by Gary K. Wolf
“Eddie,” said Sands, “good to see you.”
Sands sat down across from me. Like every prisoner I’d ever encountered, Sands started our conversation by proclaiming his innocence. “You gotta believe me. I never expected Willy P to kill the clown. I thought he only intended to scare the clown good.”
“Right. The way I hear, Alcatraz is crammed full of innocent men. Only decent, upstanding citizens gain admission to this fine institution.”
Sands chuckled. “I’m supposing you’re not here to pay a social call.”
“I got a couple of questions about the case. Stuff that never got answered and still bothers me. You’re the only one can tell me what I want to know.”
“Fire away. I already been tried and convicted. I got nothing left to lose.”
“You stopped filming whenever the action involved anything that could incriminate Willy P.”
“Correct. My movie was supposed to make Willy P and Dowdy look good, not guilty.”
“There was never a real threat to Cooper. Cooper wasn’t in any danger. You sent those menacing balloons to yourself. How come?”
“I wanted to add more drama to my documentary. I thought the actual true life story would be too boring. Ring Wordhollow got Doc Trinaire to have one of his loony Toons cough out a few threats. Ethyl wrapped those threats in bricks and heaved the packages our way.”
“That was good heaving. Your girl’s got a major league arm.”
“Runner up her senior year in the national secretarial school shot put championships.”
“A well-rounded secretary, no doubt about that. She was the one took the shot at Cooper.”
“Ethyl spent weeks practicing at a firing range to get ready for that one pop. Got to where she could put ten in the center ring at twenty-five yards. She had to be accurate. I didn’t want her to accidentally hit Coop. Just come close enough to scare him. When I saw what happened to you at the Customs Shack, I worried that she might have her gun confiscated. Lucky for me that ape was so smitten he never bothered to search her. She could have carried in a howitzer.
“I thought death threats would get a better performance out of Cooper. That method stuff, you know. Where you channel your actual life experiences. Coop was going to be threatened with death in Hi, Toon! I thought being threatened for real would give him emotions to tap. Guess I’ll never know whether or not that would have worked.”
“Guess not.”
Sands reached into his shirt pocket. His fingers came out empty. “You got any smokes? They’re real hard to get in here.”
I pulled out my pack, kept one for myself, and gave him the rest. “Keep ’em.”
I lit my ciggie. “Why’d you hire me? Why bring in a private eye when you’re engaging in activities that skirt the law?”
“I wanted a hardboiled private eye along to add mystery and intrigue to my documentary. Ethyl asked around. Your name kept coming up. You were exactly what I was looking for. A hard case who hates Toons, Toontown, and anything Toon related. A dick who’ll do anything for money. Sorry to tell you this, but you’re also regarded as a lightweight in the investigating arena.”
“I would quibble with that last one. I break more cases than break me, but that’s the tag wrapped around my toe.”
“You weren’t supposed to get serious about what was going on with Willy P, Dowdy, or my production. Your only mission was to go along and get along.” He pointed his index finger at me gun fashion. “I pegged you as light on brain cells and only out for a quick buck.” He pointed his finger at his own head and dropped his thumb, feigning a headshot. “I was wrong on both counts.”
He put a fag in his mouth. “I thought I had to juice my action. The way things turned out, if I had stuck to the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, I would have had the best documentary ever shot.”
He lit up and took a long drag.
We smoked in silence.
I asked my last question. “Did Cooper know what was going between you and Willy P?”
Sands gave me a sly smirk. “I have learned one good lesson here in the joint. You don’t rat out your friends. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. You won’t find out from me.”
“What are you planning for when you get out?”
“Funny you should ask because I been thinking about that. I got three to five. I figure with good behavior, I might be out in two, maybe two and half. There’s a guy in the cell next to mine. Convicted killer name of Bobby Stroud. Bobby found a baby bird, a sparrow I think, that had fallen out of the nest. Bobby raised that bird until the little thing could fly. Then he turned that bird loose. Bobby got so much satisfaction out of raising that bird that he got hold of a few more birds. He made little cages for them. Now he takes care of maybe twenty-five. He’s studying to be a bird scientist. What do you call that? An ophthalmologist I think.”
“Sounds right.”
“When I get sprung, I’m gonna make a movie about Bobby. Burt Lancaster owes me. I’ll call in the favor. Get Burt to star. Who knows? Maybe I can put you on the payroll as Bert’s personal security man.”
“As long as you film anyplace but—”
He interrupted me. “I know. Toontown. Believe me, I will never go back there. Bad things happen in Toontown, Eddie. Bad things happen.”
“Indeed they do.”
To relax after the terror and excitement of our adventure, Roger offered to take me out for a peaceful day of ocean cruising.
Normally, I would have declined since this excursion included my two least favorite things. Roger and rabbit.
On the other hand, this outing was also going to include two of my most favorite things, both of which belonged to Roger’s va-va-va-voom mate.
Our junket called for swimwear. Maybe Jessica would don one of those new fangled two piecers named after that atoll in the Pacific where the Army tested atomic bombs.
Jessica Rabbit in a bikini would sure explode my blockbuster.
I met Roger and Jessica at the Pontoon Boat Shop located in the Floatsure Boatyard. The Boat Shop featured Out Boards, In Boards, Surf Boards, Floor Boards, and All Aboards. Roger had reserved a fairly luxurious cabin cruiser.
As a minor film star, Roger earned chicken feed. Jessica made the big bucks in the Rabbit family. No jaw dropper there. Sex always outsells silliness.
Jessica paid the boat master with a check.
“Do me a favor, would you?” The boat master asked.
“Of course, anything,” Jessica answered.
“Would you put your lip print on top of your signature? I ain’t gonna cash this check. I’m gonna hang this goodie in my bedroom.”
Jessica flashed him a wicked smile. “My pleasure.”
She bussed the check. Then, for good measure, she kissed the smitten boat master on the forehead. I thought the poor guy was gonna faint.
I had heard that Picasso traded pencil sketches for whatever he needed. Jessica went Picasso one better. Picasso would eventually run out of paper. Jessica had an unlimited supply of lip. She would never want for anything.
We trooped up the gangplank, Roger first, then Jessica, then me.
A boat and blue water brought out Roger’s singy side. “Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fun-filled trip,” he warbled. “That started from this tropic port, aboard this tiny ship.”
Roger wore a sailor suit from the same naval supply store that outfitted Popeye. Blue pants, big brown shoes, a black shirt with a red jumper flap, and a white yachting cap with a hole poked in the top so Roger’s orange hair tuft could sprout through.
The rabbit wore Popeye’s outfit, but the resemblance ended there. Roger was a hundred cases of spinach away from having the sailor man’s bulging muscles.
Let that be a lesson to children
everywhere. Eating spinach gives you big arms. Eating lettuce and carrots gives you a thick head.
Jessica wore boxy white shorts that ended a few inches shy of where her long, slender legs began.
Up top she had on an oversized blue denim man’s shirt which completely shrouded her fine lines.
Jessica compensated for this overabundance of shirt fabric by forgoing the shirt’s buttons in favor of a loose knot tied underneath her up aboves.
She had on heels. I had seen her in three sizes, high, higher, and Timber! This pair fell somewhere in the Matterhorn range. When she reached the deck, she kicked off her shoes and went barefoot.
I wore what I always wear for work, play, and everything in-between. Pleated pants held up by suspenders, a striped shirt, in this case blue on white, and my flat brimmed brown hat.
My hard-soled black brogans were completely impractical for boating. Stepping on a wet deck wearing these would have me skittering around like a giraffe on ice skates. I wasn’t springing two bucks for a pair of deck-gripping boat shoes I would only wear once. I couldn’t do like Jessica and kick off my footwear. I never went barefoot in public. I didn’t want anybody seeing my feet. Those ads for ointments that promised to eradicate severe athlete’s foot? They lied.
I would just have to be extra careful when I walked the deck.
I did forego my usual junket neckwear, a hand painted naked girlie necktie, for one with a nautical motif. My maritime cravat featured an excellent rendering of Admiral Nelson’s victory at The Battle of Trafalgar. I bought this fine piece of merchandise at Goodwill for half a buck. The salesgirl told me the tie had been there for six months. I couldn’t believe nobody had snatched up such a colorful and artistic goodie. My lucky day.
I carried Mutt on board with me. After the Willy Prosciutto caper ended, I decided to keep the little scamp. Since dogs always resembled their owners, I had pictured myself one day owning a big, mean, ugly junkyard mongrel.
That definitely wasn’t Mutt.
Old ladies cooed over Mutt on the street. He didn’t bark or growl. He yipped. He preferred a toy that squeaked to a hunk of knotted rope. Rather than sleeping at the foot of his master’s bed like a respectable guard dog, he snuggled under the covers with me and snoozed with his little head on my pillow.
Me and Mutt did share culinary tastes. Like me, Mutt loved his burgers well done, his French fries crispy, and his beer in a big bowl.
Mutt fit easily inside a Piggly Wiggly shopping bag, which was how I toted him around.
Roger cranked up the craft’s engine. “Giddy up,” said Roger, confusing his modes of transportation the same way he confused everything. “Yo ho ho, and a bottle of fun,” Roger sang as we cast off from the pier and headed toward the setting sun.
“You sure you can drive a powerful boat like this?” I asked Roger.
“You bet,” said Roger. “I used to captain a boat for a living.”
“Where abouts?”
“On the Amazon.”
“You piloted a boat in Africa?”
“No, silly. In Anaheim. I ran the Terrifically Tropical Water Thrill Ride at Jungleland.”
I was about to tell Roger to turn around, head back to shore, and let me off when Jessica said, “I hope you boys don’t mind, but I’m going to make myself comfortable.”
She slipped off her shorts, revealing what strippers called a G-string…although I graded Jessica’s a solid A Plus.
She unknotted and removed her shirt top. Underneath she wore twin triangles of fabric held together by a few strands of silk plucked from a spider web.
“I’m going to catch some sun,” she said.
Jessica spread open a beach towel and lay down on her stomach. Using a pair of eyebrow tweezers, she undid the minuscule knot holding her top in place. “Mister Valiant, would you rub my back with oil?”
“You bet,” I told her, all thoughts of returning to shore having magically vanished.
I knelt down beside her and started rubbing her back.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked.
“I can’t imagine what.”
“The oil?”
“Oh, yeah. The oil. Where’s the oil?” I asked her.
“In my bag,” she said. “Over by the railing.”
“Yo ho, yo ho, the sailing life’s for me,” sang Roger gaily from the rear of the boat, unaware that me and his wife were in the bow engaging in close physical contact.
I found Jessica’s bag. I rifled through the contents. I located her glass bottle of tanning oil.
I started back towards Jessica, ready to resume my manly mission.
This was shaping up as the perfect cruise.
Then I spotted the Loch Ness monster.
In actuality, what I saw was the demolition dinosaur. Dead, stiff as a board. With Louie Louie, a living tribute to the long-term survivability of the common louse, clinging to the dino’s rigid, upstretched neck.
Before I could yell at Roger to change course, Louie Louie gave a mighty leap that took him from the dead dino to our deck.
The lousy louse held a gun. A real gun, not one of the Toon variety that emits bang balloons and only kills Toons. This gun would kill Toons and humans alike.
The louse shook the seawater out of his gun’s barrel and pointed the weapon at me. “How you doing, Valiant?” he said.
“Pretty good until you showed up.”
“Turn off the boat, rabbit,” Louie Louie said. His balloon caught in the wind, sailed to the stern, and wrapped around Roger’s face.
Roger peeled the balloon away and read the words.
“Oh oh, Eddie. We got trouble now.” Roger killed the engine.
The cruise stopped dead in the water.
I feared me and my two companions would shortly be dead in the water too.
Negotiation rarely succeeds when one party is a bona fide louse, but I had to try. “Tell you what, Louie Louie. How’s about we go back to shore? You get off the boat; we give you half an hour’s head start.”
“No deal, shamus. I’m gonna louse up your life the same way you loused up mine.”
“What are you talking about? You ARE a louse,” said Roger logically. “Your life is always loused up.”
“Shut your yap,” said Louie Louie. “I’ve had enough of your stupid non-sequiturs.”
“Pretty big talk, and big words, for an insect,” said Jessica.
She had rolled over but hadn’t replaced her top. Maybe she figured she could distract the louse with her comelies. No deal. The louse wasn’t succumbing.
“You two get over there with the rabbit,” said Louie Louie motioning at me and Jessica with his gun.
We did as he said.
“I’m taking your boat and sailing down to Mexico. They tolerate my kind south of the border. A common louse can live like a king cobra in Puerto Vallarta.”
“I don’t want to go to Mexico,” said Roger, once again missing the big picture.
“That’s good,” said Louie Louie, “because you ain’t going there. You’re staying right here.”
Roger looked around. “Here? Where? There’s nothing but water as far as my eye can see.”
“Try looking straight down,” said Louie Louie.
Roger leaned over the rail. “There’s nothing down there either except the ocean floor.”
The only thing denser than this rabbit was the anchor Louie Louie would use to weigh us down when he threw our dead bodies overboard.
“Say goodbye to the world,” said Louie Louie. He cocked his gun.
“Eddie, do something,” said Roger, finally realizing what was happening.
I had only one move.
I whistled.
Mutt, who had been fast asleep in
his shopping bag, woke up and came running.
“Get him, Mutt!” I pointed at Louie Louie.
Mutt did not have an aggressive or vicious bone in his furry little body. He did have an annoying tendency to hump the nearest leg. I knew he would see Louie Louie’s multiple limbs as an endless field of dreams.
I was right.
Mutt ran toward Louie Louie, eager to jump aboard Louie Louie’s lousey limbs and get busy. Louie Louie pointed his gun at the scampering canine.
“Noooooo!” yelled Roger, “You can’t shoot Eddie’s doggie. Eddie loves his doggie.”
Roger hopped forward with a leap that would have won him an Olympic broad jumping medal if rabbits were allowed to compete and sprang between Mutt and the louse.
Louie Louie pulled his trigger.
The gun went off with a mighty roar.
Roger took Louie Louie’s bullet squarely in the chest.
Roger crashed to the deck. Gooey rabbit innards leaked out through the massive hole the bullet punched through Roger’s sailor suit.
Roger’s brave and selfless act disrupted my hastily improvised plan. While Mutt distracted the louse I was going to rush Louie Louie and shove him overboard.
I hadn’t expected Roger to sacrifice his life to save my dog.
“You no good louse!” said Jessica. “You shot my hunny bunny!”
Jessica shoved me aside and took matters into her own hands. Although the parts of her that came into play weren’t exactly her hands. Jessica had slipped her glass bottle of tanning oil into one of her top’s triangles. She swung the halter top around and down like a sap. She smacked her weighted booby harness into Louie Louie’s gun hand.
The impact sent Louie Louie’s gun flying over the side and into the deep blue sea.
I grabbed for my shoulder holster and pulled out one of the nonsensical weapons I was allowed to carry in Toontown. In this case, a squirt gun.