also Roger, here to see little old me?”

  “We need some help, Jessica dearest,” said Roger. “We’re working on a big murder case. Me and Eddie together. Oh, and Mister Cooper, too. Oh, and Mister Sands of course. And…”

  Jessica couldn’t handle Roger’s digressions any more than I could. I wondered how she stayed married to a guy who kept rambling on. No wonder she engaged in her occasional…indiscretions. I’m a moral guy. Still, I would give the lady a pass for her peccadilloes. Being permanently hitched to this goofball, she would need to get out and about in order to stay sane. “I get the picture, Roger. What do you want to know?”

  With surprising clarity and conciseness, Roger told Jessica what we’d learned thus far. About Clabber Clown, Willy Prosciutto, Louie Louie Louse, the laundered money.

  Roger wanted to show her pictures of the money hanging out to dry, but Sands had accidentally destroyed that film during the developing process. Roger described the scene for his ever-loving instead. “We saw Willy Prosciutto laundering money. We can bring charges against him.”

  I saw the holes in that theory, and so did Jessica. Why wasn’t I partnered up with her instead of her harey hubby? She was smarter than he was, and a whole lot better looking.

  “Laundering money is a crime. That’s true,” said Jessica. “Not a serious crime though, not in Toontown. You know Ham Burger?”

  “Sure,” said Roger. “Our District Attorney.”

  “Willy Prosciutto owns Ham Burger. Ham’s not going to bring charges against his old buddy Willy P. Also, nothing in this money laundering operation ties Willy to Clabber. If you bring Willy up on a charge of laundering money, he’ll get off with a slap on the hoof, probation, a fine at the most. You’ve got to have more than money on a laundry line if you want to nail Willy P for the murder of Clabber Clown.”

  “You’re right,” said Roger. “You’re always right.” His balloon, devoid of all hope, draped limply across his shoulders. “What do we do now? I’m bamboozled, baffled, bemused, befuddled and mystified.”

  To tell you the truth, Roger’s bleak assessment of his state of mind summed up my own game plan. I had no idea what to do next.

  Thank goodness for Jessica. She wasn’t just a pretty face and a gorgeous body and a honeysuckle voice and way of walking that would… I digress. She had some brains in that beautiful head. She was a natural investigator. Maybe she’d like to partner up with me on a case sometime. I made a note to ask her. Maybe over cocktails one night at the Ink and Paint Club.

  “You should look more closely into the Mayor Joe Viality affair. That might contain a link to the murder.”

  The director of her production motioned to her from the stage. “Jess, we’re ready for you.”

  “Coming.” She adjusted her blouse and her shorts. She smoothed the seams of her nylon stockings. I could have died right there and not regretted my life. “The Mayor Viality situation reminds me of a radio show. I vaguely remember hearing the show a while ago. A soap opera program, as I recall. Dealing with the resignation in disgrace of a mayor called Moe Reality.”

  “What’s that got to do with real life?” I asked.

  “Well, Mister Valiant, in Toontown, fiction often mirrors fact. Perhaps the radio script will give you a clue.”

  She extended her hand, looking for a man to steady her as she climbed the stairs to the stage.

  Me, Sands, and Cooper wrestled around a little bit vying for the honor.

  Cooper might play a he-man on the silver screen, but he didn’t know squat about street fighting. I took him down easy.

  Sands had lived a pithier, rougher life. He gave me some serious competition. I needed a knee to the groin to put him away.

  I claimed the spoils of my combat. I took Jessica’s hand. Her palm gave off a pleasing warmth. Her fingers curled into mine like tiny, living, lovable baby chicks.

  I helped Jessica climb the stairs to the stage. What was there about this woman? I would fight an army for the chance to help her climb those stairs, again.

  “While you boys investiga
te the Mayor Viality angle, I’ll reach out to Honey Graham. We were chorus girls together in Ziegfield’s Follies. Maybe I can persuade Honey to turn over evidence linking Prosciutto to Clabber’s murder.”

  We drove to Toontown’s Radio Station, WOOPS, located on Talkie Walkie.

  Through a glass partition, we watched a broadcast of Toontown’s most popular soap opera, As The World Toons.

  After the actors and actresses said their lines, a production assistant called a snabber grabbed their dialog and stuffed the word balloons into a huge funnel. The funnel fed the dialog balloons into a transmission wire. The show’s dialog slid through the wire like oversized pearls, large spheres for the males, smaller ones for the women.

  The balloons traveled through the wire and into a control room. Here, the balloons got squeezed through a standard sausage-making machine. The sausager compressed the balloons to one one-hundredth their normal size. The balloons next passed through a big duplicating machine which loaded them into transmission wires. These wires carried the dialog out into the world.

  Toons on the receiving end read these balloons as they came out of their Philcos and RCAs.

  “Thank goodness Toons can’t transmit pictures too,” says Roger. “Nobody would go to the movies anymore, and my career would be over!”

  “Mine too,” agreed Cooper.

  After the soap opera ended, the programming changed to all music.

  A disk jockey took over.

  He put a record on his Toontable, a style of ditty the disk jockey called modern jazz. The song played both audibly and, for transmission purposes, as a long ribbon of musical notes.

  Maybe Toons considered this stuff music. To me, what the DJ played sounded like an earthquake shaking up a metal cutlery factory.

  I asked the receptionist if we could talk to the writer of As The World Toons.